A Tithe Of Blood

The days at Lord Calvorn's estate passed in a relentless cycle of labor and silent endurance. From the moment dawn's pale light crept over the distant hills until the stars pierced the velvet sky, Elira was bound to her duties.

The cold stone corridors echoed with the soft shuffling of feet, the clink of metal buckets, and the quiet murmurs of servants some kind, others indifferent, a few cruel.

Each morning, Elira awoke before the sun, her limbs heavy from the previous day's toil. The cold floor beneath her thin blanket was a harsh reminder that comfort was a luxury she could not afford here. Her first tasks were in the kitchen, chopping roots and herbs, her hands raw and calloused.

Later, she scrubbed endless floors until her knees ached, polished the gleaming silverware, and arranged flowers in the grand halls, their sweet fragrance a rare comfort in the oppressive air.

The blood tax drained her strength further weekly visits to the chamber where Lord Calvorn took what he demanded left her pale and weak for days afterward.

Yet, it was the coldness of the house's rules and the distant glances from the vampire lord that weighed heaviest on her spirit.

Despite the harshness, Elira found small moments of kindness in the shadows.

Marta, the housemaid with sharp eyes but a softer heart, became an unexpected ally. "Don't let them break you, child," Marta whispered one evening as they shared a brief respite in the servants' quarters.

Her weathered face softened, and she slipped a small piece of bread into Elira's hand. "You're stronger than you know."

Among the other servants, Elira was both respected and pitied.

Some envied the flicker of grace she carried despite her hardships; others whispered about the girl who had been sent as a blood tax, watching her with wary eyes.

Time unfolded slowly, marked by the changing seasons rather than joyful milestones.

The relentless routine shaped Elira, hardening her resolve even as her body grew delicate and strong. Her childhood faded into memory, replaced by the sharp edges of her new reality.

As months turned into years, a subtle transformation began.

Her features sharpened into striking beauty

high cheekbones dusted with a faint flush, eyes that held quiet fire beneath thick lashes, and hair that shimmered like the midnight sky. Her skin, though still pale from the draining blood and cold estate air, took on a porcelain glow.

____________________

It was during one of the rare sunny afternoons, while she tended the rose gardens, that Lord Calvorn first truly noticed her.

The rose gardens behind the estate unfurled like a hidden realm ancient, overgrown, and brimming with a wild, melancholic beauty. Thorn-laced vines curled around the crumbling stone arches, and the gnarled oaks reached their limbs skyward like mourners in a cathedral of silence. Between them, the roses bloomed dark red and silver-white, some veined with streaks of violet, their petals heavy with dew.

Elira knelt beside a bed of lavender, her hands caked with soil, the scent of crushed herbs clinging to her fingertips. Her braid had come loose and clung to her damp neck, and the hem of her servant's dress was stained with dirt and bramble scratches.

Yet there was a kind of grace to her movements measured, quiet, reverent as though she were tending to something sacred.

She didn't notice she was being watched.

Not at first.

Lord Calvorn stood in the deep shade of a towering yew, where no sunlight dared reach. He had been walking the grounds with no particular aim when he caught sight of her small, bent to the earth, her form bathed in pale gold light.

She was not beautiful in the way court women were painted no pearls, no silks, no powdered cheeks. But there was something almost otherworldly in her simplicity.

In the way the breeze caught her hair. In the way she looked up, suddenly aware of his presence.

Her eyes met his clear and bright as moonlight on deep water.

The wind shifted.

"Elira," he said, voice low and coiled with velvet heat, "you toil as if you wish to vanish into the earth itself."

She held his gaze, though her heart beat wildly beneath her ribs. "It keeps my mind from wandering."

He stepped forward, slow and soundless. "And yet your thoughts betray you."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. It never did.

Then, without another word, he turned and melted back into the shadows, leaving the garden colder than before.

That evening, as the last rays of daylight faded, the servants' quarters echoed with soft clinks of cutlery and tired footsteps.

It was a place where backs slumped, voices muttered, and souls shrank after the long cruelty of the day.

Elira sat at the end of the long wooden table, her bundle of lavender resting in her lap. She peeled the petals with careful fingers, letting their scent calm the tightness in her chest.

It reminded her of home.

But the peace didn't last.

From further down the bench, Kathy leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her dark curls pinned carelessly, her sharp eyes gleaming with something unkind.

"Look at her," Kathy whispered with mocking sweetness, nudging the girl beside her Lysa, who smirked behind her bowl of weak broth. "Always with her little plants. Thinks she's a greenwitch from the old tales."

Lysa giggled. "Bet she thinks the lavender will keep the vampires away."

"Or maybe she thinks it'll charm the lord," Kathy added with a vicious grin. "She's always out in the garden. Alone. I hear she even speaks with him sometimes."

Elira said nothing.

She focused on the lavender.

But the whispers grew bolder.

"She walks around like she's better than us," Lysa said, "head high, eyes down like she's pretending to be humble. As if we can't see the way Calvorn looks at her."

