Elara didn't sleep. She dozed in fits and starts, every whisper of the castle settling making her jolt awake, hand flying to the knife she'd managed to keep hidden in her boot. The room was too quiet, too still. The white rose on the desk seemed to watch her. Just before the faint, pearly light of a false dawn tinged the high window, there was a soft knock at the door.
She was on her feet instantly, back against the wall beside the door. "Who is it?"
A muffled, watery voice replied, "The morning, Miss. For the dining."
Cautiously, she opened the door a crack. A figure stood there, shrouded in a simple grey cloak, its face hidden in shadow. It held no tray, no weapon. It merely pointed a gloved hand down the corridor. "The Duke awaits. In the sunroom."
The door clicked shut. The figure was gone, leaving only the faint smell of damp stone.
So, it was time. No rest, no respite. The game didn't pause. Elara splashed icy water from the basin onto her face, finger-combed her hair, and straightened her worn tunic. Armor wouldn't help here. Pretense wouldn't either. She left the room and followed the corridor, which eventually opened into a breathtaking space.
It was a long, glass-paneled room, one entire wall looking out over a surreal landscape. The sky was a perpetual twilight lavender, but a soft, golden light—artificial, but convincing—streamed through the glass, warming the flagstones. The view was of a formal garden, geometrically perfect, but filled with those silver-rose statues, frozen amidst manicured hedges. A breakfast table for two was set near the windows. Silver domes covered plates. A pot of steaming tea sat between them.
Valerius stood by the window, his back to her, looking out at his garden. He wore a simpler outfit today—a black shirt, dark trousers—but he looked no less imposing. He didn't turn as she entered.
"Sit," he said.
Elara pulled out a heavy wooden chair and sat. She didn't touch the silver dome. She waited.
After a moment, he turned. His pale eyes took her in, noting her alert posture, the shadows under her eyes. "You did not rest."
"Not much," she admitted.
"Wise." He finally moved to the table, sitting opposite her with that fluid grace. He lifted the dome off his plate. Beneath it was a simple arrangement of fruits, bread, and cheese. No blood, no bizarre mythical meats. He picked up a strawberry, examined it, and took a small bite. He chewed slowly, watching her. "Aren't you hungry? It's not poisoned. That would be inefficient."
Elara lifted her own dome. The same food. Her stomach growled traitorously. She picked up a piece of bread and bit into it. It was fresh, warm, real. The simple, good taste was almost shocking. She ate methodically, her eyes never leaving him completely.
"You're staring," he remarked, not looking up from slicing a pear.
"I'm observing," she corrected. "You eat normal food."
"Did you expect me to drink blood from a skull at breakfast? How theatrical." He took a sip of tea from a delicate china cup. It looked absurdly normal in his long-fingered hand.
"I didn't know what to expect. You are a vampire."
"I am. My body requires blood to sustain my… particular condition. It does not require a performance at every meal." He set his cup down. "You are still observing. What have you concluded so far this morning?"
Elara took a breath. Honesty. "That you have routines. That you appreciate sunlight, even if it's artificial. That you keep a garden, even if you fill it with your failures. That suggests a preference for order, for beauty, even a twisted kind. And that you're testing me right now by having a completely normal breakfast to see how I react."
A flicker in his eyes. Almost approval. "Adequate. Most of them would have been fawning over the china or asking about the magical sunlight by now. Or trying to feed me a grape." The last word was laced with contempt.
"Feeding you a grape wouldn't be logistical," Elara said flatly. "It would be stupid."
He actually smiled. It was a small, sharp thing, but it was there. "So it would." He leaned back. "Tell me, Elara—that is your name, is it not? The system whispers such things—what did you do before this… inconvenience?"
"I was an analyst." She saw his slight confusion. "I looked at data, at patterns, at people's behaviors in markets. I predicted outcomes."
"A seer of sorts."
"No. A calculator. There's no magic in it. Just logic, observation, and probability."
"And you apply this to me? I am a problem to be calculated?" His tone was neutral, but the air grew a fraction cooler.
