The Vampire's Luna

Veyron paused. The tension in the air thickened. "You ready?" he asked, not just referring to the task ahead—but to the morality of it all.

Thessa nodded. She was a doctor, trained to save lives. But these past few weeks, she had learned to toe the line between mercy and necessity. "Yes."

"Finish up. Make sure it’s hygienically packed. I’ll handle the smuggling into Blood City."

Again, she nodded, her mouth tightening with resolve.

With a slow breath, Veyron reached into his pocket and withdrew a small brass key. It glinted under the moonlight. He nodded at the guards, and one stepped aside while the other helped him pull the heavy sliding door open with a groan and a screech.

The scent hit them first. Coppery. Heavy. The scent of barely-living flesh and recycled air.

Inside, the container was dimly lit by a single hanging bulb. Beneath its pale glow were rows and rows of humans—hundreds of them—lying on makeshift beds, their wrists bandaged, some unconscious, others groaning faintly. Their skin was pale from weeks of slow, regulated blood draws, their breathing shallow.

Veyron’s face remained impassive, but inside, something twisted. He had told himself this was temporary. A necessary evil to sustain Luna and the unborn heir.

Thessa, too, stepped in without a word, already pulling on gloves and moving to the nearest table where vials and sterile bags waited. Her movements were professional—but her eyes lingered on a boy who couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

"Do you also sedate the underaged?" she asked the guards.

"Yes, ma’am. Low dosage, monitored every four hours."

She nodded and got to work, blocking out her feelings as she had trained herself to do. There would be time to grieve later. For now, they had to survive.