Through reflection and patience, the mind sharpens, the heart steadies, and the spirit grows in the night's quiet.
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The night had fallen fully, swallowing the road and the surrounding landscape in a velvet black that pressed against the car like an unrelenting hand. The dashboard lights were soft, weak against the dark, casting faint glows on Amalia's tear-streaked face. Her hands still gripped the steering wheel, knuckles tight, trembling from exhaustion. Every muscle in her body throbbed with tension, her chest heavy with the weight of her parents' words, echoing endlessly behind her eyelids.
The road blurred before. Her mind unable to focus on the turns or the lines painted on the asphalt. The effort to drive became impossible, her vision swimming as the pressure in her chest threatened to pull her under. With a shaking breath, she eased the car onto the shoulder, the tires crunching softly over gravel. The hum of the engine was suddenly deafening in the quiet, a small reminder that she was still alive, still moving, still capable of existing in a world that had just rejected her so utterly. Her heart was pounding unevenly, as if trying to beat the grief away.
She had not done anything wrong. She knew it with every fiber of her being, yet the sting of their rejection gnawed at her nonetheless. The most painful part was not the disapproval itself, hwit was the depth of betrayal, the sense that the people who should have held her closest had become the architects of her suffering. Every shared memory of childhood laughter, every lesson they had taught, every story of pride and love now felt hollow, tainted by the poison of their prejudice. The gravel under the tires seemed to match the weight in her chest, jagged and unyielding.
A small roadside motel loomed ahead. It was a modest glow of a neon sign painting her windshield in muted reds and blues. She pulled into the lot with a slow, mechanical precision, each movement distant and disconnected, as if she were observing herself from the edge of a dream.
The receptionist barely glanced up as she signed in, the words of the clerk floating past her ears like noise she could not process. She barely registered the card she slid across the counter, the keys handed over without ceremony. Her body moved on its own, carrying her through the lobby, across the tiled hallway, and into the small room where a single lamp cast a warm halo of light against beige walls.
The room smelled faintly of bleach and stale carpet. The bed was made neatly, the sheets crisp and cold under her hands as she collapsed onto it, curling herself into a tight ball. The pillow swallowed her face, muffling the sobs that wracked her chest. Her body shook uncontrollably, a storm of grief and frustration no longer able to be contained. She had carried the weight of their judgment all evening, and now, in this temporary refuge, it could finally pour from her like a river breaking its dam.
Minutes passed, or perhaps hours; time seemed to fold in on itself. She had no sense of how long she lay there, face pressed to the cool fabric, tears soaking the pillowcase. The ache in her chest throbbed with every heartbeat, a dull and constant reminder of how deeply she had been wounded. Her mind replayed the scene again and again, her parents' expressions frozen in her memory, their disbelief, their horror, their hatred. She wanted to scream, to shake the foundations of their house, to make them see what they had done. But her voice had no power here, and the silence of the motel room swallowed her.
She sat up slowly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor. The room felt vast and hollow, every shadow stretching like long fingers across the walls. She pressed her palms to her face, rubbing at the swollen skin around her eyes, trying to chase the exhaustion and the grief out of her body.
The silence in this motel room was heavy but not hostile; it held no judgment, no condemnation. Yet even here, in this impersonal refuge, the sting of betrayal remained. Her parents had spoken as if her very existence was wrong, their words cutting deeper than any physical wound. They had erased her identity in their eyes, reduced her to a shadow of fear and sin. That hurt more than any scorn from strangers, more than any whispered gossip. It was intimate, personal, a violation that left a hollowness she could not fill.
After a long moment, she pulled the blanket around her shoulders and exhaled slowly, a shuddering breath that carried the weight of all her sorrow. The tears had left trails, but they had not drained her completely. She could still feel the pulse of life in her veins, the stubborn insistence that she existed on her own terms. But for now, that knowledge was faint against the thunderous ache in her chest.
Her hand drifted to the bedside table, fingers brushing against the smooth surface of her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly. She knew who she wanted to reach. She didn't know what would come of it. Yet the thought of a familiar voice, a familiar presence, even if only fleeting, offered a fragile tether to something beyond this night of grief.
With slow, deliberate movements, she unlocked the phone and began to dial the number. Her fingers shook as they pressed the keyboard, the familiar sequence a quiet rhythm that steadied her pulse ever so slightly. The ringtone sounded, sharp and insistent in the small room, each tone a reminder of connection, of a world outside the crushing weight of rejection.
She held the phone in her hands, staring at it, the screen casting a soft glow across her tear-streaked face. Her heart throbbed with a mixture of hope and fear, the past hours pressing down on her like stones in her chest. And for the first time that night, she allowed herself to breathe, to feel, to hope that she wasn't entirely alone.
🩸🌹🩸🌑🩸🌹🩸
Miles away from the quiet motel where Amalia's tears still burned on her cheeks, the city pulsed with its own life, indifferent to the heartbreak unfolding elsewhere. In a high-rise office perched above the neon veins of the streets, Liliana sat behind a massive obsidian desk, the weight of the night pressing in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her posture was controlled, deliberate: shoulders squared, fingers lightly tapping on the smooth surface in a rhythm only she could feel.
