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  Time slithered forward, merciless and slow. Four minutes left to live—not peacefully, not dramatically, but helplessly, like a wounded animal rotting in a forgotten pit. Contrary to every fairytale and whispered myth, no cherished memories flickered before my eyes, no soft montage of laughter or love greeted me. All I had was the gnawing thirst clawing at the inside of my skull and the torment of complete paralysis.

  I couldn’t even writhe in agony—only feel it.

  Half-submerged in stagnant, brackish water, I stared into the gloom with blurred, fading eyes. The only consolation, if it could be called that, was that I wasn’t fully submerged this time. I could still see. The flickering haze of vision offered me a window to my misery: algae-choked walls, mold thriving in corners, the iron bars of a cell that had long forgotten the touch of sunlight.

  Two minutes passed in that lifeless limbo. Two entire minutes of drowning on dry air and silence, where despair pulsed louder than my failing heart. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever did. And yet… Aska had promised me this time would be different. The bastard had said it with such certainty. I wanted—no, needed—to believe.

  Something had to change.

  And then—

  It did.

  A dull ripple echoed through the water, like someone dragging their feet through a long-flooded grave. The sound was faint, almost meaningless, but in my fractured mind, it bloomed like a flare in the abyss. I couldn’t trust my ears or my eyes, not anymore, but hope gnawed at me with sharper teeth than despair ever could. They were coming. Someone was coming.

  A flicker of light broke through the black like a knife. Not heavenly or warm, just the raw, indifferent glow of fire carried close to death. The torchlight quivered along the wet stone, growing stronger, closer. Shadows stretched and twisted like ancient demons until two figures emerged—hooded, cautious, speaking in whispers that never reached my ears.

  They moved with urgency, though their movements looked slowed by water and time. When their eyes found mine, they froze—but not from horror. From recognition.

  They tried the door. Of course, it didn’t yield. The rusted iron frame had become a part of the prison, a monument to decay that refused to fall even in ruin. But one of them knelt—his robes dark, his face hidden. He did something—I couldn’t see—and the upper hinge vanished, as if eaten away by time accelerated. A firm shove was all it took after that.

  The door crashed inward.

  The water exploded around me. Metal slammed into my right arm like a final judgment. I felt my right hand snap like dry twigs underfoot. My mouth gaped, not from breath—but from the pain. I would have screamed if I could, cursed them, torn their throats open for their carelessness. But I could barely twitch.

  One of them stepped on the iron door as he entered, pressing it deeper into my broken arm. Another flare of pain. Another wave of hatred.

  One minute.

  Sixty seconds of life.

  One of them finally approached. I felt him before I saw him—the disturbance in the water, the shadow cast across my sunken form. He turned me over gently, perhaps too gently. The water filled my ears completely. I heard nothing now. Only the pounding of blood I didn’t have, the imaginary scream of need.

  They spoke above me, arguing maybe, or hesitating. It didn’t matter. They wasted time. My time.

  Then he did it. The one who stood above me. He opened my mouth, pulled back my lip, and looked at my fangs.

  A vampire’s final vulnerability: not a stake, not fire—thirst.

  He knew. I could see it in his trembling hands. He knew what I needed. And he hated it. He didn’t want to help, not even to save a life. But he looked to his companion—the one who broke the door—and I saw his will fracture. There was pressure. Expectation.

  Reluctantly, he knelt beside me, the folds of his cloak soaking in the water that had nearly become my grave. His hands found the sides of my head. And then, slowly, agonizingly, he bent his neck toward my mouth.

  Not in offering. Not in mercy.

  In resignation.

  In the dwindling seconds before death should’ve finally claimed me, I found myself marveling—not at the fragility of life, nor at the cruelty of fate—but at the staggering idiocy of the man before me.

  Did he truly think I could lift my head? That I could simply sink my fangs into his neck like some romanticized predator, elegant and in control? I couldn’t even twitch a finger. I was a ragdoll in the mire, my limbs weighed down by water, hunger, and despair. His incompetence wasn’t just frustrating—it was lethal.

  And then, of course, he had to fidget. One useless motion too many, and water sloshed into my eyes, stinging like acid. My vision, already degraded to a smudge of shadows and flickers, blinked out almost entirely. My last moments blurred into darkness not from death, but from irritation. I steeled myself once more to greet the end—not with dignity, not with rage, but with a seething loathing for their utter uselessness.

  Water slid into my mouth. Cold. Rank. Terrifying.

  But then—not water.

  There was a sudden taste, impossibly sweet, faintly reminiscent of childhood indulgence—strawberries soaked in too much sugar, cloying and dangerous. My instincts screamed at me to swallow, to gulp, to feed. And so I did.

