“Come up…”
The voice from behind the canopy fell, and Sylvie’s heart skipped a beat. She quickly regained her composure.
“Yes.” She replied respectfully.
Then she rose, stepping one by one up the cold black stone stairs toward the area shrouded in scarlet veils.
As she drew nearer, she caught a whiff of… the scent of alcohol?
Sylvie’s brows furrowed slightly. The closer she got, the clearer the rich aroma of wine became, mingled with Klal’s unique, cold blood fragrance.
She stopped before the veil, reaching out. Remembering herself, she spoke humbly.
“Master, Sylvie is coming in.”
Only then did she gently lift a corner of it aside.
An even stronger wave of wine scent assaulted her nose. The scene behind the canopy came into view.
Klal was not seated upright on the throne. Instead, she lounged lazily on her side atop a massive velvet chaise beside it.
Her crimson gown spread across the cushions like blooming petals, but now it hung loosely, half-slipped, revealing vast expanses of skin pale to the point of sickness.
Delicate collarbones, half-bared shoulders, and a tantalizing cleft peeked through the disheveled fabric.
Lower still, the scattered hem revealed a pair of long, straight legs draped casually over the edge—ankles slender, smooth skin gleaming enticingly in the cold moonlight spilling from high windows.
But these were not what concerned Sylvie. What truly startled her was Klal’s state.
In her hand, she clutched a crystal wine bottle that was nearly empty. Silver hair cascaded across the chaise, strands clinging to faintly flushed, intoxicated cheeks.
Those crimson eyes, usually cold as frost, were now hazy with fog. As they shifted, they lacked their usual sharpness and authority, holding instead a dazed languor.
She’s… drunk?
Seeing Sylvie standing frozen before her, Klal tilted her head slightly. Her crimson gaze, misty and unfocused, fixed on her. The corner of her lips curved in an arc utterly unlike her usual one—drunken, laced with some indefinable meaning.
“What are you standing there for?” Her voice seemed softer than usual, yet it still carried an unquestionable command.
“Give me a massage.”
“…Yes.”
Sylvie obeyed, stepping forward and kneeling gently beside Klal.
The intense wine scent and Klal’s distinctive aura enveloped her, nearly making her dizzy.
This was… the first time she had seen her master like this.
But if a drunken master might spare her the usual prolonged torment, perhaps that was a good thing.
Sylvie took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus.
“Start with the shoulders.” Klal ordered, turning her body to expose her bare back.
Sylvie extended slender fingers, lightly placing them on her skin.
Though vampire bodies were incredibly resilient—ordinary weapons couldn’t harm them—only those who touched knew how exquisitely smooth their skin was: cool, yet fine beyond imagination, like warm, unpolished jade.
Sylvie’s fingers began to apply pressure. The skin beneath them rose and fell slightly with her movements. Klal let out a faint sigh, her body relaxing further. From her throat escaped a sweeter, more cloying laugh.
“Humans… irredeemably foolish creatures. Yet this lowly species always manages to create things that are… ‘unexpected.’ Hehe~”
She swirled her glass, staring hazily at the pale liquid within.
Sylvie assumed Klal meant the wine. But she didn’t know that Klal’s gaze was, in fact, fixed through the transparent glass on her own obedient face.
“They always manage to bring me ‘surprises’…” she said meaningfully.
“Don’t you think so? My dear…”
Sylvie’s expression remained unchanged. Her steady voice sounded like reciting a script she’d read countless times.
“Yes, Master.”
The wine fumes spread with her breath, blending with her cold blood scent to form a strange, unsettling atmosphere. Moonlight filtering through the canopy cast a faint red glow, adding a touch of ambiguity and allure to the unease.
Klal’s sticky-sweet voice continued.
“Why can’t they just obediently, honestly become vampire slaves? Rebellion, hatred, killing… They clearly know these foolish acts only deepen their suffering.”
“Don’t they understand what ‘reverence’ means? Don’t they know what ‘fear’ is?”
