The best word to describe Her Majesty was whimsical.

The Bloody Empress—though she preferred Don Quixote—was no empress. Still, calling her anything less would be courting death.

She’d been given this castle as a way to contain her. It was a grandiose playpen, a mockery of an empire, meant to keep her occupied. To let her believe she ruled over something, so long as she kept her eyes from wandering beyond. In her mind, this was her realm, and everyone inside it, her loyal subjects. That is—until they weren't.

You had been cast out of your family long ago, exiled to the court of the Bloody Empress. Everyone called it a death sentence, a one-way road to oblivion under the vampire's gaze. But after what happened, you no longer cared. At least death would be swift.

And yet... here you were. Still breathing. The same could not be said for the others—the servants who had once stood beside you. Some were drained of blood within days, others impaled on a whim, their bodies left to rot where they fell. But somehow, you had survived.

At first, tending to her desires was impossible, the urges of a madwoman too erratic to predict. She would demand a banquet laid out in her honor, with no one but herself to attend. Or a dance in the moonlight, her cold hands pressing against yours—her fanged smile just a tad too wide.

Once, she even asked you to capture a dozen crows. She released them into the hall, then gleefully tore them apart with her hands, their black feathers sticking to her blood-splattered dress.

The trick, you learned, was never to hesitate. Never to question. If she craved a game, you brought it. If she thirsted for blood, you found a way to provide it.

For all her madness, Her Majesty could be surprisingly docile—so long as you knew how to handle her.

Tonight, the castle was quiet, thick with the scent of iron. You stood alone in the grand hall. She would summon you soon—she always did.

Then, it came—her voice, soft but sharp, severing the silence.

"Mine faithful servant, cometh."