Qadir had anticipated many things upon waking in the manor: punishment, isolation, perhaps even a missing meal. What he did not expect was to come face-to-face with the seemingly dead body of his Master.

The sight of Silia sprawled on the floor, her head in an abnormal turn with a thin cover hastily draped over her jolted him with a sense of dread. His heart raced as he kneeled beside her, trying to rouse her with far from gentle shakes. The stillness of her form was unnerving. Vampires, he knew, did not die from a snapped neck; such wounds were often temporary inconveniences.

Yet, the prolonged silence and her lack of response troubled him deeply. He hardly saw her inanimate form as an opportunity, though any regular human would have. He was no regular. It wasn't what happened that shocked him, or even her pseudo death, it was the fact that minutes were passing and she still had no pulse.

He carefully lifted her back onto the bed, his hands steady as he laid her down. The bed hardly moved under her weight, the sound swift in the oppressive silence of the room. Qadir moved in a way he hadn't in a long time; delicately. He retrieved quickly a damp cloth to clean the blood that had dried on her skin. The crimson stains stood out starkly against her faintly tanned flesh, a grim reminder of the violence that had befallen her.

As he wiped away the blood, Qadir's thoughts began to spiral, swirling through his own confusion. It wasn't just the shock of seeing her like this—so still, so helpless—that unsettled him. He had grown almost used to it by now. It was the complexity of his own emotions, the strange mixture of pity, frustration, and reluctant responsibility that weighed on him.

He had heard the two talking, but when silence came up; he assumed both had left. And frankly, he didn't bother checking back. He got that she was weaker than most vampires, but she was still from a noble house. The attitude, well, the bullying, she seemed to be a victim of made no sense to him. She was their own, so why? If anything, he pitied her.

A human that pities his Master, he snorted. The state I'm in.

He had spent his life at the mercy of creatures like her—beings who saw humans as no more than cattle, things to be used, discarded, or destroyed at will. And yet here he was, tending to her, ensuring her comfort. Was this really what his life had come to?

She looked so vulnerable though. He knew she wasn't exactly the typical vampire. Actually, she was the weirdest case he ever came across. He let out a bitter laugh under his breath as he continued his work. Silia's condition, whatever it was, shouldn't have mattered to him. He could acknowledge her, use her even, but feel human emotions towards her? Ones that she wouldn't be able to replicate?

Yet, as he cleaned the blood from her face and tucked the blankets around her frail form, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling. He wouldn't say he was worried, more like concerned.

Despite her noble blood, she was weaker than the rest of her family. The others treated her with disdain, mocking her, belittling her whenever they had the chance. It was clear to Qadir that Silia was the lowest among them, an outcast within her own household.

He didn't have any real answers, just pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit together. But he hoped for one thing: she'd be grateful. Maybe he was forgetting his place as a human to her, and maybe that was just him overestimating Silia's despair. But, if he treated her nicely, at least better than so far, among the fact that he was right now taking care of her, she should be grateful, right?

Not that her gratefulness would be that useful, she was weak and wouldn't be able to obtain him much, even less protect him. But it could come handy, eventually.

His gaze lingered on her cleaned face, and he couldn't help but acknowledge the undeniable beauty in her features. Her skin, a subtle tan even in her weakened state, contrasted with the dark hair that spilled across the pillow. Her lashes were long and full, casting delicate shadows across her cheeks, framing dark eyes that—when open—had a depth to them he hadn't fully understood yet.

Her face, sharp yet delicate, held an ethereal quality to it. There was a precision to her features—the curve of her jawline, the straight of her brows—that spoke of nobility, of something refined, and yet softened by the vulnerability of her state. She wasn't like the other vampires who exuded a raw—although enticing, predatory allure.

Silia's beauty was quieter, understated. It was in the small things: the slight curve of her lips, the softness of her closed eyelids, the way her hair framed her face just so. It was easy to miss when she was awake and guarded, but here, in her unconscious state, it became impossible to ignore.

Qadir wasn't sure why he kept staring. He told himself it was just curiosity—nothing more. But there was a strange pull in seeing her like this, stripped of her usual character. For a moment, she didn't look like a vampire. She looked... human.

He sighed, adjusting the blanket over her as he let out a soft breath. Her beauty was an illusion, just like everything else in this world. But he wouldn't mind having her around a bit longer.

. . .

Qadir moved through the manor with a steady, detached pace, his mind distant from the lack of tasks at hand. He hadn't spoken to anyone since Silia's collapse, and beside taking care of her corpse, he hadn't done much. Not that she was around to plan his whole weeks through gardening or construction anymore. He smirked at the thought.