Adrien leaned casually near the doorway, his presence a dark silhouette against the faint glow of the office lights. His eyes flicked to the faint vibration of a phone resting on the desk, its screen blinking insistently, breaking the otherwise perfect stillness.
🍷"It's ringing"
The male vampire said, a trace of curiosity threading through his tone.
🍷 "Are you going to answer it?"
Liliana's gaze remained fixed ahead, on him, her voice was calm and cold.
🩸 "No. That call isn't important."
She said with a deliberate calm
Adrien raised an eyebrow, a shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
🍷"Not important… or inconvenient?"
The Lamia let a faint tilt of her head acknowledge him, her expression impassive. Her hand moved with a precise motion, dragging the phone across the desk and flicking it into airplane mode. The screen dimmed lifeless as the insistent pulse of light vanished, leaving the room in quiet silence.
She returned her attention fully to Adrien, speaking in the same controlled tone, the same air of unyielding authority that defined her.
🩸 "Irrelevant."
🍷"Then let's turn to what is relevant."
The Dark Lord said at last, his voice low, but sharp enough to cut the hush between them.
🩸 "So? What did you find out?"
🍷 "Six vampires have gone missing from their city, including their lord, Valerian Duskbane."
The word dropped like a blade. The Midnight Sovereign's gaze flicked toward him, sharp as steel. Adrien's lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth in the gesture
He withdrew a folded sheet of parchment from the inner pocket of his coat and laid it upon her desk. The paper was old, its edges frayed, the ink dark as dried blood. Liliana's fingers unfolded it with deliberate calm. The names stared back at her, written in a hand too precise to tremble.
She read each slowly, letting them sink into her mind, cataloguing every syllable as though committing them to an invisible ledger.
🩸 "Were there any witnesses? Anything that could tell us what happened? Any sign of a struggle or fight?"
The make creature inclined his head, his eyes locked on hers.
🍷 "No. Everyone who saw them said they seemed completely normal, calm, as usual. They didn't show any sign of worry or that anything was wrong. The last anyone saw them, they were simply heading home."
🩸 "Did they have enemies?"
At that, Adrien's laugh broke the silence. It was not joyous, but edged, the kind of laugh that carried the bite of centuries.
🍷 "We all have enemies, Liliana. You. Me. Every creature who has clawed their way to the top of this wretched food chain. But these six… they were careful. Too careful. They kept their enemies fat and obedient, bought with gold and blood. Hatred is a weak weapon when dulled by indulgence."
The Bloodborne Goddess leaned back, her nails drumming once against the obsidian. The corners of her lips twisted into something venomous.
🩸 "Then it's worse than I thought. These bastards went and vanished without leaving us a single thread to pull. What good is their power if it couldn't even keep them breathing? They should have exploded when they died, as all of us do. At least then we'd have ash to curse over. Instead, they've decided to waste our time by disappearing."
Her words sliced through the room, the venom carried by disdain rather than rage. Adrien's smirk faded, his tone sharpening to match hers.
🍷 "But their leader is gone. That is no petty loss. It will draw attention. If we do not uncover what happened, it will come to us in a way we cannot control."
She remained seated, her posture rigid, every inch of her body radiating authority. Her hands rested lightly on the desk, but the grip in her fingers could have crushed steel. The room seemed to shrink around her, the air charged with the weight of her intent.
🩸 "Then I will send my men immediately. They will search that city from corner to corner. If there are whispers in the dark, they will hear them. If there is blood, they will find it. And if shadows are hiding secrets…"
Her gaze locked on Adrien's, sharp and unwavering, each word dripping with controlled fury.
🩸 "…we will root them out. Every last one of
them. Until the truth is laid bare before us."
The silence that followed was heavy, almost alive. Even the faint hum of the city beyond the office walls seemed to pause, acknowledging the weight of her command.
🍷 "Understood. I'll contact you immediately if I uncover anything new."
He paused, giving her a long, appraising look, then turned smoothly and stepped toward the door. The soft click of the handle echoed like a whisper of warning. Without another word, he slipped out, leaving the female vampire alone with the charged silence of the office.
Her jaw tightened, and a low hiss escaped her throat, barely audible, yet sharp with controlled fury.
🩸 "These motherfuckers decided to waste my time as if I don't have enough to handle already..."
She whispered under her breath, the words barely more than a hiss of venom.
Her fingers moved with deliberate precision to the phone on her desk. Airplane mode disengaged and the screen lit up instantly, revealing at least five missed calls from Amalia. The Pale Seductress' brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing her otherwise imperious expression.
She set the device back down on the obsidian surface, perfectly composed, though the faint crease between her eyes betrayed her irritation. She was not in the mood to deal with a mortal tonight.
Her gaze drifted back to the darkened city beyond the windows, her thoughts already returning to the missing vampires and the secrets that demanded extraction. The human's calls could wait.
🩸🥀🩸