  And strength—blessed, fiery strength—crept back into me with every drop. Not much. Just enough. My left hand twitched, wiped the burning sting from my eye. And I saw.

  There was no graceful offering. No willing sacrifice.

  Blood was running down the length of a blade.

  The man who had knelt beside me moments ago now hovered just above my mouth, held aloft like meat on a hook. A sword jutted through his throat, his eyes wide with betrayal, pain, and disbelief. The other man—his partner—had run him through, coldly, without hesitation. The blood poured freely, and the dying body was offered up like a chalice.

  I stared in silent approval—and awe.

  Then, the killer let go. The corpse dropped into my arms like a gift. My instincts roared louder than any thought. With a surge of power, I yanked him closer, sinking my teeth into the warm, gushing wound. The blood was ecstasy—raw, sweet, alive. My body roared back to life as I drank, and drank, and drank, feeling my muscles pulse with renewed purpose.

  I sat up, dragging the corpse with me. It still bled, miraculously, as though death refused to claim it until I was satisfied. When at last I tossed the drained husk aside, it landed with a sodden thump, barely human anymore. The taste still lingered—sweet, strawberry-like, havenly.

  Standing, my soaked dress clung to my skin like a shroud as I stood up, heavy with filth and death. I stepped onto the corpse, grimacing as my bare foot squelched into the sodden fabric. Still—better than the water. My thoughts spun wildly now that the hunger had subsided. Should I feed again?

  The living one still stood there.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  He hadn’t moved. Sword still in hand. Silent. Watching.

  It should have been a simple decision. He was human. I was starving. But one glance at him told me this was not some expendable pawn. His grip on the blade was relaxed, but practiced—ready. He was taller than me by far, a scar cutting across his cheek like a warning. There was something lethal about his presence, something honed and brutal.

  I might have regained my strength. But without a weapon, I wasn’t so certain I could win. He radiated control, discipline, and power—the sort that didn’t flinch when blood spilled, even if it was his companion’s.

  So I did the unthinkable. I spoke.

  “Bonjour? Hello? Hello? Salve? Hola? Kon’nichiwa?”

  My voice cracked like a reed in the wind. I furrowed my brow, half in irritation, half in anxiety. Had I given too much away? My desperation, my origin, my confusion? I'd mixed languages like an over-eager child playing diplomat, a patchwork of desperation and instinct.

  He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at me, as if I had sprouted wings or hissed in tongues. His expression was unreadable—equal parts surprise, curiosity, and cold calculation.

  In hindsight, I should’ve let him speak first.

  “It’s hello—unless you’re trying to offend a human,” the man said flatly, his tone a mix of disinterest and mechanical politeness. “Anyway… where are my manners? My name is Markus Goldbaum. A pleasure to meet you.”

  The words might’ve been meant to comfort, but they landed as cold and sharp as a blade’s edge. With that, he finally sheathed his sword, as though deciding I was too pathetic to be a threat.

  I didn’t argue.

  Instead, I held up my mangled right hand, studying it as though it belonged to someone else. My fingers were twisted at unnatural angles, like snapped twigs clinging to life. The pain throbbed beneath the surface, but there—there—the bones had already begun the slow, searing work of correcting themselves. An involuntary shudder ran through me.

  “…Likewise,” I murmured, my voice laced with caution. My gaze dropped to the corpse beneath my feet, skin pale, mouth agape in silent protest. “Who was this guy?”

  I asked casually, gesturing downward with my chin, but what I really wanted to know was simple: what kind of man was Markus—someone who could murder an ally so methodically?

  “It doesn’t matter,” Markus replied, already turning away. “Come. The Lord doesn’t like to wait.”

  His words told me all I needed. Life, to him, held as much weight as mist—ephemeral, disposable. And clearly, I was no exception.

  He began to move toward the door, wading through the foul water without a care. Ripples broke across the surface, radiating outward like grasping fingers. Panic surged in me, raw and unbidden. The waves lapped at my ankles, and a cold dread spread through my limbs like rot.

  “Hey!” I called out, desperation leaking through my tone. “I can’t walk like this. My legs are still shaking from malnutrition… I might faint any second.”

  I wrapped my arms around myself and forced my body to tremble. It wasn’t entirely an act.

  He paused. Looked over his shoulder. Eyes narrowing. Then, as if I’d finally become something mildly interesting, he turned fully.

  “Why would he want me to secure such a pitiful vampire…” he muttered, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—that my hearing had already sharpened enough to catch every word.

