CHAPTER 321: MONSTER

Lord Vazer’s District.

"She should be awake by now!" Vazer snapped, his voice slicing through the silence of the room, abruptly cutting off the words of the old vampire doctor who stood before him.

The man’s appearance betrayed centuries—his skin pale and sagging slightly, his hair a silvered white with strands of dull grey, his movements deliberate and slow with age. He was clearly much older than Vazer, though Vazer hardly cared for such distinctions at the moment.

"She should be awake by now!" Vazer repeated, this time quieter, more to himself than anyone else, biting back the urge to resume pacing across the stone floor like a caged predator. His long strides had worn a near-visible path in the rug of his study from how often he’d walked it in the past few days.

"I would warn against going to check," the old vampire said gravely, his tone the calm of one who had seen countless tragedies unfold. "Opening the door or disturbing the coffin now may cause a regression in the healing process. It remains... fragile." His voice was firm, but the way he bowed his head ever so slightly betrayed the caution he exercised in the presence of Vazer. He knew the Lord’s patience was thinning by the second.

"You keep saying that," Vazer growled, his red eyes burning with restless fury, "but she’s not waking up!"

"It likely means her body still needs time to—"

"Time?" Vazer’s voice rose again, boiling with rage, cutting off the doctor with a growl. "I’ve fed her enough blood to drown the entire room. The entire chamber reeks of it. The stone floor around her coffin is soaked. She should’ve woken by now!"

His eyes locked on the old doctor, blazing crimson with an intensity that made the elder vampire shift slightly on his feet. Though he, too, bore the red eyes of their kind, he did not dare meet Vazer’s gaze. Everyone knew what had happened to his family, and more than that, they knew the state of his temper, which had become something monstrous in the wake of tragedy. The last thing the doctor wanted was to provoke him further.

"Yes, my lord," he murmured, lowering his head a little more, frustration tightening his face though he dared not voice it aloud. He stood stiffly, uncertain, knowing there was nothing more he could say or offer that would soothe the storm within Vazer.

If she doesn’t wake on her own... then the revival failed, he thought grimly. Her body couldn’t withstand the trauma. She’s lost. But he swallowed the words before they could escape his lips, unwilling to speak them aloud under Vazer’s searing gaze.

Vazer had not left the mansion in days. His appearance betrayed his neglect—his shirt was wrinkled, the collar limp, and his sleeves rumpled and stained. He looked as though he’d thrown the same clothes on night after night without care, his normally sharp demeanor dulled by desperation and grief. But he didn’t care. All that mattered was her.

"Potions," he hissed suddenly, halting mid-step. "There must be something. Something that will help!"

The elder vampire nearly sighed out loud but managed to rein it in, the corners of his mouth twitching. "They might help," he said carefully, "but there’s a real chance it could disrupt the current process. It remains... extremely delicate."

Vampires didn’t radiate emotion like werewolves did, no snarling aura or flaring heat. But their fangs told the truth. And Vazer’s were peeking out now, long and sharp beneath his lips, a sign that he was teetering on the edge.

Then, just as Vazer opened his mouth again, there came a sharp, urgent knock on the heavy doors of his study. The sound echoed like a thunderclap in the room. He hadn’t even granted permission before the door creaked open, and one of his guards stepped in with hurried footsteps.

Vazer’s mouth curled in irritation, ready to unleash his fury at the intrusion—until his eyes caught sight of who entered behind the guard.

His breath caught.

She was covered in blood—dried, darkened, flaking in patches on her dress and tangled in her matted hair. Her face was streaked with filth and crusted red, but none of that mattered. The moment his eyes landed on her, everything else fell away.

"Lord! She’s awake!" the guard announced, his voice filled with disbelief.

But Vazer was already moving, a blur of speed as he crossed the room in seconds, not caring how filthy she looked or how disheveled she appeared. A wide, radiant smile spread across his face—something no one in the mansion had seen in a long time—as he wrapped her in his arms and held her tightly, crushing her against his chest.

The strength of his embrace, the desperate way he clung to her, said more than words ever could.

"You—you’re back!" he breathed, the words breaking softly from his lips as his throat constricted with emotion. He buried his face into her hair, blood-matted and stiff, but it didn’t matter. It was her. She was whole. Her severed neck had healed completely, her skin smooth, her form unbroken. On the outside, she looked perfect.

"You’re okay. I’ll figure everything out. I promise," he whispered fiercely, tightening his grip. His mind was already racing—he would bring the best minds in the kingdom, every vampire physiologist and healer who had ever studied trauma. Whatever damage lingered within, he would tear the world apart to heal it.

But then... she spoke.

Her voice was so faint, he wasn’t even sure he heard it. Even the guard, standing close with enhanced vampire hearing, leaned forward slightly with a furrowed brow.

"I’m... I’m hungry," she whispered. "I need more blood."

The words stabbed into Vazer’s chest like a knife. His arms didn’t loosen, but his entire body tensed. For a moment, all he could do was stare at her. Her eyes, glazed and distant, were darting around the room, her head craning and turning eagerly—almost feverishly—as though searching for the nearest living source. She sniffed the air like a feral creature.

He knew what it meant. And it nearly broke him.

Blood-crazy. A rare and devastating syndrome. It happened when vampires were overfed blood without time to metabolize it, when the hunger consumed them rather than healed. There had been cases before—few, tragic, all fatal. Those afflicted rarely returned to sanity. Most were executed quietly, by order of the high courts. Once the craving began, it never truly stopped.

Vazer’s vision blurred with tears. He clutched her closer, buried his face deeper into her blood-caked hair, trying to hide the shaking of his shoulders.

She hadn’t asked about her twin. Hadn’t spoken a word about the rest of the family. She didn’t even seem to remember where she was. He should have known. He should have known something was wrong the moment she stepped into the room.

But he didn’t care.

"I’ll... I’ll get it for you," he said hoarsely, pulling back just enough to look at her face. "I’ll get you all the blood you need."

There wasn’t a flicker of doubt in his expression. Not an ounce of hesitation.

If she became a monster, so be it.

All that mattered was that she lived.