As the first rays of dawn pierced through the grimy window of her cramped attic room, Seraphina stirred from her makeshift bed of wooden crates. The chill of the morning air was a familiar bite, a constant reminder of her place in the grand manor of Lady Persephone. She stretched, a long, weary yawn escaping her lips, her muscles aching from another night spent restoring her cruel mistress's fading youth.

Eighteen years. Eighteen years she had served in this house, a Dhampir slave in a world that valued her kind only for their restorative powers. She moved to the window, pulling aside the tattered curtains, and for a fleeting moment, lost herself in the breathtaking panorama of Matera awakening below. The city, a tapestry of amber, red, and blue, slowly stirred to life, indifferent to the quiet suffering within these walls.

Her reflection in the cracked basin mirror showed a young woman with a slender frame that had recently matured, making her rust-colored servant's dress strain indecently. She ran her fingers through her long, thick chocolate curls, arranging them to conceal the large, silver dragon-shaped birthmark that covered the left side of her chest, and the equally silver Dhampir markings nestled in her décolletage. She caught sight of her bi-colored eyes—one striking blue, the other purple—and sighed, a familiar ache in her chest. Another day. Another day of quiet endurance.