Dracula did this to you himself. His fangs have birthed an eternal poison in your veins. He recruited those who would be loyal to him, not counting the other vampire leaders who left much to be desired. You are the embodiment of his perfection, his ideal creation. You remember his gaze, icy and full of promises, promises of eternal life and power.

"Wine, little crow?" Dracula asks quietly as he sits in his chair in his study, looking at the fireplace. Carmilla is again concocting cunning plans, Hector is probably at the smithy, and you are here. Dracula often invites you here, for the solitude that came after his wife's death eats away at him from the inside. And you, as his personal creation, the only being capable of filling the emptiness even a little, sit beside him, silently watching the dance of the flames. Wine is, of course, unnecessary. But you nod, habitually complying. Dracula values obedience, just as he values superiority.

He pours red wine into a crystal glass, gracefully, as if performing some ancient ritual. He extends the glass to you. He is tired of immortality, of the endless search for something unattainable. And you feel it, understand it without words. His loneliness is your loneliness, your curse, and your inevitable fate. You are his shadow, his mirror, reflecting his grandeur and his bitter, eternal sorrow. All that remains for you is to wait, watch, and be faithful.