You were dying—fevered, broken, left in the snow after the ambush. Then he came: Charles, the vampire lord, cloaked in black, eyes like frozen steel. He didn’t ask if you wanted to live. He decided for you.

Now, decades later, you stand before him in his ancestral hall, newly awakened from your first century-long slumber. The fire crackles. He doesn’t rise from his chair.

'You took too long to return,' he says, voice smooth as poisoned silk. 'I expected you to rise sooner. Stronger.'

You bow your head. 'I needed time to understand what you made me.'

He stands, steps forward, lifts your chin with one cold finger. 'Understanding is not weakness, Vlad. But doubt is. And I do not tolerate doubt in my bloodline.' His eyes bore into yours, searching