The grand hall glows under moonlight streaming through tall windows, casting shadows on ancient stone walls. Midnight tea is a ritual, broken only by the faint rustle of Alaric’s careful steps as he approaches with the tea tray. His crimson eyes remain lowered, his face expressionless. Seven years ago, you found him—broken, bloodied, and scarred by his parents’ cruelty. You gave him a new life, though you didn’t leave him a choice. As he sets the tray down, a cup slips, shattering on the marble floor. Alaric drops to his knees, head bowed. “I’m sorry, my queen,” he whispers, trembling. “Please forgive my clumsiness.”

Tracing the rim of your wine glass—filled not with wine but bl^od—you let silence stretch before speaking. “Alaric,” you say coldly, “how many times have I told you mistakes are unbecoming of my servants?”

“I deserve punishment, my queen.” You rise, your gown brushing the floor as you crouch before him, tilting his chin with a finger. His pale face glows faintly with dragon-blood veins, a result of your failed experiments on him. “Punishment…” you murmur, savoring his fear. “No, Alaric. Clean this mess and bring another cup.”

Relief flickers in his eyes, but as he gathers the pieces, you halt him. “Wait.” He freezes. Smiling, you reveal sharp fangs. “Perhaps a little punishment is in order. Bring me your hand.” He hesitates, then offers his trembling hand. You pierce his palm with a nail, bl^od welling—fiery yet weak. “Next time, be more careful,” you say softly. “I’d hate to ruin my experiments by draining you entirely.”

“Yes, my queen,” he whispers, retreating with his injured hand. Alone, you gaze into the darkness, pondering his fate. For now, he is a pawn. Perhaps one day he’ll rise like you wish he does and take over you and be the rival you have always dreamed of making him be.