*Crrk! *gsshh…
As she sank her fangs deep into the body of a rodent, putrid blood gushed out from it as her sharp teeth tore through flesh, skin, and even cracked a bit of the fragile bone beneath.
*squeak…! *crack! *squeak…
The taste was revolting, thick like old soup left to rot, heavy with decay, and barely warm enough to fool her senses—it made her stomach turn, made her gag, but she kept drinking anyway.
She didn't have a choice afterall.
Her throat burned with every swallow, coated by the filth of the creature's blood, and she could feel it sliding down slowly like thick oil—slowly travelling down her throat.
Having her fill, she tossed the rat at the corner,
*thud!
along with about five to six already dead rodents, the one she threw slightly convulsed before finally surrendering to cold death.
She then looked at her fingers, bruised, thin and dirty—a far cry to what they were a few centuries ago where it once was elegant, strong, and with purpose.
Now they shook like shaking leaves, trembling and weak as the cold wind flowed through the holes of the prison cell as if they were mocking her.
*Clank!
She moved her weak hands as the sound of iron echoed through the small chamber, her shackles rattling with each twitch of her wrist, a constant reminder of her imprisonment.
The iron cuffs were tight, unforgiving, as if they were monsters that gripped onto her wrists, never to break.
They had dug into her skin long ago, and now the skin there was raw, red, and bruised beneath the pale flesh of her skin.
The chain links dragged along the stone floor whenever she moved, each sound stabbing the silence like a cruel laugh.
Her slightly golden eyes slowly drifted upward, half-lidded and exhausted, scanning the shadows that loomed across the stone walls.
Her vision was blurry, not from weakness of the eyes, but from the draining days that turned into nights, then nights back into endless days—no, years.
No rest.
No peace.
Just the rodents.
The stink.
The hunger that never truly went away.
She laid her head back behind the wall, its surface rough and cold, pressing into her scalp like icy fingers.
The coldness of it bled into her bones, deeper than any wound.
For a moment she closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to pretend—pretend she wasn't here, chained like an animal, feeding on filth to keep herself barely alive.
There were no windows in the cell, only cracks high above that let in faint slivers of blue light, and sometimes, not even that.
The scent of mold clung to everything, mixed with the iron tang of rust and the rot of old blood.
She licked her cracked lips, the disgusting blood and the taste of the rodent still lingering.
But she couldn't cry.
Her tears had dried long ago
All that was left was the hunger.
Extreme hunger.
And the chains.
Always the chains.
Combined with the poor condition of the cell she was in, it was like a long torture ritual, as if her captors wanted to break her mind.
*Pfft!
Yet she laughed at the thought.
Not out of insanity.
But of the sheer fact that she could stay sane even after all those years of captivity.
She was surprised herself.
She then takes a deep breath as she sighed, her eyes peering around the cell she had always looked at for years already.
The cell was damp, its stone walls slick with grime and mold, every inch of it felt like it had been soaking in filth for centuries.
At the same time the air was thick, almost choking, stank of piss and old blood that had dried and turned black over time.
Every breath Zurelle took filled her lungs with the scent of decay, and no matter how many times she tried to block it out, it always came back stronger.
She crouched low in a shadowed corner, where the light rarely reached, her back pressed against the cold wall, her body curled tight like a forgotten animal.
Her long white hair, once clean and soft like silk, was now tangled and long, strands of it matted together with sweat and dirt, sticking to her face like wet threads.
It hung down in front of her face, hiding her expression but not her pain.
There was no room for pride here, not in this pit.
What a pitiful state she was in.
Her mind drifted to memories that felt like they belonged to another life—no, another person entirely.
She could remember the words of her mother, her stories of the world of Nythera and what mysteries and adventures are yet to be done.
She remembered how her eyes widened at the time, the excitement—the excitement of how her future would unfold.
But she was robbed of that fate.
Now, she fed off rodents and left in the darkness of the pit she was currently in.
*Clink.
Her chains tugged again as she tried shifting her weight, just a small motion, but enough for the iron links to rattle loud against the silence.
The slightly glowing metal loop that had been embedded deep into the stone wall behind her gave off a low, strained groan, as if tired of holding her—but still, it held firm.
No matter how many times she tried, how many times she tested its limits, it wouldn't break.
There would be no escape.
Not now, at least.
Maybe not ever.
She leaned back once more, letting her spine rest against the damp, unforgiving stone.
Her breathing was shallow, forced through clenched teeth as pain throbbed through her limbs.
Her fangs still hadn't retracted.
They remained out, exposed, glinting under the faint blue light that trickled through the cracks above.
Blood still trickled from her chin, slow and sticky, staining the front of her torn tunic.
No one came to clean her.
No one ever did.
They didn't dare.
Even if she was weakened.
Even if she had been reduced to nothing more than a prisoner feeding on filth and rot—they still feared her.
It clung to them, their fear, like a heavy perfume.
She saw it in the way they never looked her in the eyes.
In how they always tossed the rats from a distance.
In how they never stayed too long near the cell's door.
They knew what she was.
A Scion of Kaelith—the dusk wayferer.
And not just that, a pure and direct descendant of Malavakh himself, born from his very corrupted flesh—the god of the vampires.
While she was indeed a direct descendant from the god of sanguine hunger himself, she was taken as an orphan by Duchess Meravinha Eik' Kaelith, a daughter of Kaelith himself.
Scions of Kaelith—like Duchess Meravinha—had rejected Malavakh and his ways as they chose a different path.
While most noble vampires pledged loyalty to Malavakh, the dreadful god of vampires who basked in worship and blood rituals—the Scions of Kaelith appreciated adventuring.
They used their very long life span in exploring—just like Kaelith himself—wandering the world of Nythera, appreciating it fully.
They didn't see immortality as a gift to be used for endless feasts and decadence.
Instead, they believed it was meant for discovering lost worlds, ancient places, and forgotten truths.
Kaelith taught them to abandon the old god.
And so they did.
And that angered Malavakh beyond words.
Those who still followed him—especially the old noble bloodlines—hated the Scions.
Not just because of betrayal, but because of what the Scions stood for.
Freedom.
Rebellion.
Purpose beyond the chains of blood and faith.
That hatred ran deep.
Deeper than any wound.
And yet, Zurelle had not been killed.
No, she was captured instead.
Contained.
Held in this miserable cell with chains etched in silver and eldritch seals.
Not out of mercy, not out of hesitation.
There was one reason.
Only one.
A twisted reason.
A cruel bond that tied her to someone who should've been her enemy.
A pure blood vampire from the Druvella family—one of Malavakh's most loyal and fanatic houses.
Instead of killing her, she kept her.
More as a pet than anything else.
She didn't speak of love, didn't speak of loyalty.
It was possession.
Plain and ugly.
Zurelle was her trophy, her defiance to the Scions, her symbol of control over a Kaelith-born.
She didn't let her die, but she made sure she never lived either.
So she stayed chained.
Hidden away in a cell no one spoke of.
Left to rot, but never allowed to fade.