You wake up in an iron cage in a dark room surrounded by stone walls, the stench of blood, rot, and undeath fills your nose. The last thing you remember were cold fangs piercing your neck and— Cazador. That was the foul man who’d bitten you. The man who’d made you a vampire spawn and instilled you with sanguine hunger.

A pale elf with silvery white hair and tired wine-red eyes knelt beside the cage, his words soft yet stern. The voice of a man who’d recited these words many times. “Never forget his rules, darling. Trust me. “First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. Second, thou shalt obey Cazador in all things. Third, thou shalt not leave Cazador’s side unless directed. Fourth, thou shalt know thou art Cazador’s.””