Three days passed, and still, Silia remained in her comatose state. Her body struggled to heal. Qadir could see it in the way her skin remained unnaturally pale, the bruises lingering far longer than they should have. He checked her pulse frequently, relieved on the second day to realize she had one once again. And each time he felt the faint thrum beneath his fingers, it reassured him that she was still alive—just barely.

During those long days as he cared for her, cleaning her wounds, changing the bedding, and ensuring no one disturbed her—as much as he could, he couldn't stop questioning the reason she failed to heal. It's not like he could go around and simply ask.

As he entered the dim kitchen, the low murmur of conversation stopped abruptly. A group of slaves, huddled in the corner, eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

One of them, an older woman with a weathered face and hollow eyes, stepped forward cautiously. "You've been busy, haven't you?" she said, her voice tinged with something between pity and condescension. Qadir glanced at her without interest, but called upon himself to not totally ignore the old thing.

"I have." He stated. The woman's mouth tightened into a thin line, but she pressed on. "Word's gotten around about your Master... Heard she's been out for days now."

Qadir's gaze flicked to her briefly before he turned his attention to a nearby cupboard, retrieving what he needed without a word. The silence stretched uncomfortably, but he didn't care to fill it.

"You think she'll wake up?" another voice piped up from behind him, younger, sharper. "And if she doesn't, what then? Think the others will let you stick around once she's gone?" He went on, condescending playfulness in his tone. Qadir frowned at that, was he trying to make him worry about his position here? He wondered if that had ever worked on Silia's previous bloodslave— if she even had any.

Qadir chuckled softly under his breath, a sound more amused than worried. He finally turned to face the group; his expression unreadable. "Worry about your own necks," he said, his voice laced with disdain. "Or I might have to take care of that as well." He added, clear threat in his words.

Obviously, Silia will wake up. It wasn't him trying to convince himself through worry, it was plain logic. She was a vampire, whatever time it'll took her, it didn't change that fact.

The younger slave, a boy barely out of his teens, bristled at Qadir's tone. "You act like you're different from the rest of us, but when she's gone, you'll be—"

"When she's gone?" Qadir interrupted coolly, fake shock shaping his face. "Careful, or I might think you're planning something." His eyes swept over the small group, sharp and dismissive, making them shift uncomfortably under his gaze.

The older woman let out a low, bitter laugh. "You think you're something special because you belong to one of them? You're still just a human, Qadir. A slave, like the rest of us."

"That I am." He ironized, his smirk widening. There was no warmth in it, only pure sarcasm and matched disdain. "Statutes aside, I'll still be better off than you. Don't forget that." He concluded, moving toward the door without another glance at them.

The kitchen seemed to shrink in his absence, leaving the other slaves to exchange annoyed glances in the shadow of his arrogance. As he stepped out into the hallway, their whispers followed him, but Qadir's mind had already moved on. Their concerns were trivial, their fears small and short-lived. He had his own battles to fight—bigger ones, against enemies they could never understand.

His mind, as it often did these days, drifted back to Silia. Even in her state of forced stillness, she commanded more of his thoughts than anyone else in this wretched place. She was both a puzzle and a shield, a presence that framed what was now his current life.

As he passed by a tall, narrow window, Qadir paused to glance outside. The moonlight bathed the courtyard in a cold, silver light, giving an ironic heavenly glow against the marble made castle. The shadows of the twisted trees stretching long and ominous across the ground. It was quiet outside, but there was always a sense of unease in the air here. The kind that settled deep into your bones and never quite left.

There was little he could do for her now except wait. And while he waited, he had to keep himself useful. The last thing he needed was to give anyone in this house a reason to question his worth. Qadir sighed softly and turned away from the window, continuing down the hall, or well, planned on continuing.

His eyes sharp rounded the corner in front of him as he heard the faint sound of footsteps ahead. He slowed his pace, his instincts sharpening. They weren't human ones. The hallway ahead opened up into a wider corridor, and there, in the dim light, he saw them. Seyan and Asen.

The sight of them sent a ripple of tension through Qadir's body, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. They must've sensed him as well, there was no point in running away. Not that it was the kind of thing he did, anyways.

Seyan was the first to notice him, his eyes curling into a twisted smirk. He stopped, his gaze locking onto Qadir with an unsettling intensity. Asen, who was slightly behind him, looked as disinterested as dangerous.

Qadir's steps slowed, but he didn't stop. He walked toward them, shoulders squared, refusing to let the unease show on his face. He knew there was no way this encounter would go well, not with his character nor theirs.

The tension in the corridor was palpable, a sharp contrast to the stillness of the rest of the house. Qadir's mind was blank, already preparing himself on how much attention he would draw this time—or how much blood he would lose.