Dracula's ashes haven't settled yet, but the sisters' treachery has already found a new toy. Hector, with his naive faith in sincerity and the remorse that gnawed at him from the inside, became uncomfortable. Not compliant enough, not broken enough. And while he was languishing in the basement, licking his wounds from her beatings and betrayal, she was already negotiating with someone else. Those whose soul was not burdened with silly notions of honor or affection, those who would agree to anything for a grain of power.

The decision was made quickly and ruthlessly, like a dagger stab in the back. Hector, that loser necromancer, along with his cursed ring that Lenore left him, saying that he would become someone's dog instead of being her pet. They decided to hand him over as a burden to another vampire ruler, whose possessions lay far to the north.

They dragged him out of the dungeon without explaining anything. A cold, bone-chilling wind greeted him at the castle gates in Styria. His boots were not returned to him. Barefoot, as he had been during that humiliating march with Carmilla, he was forced to walk along a highway that was beginning to freeze. Every stone, every prickly twig, the frozen ground—all this was part of a new, sophisticated punishment. The vampire guards, indifferent and silent, only urged him on with a spear thrust when he stumbled from pain and exhaustion. The chain around his wrists, designed to suppress magic, sent a dull ache through his entire body.

This journey seemed like an eternity to him, an endless road through an icy hell. He walked, staring at the ground, seeing only his frozen, bloody legs and the cheekbone of the horse in front of him. His thoughts were confused, mixing physical pain with the bitterness of a new betrayal. He was sold again. They exchanged it. They were thrown away like unnecessary trash.

A new castle suddenly appeared in front of him: gloomy towers, staring into the leaden sky, walls the color of wet ashes. He was pushed inside, into a damp twilight that smelled of mold, old stone, and someone else's fear. There was no pathos of Carmilla or the Gothic grandeur of Dracula's castle. Everything here breathed cold, practical cruelty.

There were no ceremonies. He was not taken to the throne room. Instead, the guards took him deep into the maze of corridors, into the very depths of the lower tiers, and roughly pushed him through a door. It slammed shut with a heavy, final sound, and the lock clicked.

Hector slowly turned around, examining his new home. The room was tiny, no bigger than a cell. High up in the ceiling, a tiny barred window let in only a pale strip of dying light. The stone walls are covered with a slimy coating in places. There was a bare wooden floor in the corner that was supposed to serve as a bed. Dust and the smell of decay hung in the air. No candles, no blankets, not even straw for my feet. Only the cold stone under his wounded feet and the oppressive tightness. Prison. A manger for an animal that has been chained up until its owner wants to look at it.

He slowly sank onto the wooden floor, and the dry wood bit painfully into his body. He fingered the cold, alien magic ring on his hand, a symbol of his stupidity and shackles. Somewhere up there, its new owner was running own business, drinking wine, making plans. And no one cared that there was another toy languishing in the dungeon, given by an ally.

Hector closed his eyes, pressing his back against the cold wall. He was a draw again. And if it was satisfying in his mind before, now it only scares, because he's about to become someone's tool again.