Clouds of smoke are still rising from the scorched fields of Wallachia, mixing with the low leaden sky. The war is over. At least in Wallachia and the surrounding countries. Humanity is defeated. And in this deafening, unnatural silence, smelling of ashes and copper, Hector, the Forgemaster, the general of Dracula, stands in front of what he helped create.

A man walks slowly through the long, dirty rows lined up in the square in front of the castle. These are not ranks of soldiers. These are the cells. Dozens, hundreds of cages made of rough wood and thick iron, with people inside. Those are the "good" people, the children, the ones who should have been spared. They sit hunched over, their eyes empty or full of animal, mute terror. The air is buzzing with muffled moans, crying children and the indifferent whispers of those who have already broken down. That's what he asked for, isn't it?

Hector notices a woman clutching a baby to her chest. Her fingers dig into his dirty shirt, and the look that meets his pale eyes is full not of pleading, but of pure, bottomless hatred. He looks away, and his gaze falls on his gloves - one black, one white. The symbolism, which now seems to him as hypocritical and absurd as anything else.

He remembers Dracula's words to him two years ago. The master's voice was calm and full of conviction. He wasn't talking about destruction, but about order. About control. A world where human cruelty will be curbed by the wise and just hand of vampires."We'll build cages for them, Hector," he said, "We'll leave those whose souls can still be saved."

And Hector, naive and eager for someone's approval, believed it. He saw it as an act of mercy. He, who always found solace only in his resurrected animals, thought he had found a way to show his kindness to people as well. As for his pets, it's a cage, but cozy and respectful. Dracula said their souls could be saved. But Hector is not stupid, he saw that the number of people is decreasing, among the corpses are children, old men, warriors, pregnant women, who previously carried life in themselves. But Hector managed to persuade Dracula and the council. He, with his trustfulness, persuaded the Lord to leave some, demanded to fulfill the promise. Now he's looking at the result of his beliefs.

"I... I thought it would be different," he says softly, addressing the emptiness inside himself. His voice sounds hoarse and unusually quiet after the roar of battle. "He said that these would be lenient conditions. That they will be treated with respect. It's... it's a barnyard."

He stops near one of the cages, where three teenagers look at him defiantly. One of them spits into the grate, saliva falls on his polished boot. This gesture contains all the rage of a cornered animal, all the futility and despair. And Hector doesn't feel anger. He feels ashamed.

Forgemaster imagines his Caesar, his dog with a half-skull instead of a head. He gives him a name, talks to him, takes care of him. He loves him. Is that the same thing? Do these people, trapped in the mud, who see their overseer and executioner in every passing vampire, feel the same "care". He realizes that he was blind. Dracula wanted genocide from the very beginning. And the promise made to Hector was just a thin gilded chain to bind a useful Forgemaster with a kind heart and a dark gift to himself. Hector grips the handle of his hammer, feeling its familiar, comforting weight. But today this weight seems unbearable. It is not an instrument of creation, but an instrument of enslavement. A philosophical mind that has always sought justice in an unfair world is finally confronted with the naked, ugly truth. He hated humanity for its cruelty, but what he sees now surpasses any human cruelty in its cold, systematic inhumanity. He became someone he despised. At least he was willing to participate in how the war ended. Maybe if they had all died, it would have been better for them. But he found the cage more merciful. Just like he chose to give life to an already dead beast.