Kathy narrowed her eyes. "I saw the way she was staring at that tapestry in the gallery. You think you're someone else, don't you? Someone important."

Elira's fingers tightened around the stem. A thorn pricked her thumb, and a bead of blood bloomed at the surface.

She didn't flinch.

"I never asked to be sent here," she said softly, voice like the edge of a blade sheathed in silk. "I do what I must to survive.

That doesn't make me special. And it doesn't make me your enemy."

The table fell quiet for a heartbeat.

Then Kathy leaned closer, her voice low and poisoned. "Just remember this house doesn't care how special you think you are.

The higher you rise, the harder you fall. And when you do, don't expect anyone to catch you."

Elira lifted her gaze, and for a moment, her expression silenced even Kathy's sneer.

"I don't need catching," she said. "I've already learned to land on my feet."

Lysa let out a forced, nervous laugh, but the tension in the air hung like smoke.

Elira turned back to her herbs. The lavender's sweet scent no longer brought comfort but it masked the bitterness in her throat.

She had heard their warnings.

And she would remember.

Because in a house filled with monsters, even the whispers could kill.

Later Elira walked alone through the corridor, the air damp and heavy.

Her hands ached, her shoulders throbbed, but she paused at the base of the grand staircase.

A figure stood at the top.

Tall. Still. Wrapped in darkness like it was stitched to his soul.

She couldn't see his face clearly, but she didn't need to. Something ancient stirred in his presence cold, immense, like the hush before a storm breaks.

His gaze found her. And held.

She felt it not as warmth, but as a pressure in her chest. Like she was being weighed. Measured.

And then, without a word, he was gone.

But the chill he left behind stayed long after the silence returned.

_____________

It was dinner time and the kitchen was a world of heat and chaos pots clanging, spoons stirring, oil hissing in hot pans. The scent of broth and old wood smoke filled the air, mingling with the sharper tang of onions and the faint sweetness of yeast rising in the corner bowls. Elira moved between the tables with practiced efficiency, her apron already stained and her hands slick with flour and steam. Marta barked orders from the far end, her voice cutting through the din like a bell.

"Elira! Water! The stew's going dry!"

Elira wiped her hands on her apron and grabbed the rusted pail from beneath the counter. The kitchen girls were too busy to glance up as she slipped out through the back door into the sharp chill of late afternoon.

The air outside hit her like a wave crisp, laced with woodsmoke and something wilder from the forests beyond the estate walls. The path to the well wound through a sloping patch of grass and cracked cobblestones, half-choked with moss. Overhead, the clouds swirled grey and heavy, threatening rain.

Elira's boots crunched over frost-dusted gravel as she neared the old well. Its stones were slick with moss, and the iron pulley creaked as she lowered the bucket, the rope rasping in her hands. She exhaled slowly, letting the wind cut through the fog inside her head. Out here, there were no whispers. No sharp tongues or cold glances.

Just silence.

And then she felt a movement beside her.

A flash of shadow darted from beneath the crooked hedge nearby. Elira straightened, heartbeat quickening. But it wasn't a threat.

A small black cat padded toward her across the path.

Its fur was sleek but tangled in places, ears twitching with a wary grace. Pale green eyes locked onto hers sharp, intelligent, and strangely… familiar.

The cat paused a few feet away, tail flicking once, twice. It sniffed the air cautiously, then continued forward with feline certainty, as though it had finally found what it had been searching for.

Elira crouched, curious. She extended a hand.

To her surprise, the cat didn't flee. It stepped closer, silent as breath, and pressed its head gently into her palm.

For a moment, everything else vanished the looming towers, the weight of servitude, the chill of the stone estate behind her. She stroked the cat's fur slowly, marveling at the strange warmth it brought her, like embers buried deep in ash.

"Where did you come from?" she whispered.

The cat only blinked at her and purred, deep and steady, curling its body against her shin.

She lingered longer than she should have, her fingers weaving through soft fur, grounding herself in the simple, wordless comfort of this creature. But the kitchen would be waiting.

With reluctance, she filled the pail and began the careful trek back, but the cat followed, weaving between her legs, tail flicking like a shadow.

At the back steps, it paused, watching her with expectant eyes.

Elira hesitated, then ducked into the storage room just beside the kitchen and retrieved a small bowl from the shelf. She ladled a bit of warm broth from the pot on the hearth ignoring Marta's scolding shout and slipped back outside.

She set the bowl down near the kitchen wall. The cat approached with surprising grace, sniffed once, and began to eat, the steam rising in curls around its narrow face.

Elira knelt nearby, chin resting on her knees, watching it.

"You're not like the others, are you?" she murmured. "Neither am I."

The wind picked up again, rustling the dry ivy clinging to the stone walls. Somewhere in the distant woods, a raven called.

The cat looked up at her once more eyes reflecting light that wasn't there then resumed eating, content.

Elira smiled faintly. It was the first time in days she'd remembered what that felt like.