“…”
Sylvie offered no reply, only quietly kneading the cool, delicate skin.
“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” Klal pressed on, abruptly turning the topic to Sylvie. Her voice carried drunken viscosity.
“Sylvie reveres you, Master.” Sylvie answered thus.
“Reverence…” Klal repeated lowly, as if savoring the word.
“What’s the difference… from fear?”
With that, Klal suddenly sat up. The loose crimson gown slipped from her shoulders, exposing vast pale skin to the moonlight. She paid it no mind.
She seized Sylvie’s wrist—the one still massaging her—grabbing the slender, warm human limb.
Sylvie had no time to react before Klal lowered her head, baring sharp fangs, and bit down.
Pfft—
Sharp pain shot instantly from her wrist. Sylvie’s body tensed for a moment. She didn’t struggle, didn’t even try to pull away.
She simply allowed the warm liquid to drip, drop by drop, into Klal’s glass.
Drip… drip…
The sound of blood striking the glass echoed clearly in the silent hall.
Yet Klal did not greedily suck as usual. She merely locked her crimson eyes—hazed with blood mist—onto Sylvie’s face.
She watched.
Watched that familiar, doll-like refined yet lifeless countenance.
Watched whether those emerald pupils would contract from sudden pain and blood loss.
Watched whether those calm lips would twist from fear or agony.
Watched beneath that mask of eternal reverence and submission for even the slightest trace of genuine emotion belonging to “Sylvie” as an individual.
Like resentment from rough treatment, or instinctive terror from life being drained.
Blood flowed from Sylvie’s body. Her face paled visibly.
But her expression… remained serene.
In her eyes, numbly reflected the bleeding wrist and the filling glass.
Not forced composure, but a hollow, resigned calm.
Like a dead doll—obedient… without flaw.
Klal’s eyes narrowed slowly. No longer drunken haze, but cold scrutiny.
She released Sylvie’s wrist. But just as Sylvie moved to press the wound, Klal held the blood-filled glass before her, commanding in a tone that brooked no refusal.
“Drink it.”
“Yes.”
Sylvie’s reply held no hesitation. She didn’t even meet Klal’s eyes, simply taking the glass.
She raised it to her lips, tilting her head back slightly. The nauseatingly thick metallic scent, mixed with burning alcohol, flooded her throat.
Blood’s cloying sweetness intertwined with the wine’s fire, assaulting her senses. It nearly triggered a gag reflex, but she paused less than half a second—throat working as she swallowed, gulp by gulp.
Throughout, her expression never changed.
Finished, she held out the empty glass with both hands.
“Master, it’s done.”
“…”
Still, no fluctuation.
Still none of the lapse Klal wanted to see from this “doll” girl.
Klal’s lips curved in a smile, but her expression held a shadowy gloom. Her earlier intoxication and languor seemed never to have existed.
“You know, my dear… I like obedient pets. Because they recognize their own insignificance and lowliness. They know what they are, what they should do. That way… they don’t ruin my mood.”
As she spoke, Klal’s cold hand gently caressed Sylvie’s cheek. Her thumb traced the tight line of Sylvie’s lips, then forcibly pried them apart, delving into the warm mouth.
Like toying with a doll.
“You’re perfect, Sylvie. Obedient as if tailor-made for me, lowly as dust. You perfectly play everything a blood livestock should be… submission, reverence, absolute obedience.”
Her fingertip lightly stroked the inside of Sylvie’s mouth.
Klal’s crimson eyes narrowed slightly, pupils glinting with dangerous light.
“But do you know… this perfection of yours is the one and only ‘flaw’ on you.”
“You think that by wearing this numb, submissive, accepting mask, you can minimize your presence—make vampires lose interest, find you boring and leave you be, right?”
She said mockingly, then leaned close to Sylvie’s ear. Sweet yet cold whispers echoed.
“You’re wrong, my dear little blood livestock. You are… ‘dead wrong’.”