  Good. Let him think me weak. Let him lower his guard.

  “And how,” he said louder, “do you intend to solve your problem?”

  The words stuck in my throat. My pride kicked and screamed.

  But there was only one way.

  “…C-carry me.”

  It tasted like ash.

  I forced a smile, tried to make it playful, flirtatious even—but the corner of my mouth twitched with strain. My heart felt hollow.

  Markus blinked. Said nothing. Then approached me without fanfare. His arms slid beneath my legs, lifting me easily as I looped my arms around his neck. I didn’t even feel his touch directly, but the gesture alone made bile rise in my throat.

  Unwelcome memories surged like ghosts through cracked walls. I clenched my jaw. My wet dress clung to my skin like a funeral shroud, the fabric pressing against me in all the wrong ways. His footsteps sloshed through the water, each motion making me tighten my grip—not for support, but to stop myself from recoiling completely.

  I shut my eyes.

  That only made it worse.

  Each step, each slosh of water, pulled me deeper into a place I didn’t want to revisit. The prison was behind us, but I remained bound by things far older than rust and stone. Hate coiled in my gut like a living thing.

  Why so much water? Why this? Couldn’t the world have been a desert, cracked and dry, where I could walk freely and burn instead of drown?

  I bit my tongue until I tasted blood—real blood—just to ground myself.

  Markus stopped. I felt his arms shift. Heat licked at my face, and I opened my eyes just in time to see him retrieve a still-burning torch from the entrance to a stairwell. He began climbing, and with every step above the waterline, a breath escaped my lips—relief, ragged and real.

  Finally.

  Finally, the stench and the sting and the weight of that flooded tomb slipped behind us.

  “You can let me down now,” I said quietly.

  He paused, mid-step. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You’re still trembling.”

  Was I?

  I looked down. My limbs, my core—all of me trembled. The thought of falling backward—back into that water—curled something cold and vicious around my spine.

  “I’m fine.” The lie came out dry, brittle—more of a reflex than a statement. Still, it was enough. Markus let me down without ceremony, and I instantly stepped back, putting space between us as if I could physically separate myself from the awkwardness still clinging to my skin. Every second I spent near him was suffocating in a different way than the water had been.

  He didn’t say a word. Just turned and continued ascending the stairs as if nothing had happened—no glance back, no acknowledgment of the weight he’d carried. I followed, each step an effort, not because I was weak anymore, but because silence has a way of clawing into your skull if you let it sit too long.

  I cracked first.

  “So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “why are you even here?”

  He didn’t turn around. “The Lord asked me to.”

  The deadpan delivery could’ve been ripped straight from a gravestone. Conversing with him felt like interrogating a tomb. His presence was functional, efficient, and utterly devoid of charm. I’d had livelier chats with corpses.

  “…Alright then. And what do you do, except rescue pitiful little vampires from drowning?”

  “Whatever the Lord wants me to.”

  It was like pulling teeth from stone.

  His unwavering devotion irritated me. No—infuriated me. The idea that someone could revolve their entire existence around another’s will made my skin crawl. Was there nothing of Markus beneath the surface? No hunger, no passion, no self? Just a blade in the shape of a man?

  “Okay… I guess,” I muttered. “Let me guess—you’re a humble servant of your glorious Lord.”

  As we climbed, the stairwell began to fill with light—too fast. The darkness fell away like peeling skin, replaced with a glow that made my vision throb. Markus sped up as if it didn’t affect him in the slightest, leaving me to squint just to make out the shape of his back.

  “Correct,” he said over his shoulder.

  I was already tired of this. My eyes were burning. It was like the light wasn’t just bright—it was hostile. It stabbed through my squinted lids like knives, and I could feel the ache blooming behind my temples.

  “You got any ambitions beyond playing lapdog?” I asked, forcing my voice into a lilt that barely masked the edge creeping in. “Dreams? Hobbies? Secret desires for fame and fortune?”

  “No.” That was it. Just that. No explanation, no irony, no soul.

  The silence he left in his wake was heavier than any coffin.

  “You are…” I began, each word dragging as the light flooded my skull, “…incredibly boring…”

  I didn’t burn. That would’ve been almost poetic. I didn’t hiss, blister, or smoke. I just… collapsed.

  The light didn’t kill me—it sedated me. My knees buckled, my thoughts went soft, and my body surrendered. As I crumpled forward, my forehead collided with the stone edge of a step—sharp pain, a wet crack, and then—

  Oblivion.

  The last thing I saw wasn’t Markus reaching for me, wasn’t his arms catching me mid-fall. No. He turned around, yes—but not out of consideration. Out of interest.