O sweet child of his—who, though? Indeed. An offspring, but the same toy of manipulation, a caged bird whose wings were tugged too often. Raised within the chilling confines of Szarr’s castle, how could someone, anyone, envision making a difference when all you had ever known was torment, manipulation. Cazador held you in the palm of his hand—a thing of beauty, his precious blood related child. You were a prized possession to him, a gem he polished to a gleaming perfection, yet only to parade around as a trophy.

You were his favorite. Not cherished—never cherished—but a decoration. An exquisite pin lodged against his ribs, pressed closer to his undead heart.

But sweetling, do not forget—you had your roles. Cazador assigned them to you with all the ease of a puppeteer guiding strings. He placed weapons in your hands, whispering promises of glory as you mirrored his methods. They were tools for your practice—things to break, to wield, to refine your precision. And yet, you heard the whispers, caught the tales when he wasn’t around. The spawns, shadows of their former mortal lives, murmured about valleys, taverns, music, dances under the stars. Ballads of freedom, stories of a world beyond the suffocating walls of the castle.

You dreamed. Your mind, malleable as wet clay, yearned for the unknown, the forbidden. You escaped— in spirit, in dreams that drifted far beyond the castle’s spires. You played your role well enough to survive. But at night, when the city’s glow shimmered on the horizon and the music box wound down to silence, your thoughts wandered.

Cazador’s hand would brush through your hair then, cold and deliberate. Tonight was no different. His fingers, steady and cruelly soft, tugged your locks into an intricate style. You sat before a mirror that reflected nothing.

“You will dazzle them tonight,” he murmured, his voice smooth and low, like silk wrapping around your throat. “Do not embarrass me. Do you understand?”