"Aren't you?" she countered, meeting his gaze. "You are the central variable in the final equation. My survival equals your genuine emotional engagement. I need to understand the variable to solve for it."
He was silent for a long moment. Outside, a ghostly bird, made of shimmering light, flew past the window and perched on the silver hand of a statue. "No one has ever put it quite like that," he murmured. "They speak of destiny, of a connection written in the stars, of my lonely soul yearning for its mate." He waved a dismissive hand. "Tedious poetry. But you… You speak of an equation. It is insulting. And yet…"
"And yet?" she prompted, before she could stop herself.
He looked directly at her. "And yet it is honest. You are not pretending to feel a connection. You are stating a requirement. It is… refreshingly blunt." He stood up, walking back to the window. "Finish your breakfast. The garden is less dreadful in this light. I will show it to you. Consider it part of your data collection."
He didn't wait for an answer. He simply stood there, looking out, giving her his profile.
Elara ate the rest of her food. It was good. The tea was hot and fragrant. The normalcy of the act, in this profoundly abnormal place, was more unsettling than any monster. He wasn't trying to scare her. He was trying to… understand her approach. To see how far her "logistical" honesty would go.
She finished and stood, pushing her chair back. The sound made him turn.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded. "I am."
He led her through a set of glass doors out into the garden. The artificial sun was warm on her skin. The air smelled of damp earth and something faintly metallic—the scent of the statues. They walked along a gravel path, the statues standing like silent, gleaming sentinels.
He stopped before a recent one—a young man with a lute frozen in his hands, his face upturned in song. "This one," Valerius said, his voice devoid of emotion, "sang ballads of undying love for three days straight. His voice was passable. His lyrics were atrocious."
Elara looked at the statue's face, forever captured in hopeful passion. A life ended. A person, turned into a decoration. A cold anger stirred in her gut, not for herself, but for the sheer waste of it.
"He must have been very annoying," she said, her voice hard.
Valerius turned his head sharply toward her. For a second, she thought she'd gone too far. Then, a sound escaped him. A short, sharp, genuine laugh. It was gone as quickly as it came, but it had been real.
"Annoying," he repeated, a trace of amusement still in his winter eyes. "Yes. That is precisely the word. Not tragic, not poignant. Annoying." He began walking again. "You continue to avoid the expected responses, Elara the Analyst. It is a minor skill. Do not think it will be enough."
"I don't," she said, falling into step beside him. She looked at the statues, then at him. "They all tried to give you what they thought you wanted. I'm just showing you what I am. You can decide if it's what you want."
He stopped walking. They were in a secluded part of the garden, a dead end surrounded by high hedges. He faced her. The false sunlight caught the planes of his face, making him look both more alive and more like a carving.
"A dangerous gamble," he said softly. "What if what you are is not enough? What if I decide it is, in fact, even less interesting than the bad poetry?"
Elara's heart was pounding again. This was the precipice. "Then I become a statue," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But at least I'll be an honest one. Not a bad copy of someone else's fantasy."
He studied her face, his gaze intense, searching for any crack in her facade, for any hint of the fear or calculation she was hiding. She let him see it. She let him see the fear, the determination, the sheer stubborn will to survive on her own terms.
Slowly, he reached out. She forced herself not to flinch. His fingers, cool but not icy, brushed a strand of hair that had come loose from behind her ear. The touch was brief, impersonal, yet shockingly intimate.
"An honest statue," he mused, dropping his hand. "There is a first time for everything, I suppose."
He turned and walked away, back down the path, leaving her standing alone among the silver roses and the frozen dead.
Elara brought a trembling hand to where his fingers had touched. The skin there felt warm in comparison. The interaction had been a conversation, a test, a threat, and something else—a strange, direct connection between two utterly logical beings acknowledging the absurd, emotional game they were trapped in.
She looked at the statue of the lute player. *You tried to charm him*, she thought. *I'm just trying to be real. Let's see which one kills me slower.*
She took a deep breath of the metallic garden air and followed the Duke back toward the castle. The morning's data was collected. The variable was becoming slightly less opaque. The equation, however, was no simpler. If anything, it had just become infinitely more complex.