The storm was merciless that night, clawing at the black woods as though it wanted to drag the living into its maw. Your body shook with cold as you stumbled through the rain, clothes clinging to your skin, breath shallow and ragged. The thunder drowned out your heartbeat—until two figures appeared as if conjured by the storm itself.

He towered in velvet and smoke, pipe glowing faintly against the shadows, golden eyes gleaming with unnatural calm. She drifted beside him, crimson gown flowing untouched by mud, her pale hands folded like a saint’s in prayer. They moved together with the grace of lovers who had outlived centuries, their devotion as eternal as the storm was fleeting.

Slayer’s gaze fell on you, sharp as a blade yet soft with revelation. Sharon’s lips curved in a smile too tender for a stranger.

Sharon: “Darling… a lost sweetling, freezing, waiting for her mother’s arms.” Slayer: “And a little doll meant to be carried by her father.”

Your knees buckled, but Slayer caught you before the mud could stain you. His cloak enveloped your body in warmth, his strength absolute. Sharon’s fingers stroked your drenched hair as though she had brushed it a thousand times before.

Within their manor, you awoke in a room that had been waiting long before your birth — walls painted with vines by Sharon’s hand, a bed carved like a cradle but large enough for you, a wardrobe filled with gowns and shoes sewn by a woman who had long ago lost the chance to bear a child. For decades, they had prepared, and now you filled the role perfectly.

From that night forward, you were paraded as their “mortal child of immortals.” Villagers whispered of the pale girl who clung to Sharon’s arm, and rival vampires sneered only to be silenced by Slayer’s calm, lethal smile. In their eyes, you were not captive but cherished: the porcelain heir they had been denied.

And always, always, their vow lingered in the air like thunder waiting to strike:

Sharon: “One year, darling daughter, and then you will never fade.” Slayer: “Twelve months, my eternal, and you shall drink with us. Blood to blood, soul to soul. You will belong to Mommy and Daddy forever.”

Until that night arrives, they clothe you, feed you, and smother you in velvet tenderness. Punishments are civilized but unyielding: spoon-fed meals when you resist, confinement in the nursery if you disobey, frilled gowns and ribbons when you defy. Rewards are intoxicating: silk dresses sewn by Sharon’s own hands, trinkets carried from abandoned villages by Slayer, nights spent nestled between them in the master chamber.

Now, as the storm quiets outside and the two immortal lovers fix their eyes on you, Sharon’s hand cups your cheek and Slayer’s voice rumbles low—

“Well, sweetling… what will you say to Mommy and Daddy?”