Awakening the Ancient Bloodline

Long before the first light illuminated the towers of Blackstone Manor, the servants' bell rang out from beneath the estate.

Its deep sound reverberated through the underground quarters, rousing hundreds of half-blood thralls from their uneasy sleep. Jameson opened his eyes just before the second bell chimed. He had spent twenty years in Blackstone Manor, and experience had shown him that arriving late for morning duties resulted in a punishment far more severe than missing a meal.

The underground barracks were hewn directly from the mountain beneath the manor. Rows of wooden cots lined the damp chamber, each occupied by a thrall clad in identical coarse gray uniforms and iron collars engraved with the crest of House Valerius.

No one uttered a word or lingered around.

The servants rose silently, folded their blankets, and formed a line outside the barracks with the discipline of those who understood that silence often meant the difference between surviving another day or facing punishment.

Jameson took his place in line, keeping his gaze lowered.

The iron collar around his neck had been fastened when he was just five years old. He could barely remember life before Blackstone Manor. The little he knew about his parents came from hushed conversations among the older servants. His father had been a pureblood who refused to acknowledge him, while his mother, a half-blood servant, had died from blood loss after years of being exploited by the noble family she served.

Her name disappeared with her.

Only Jameson remained.

A heavy door swung open, and Overseer Garrick stepped into the corridor.

He was not a vampire. Like the servants, Garrick was born a half-blood, but decades of loyal service had earned him authority over the others. The long scar running across his face gave him a permanent scowl, and the leather whip hanging from his belt reminded everyone that his loyalty belonged to House Valerius alone.

His cold eyes swept across the assembled servants.

"I shouldn't have to remind any of you what today is."

Nobody answered.

"The eastern banquet hall must be prepared before noon. Representatives from House Draven and House Morcant will arrive before sunset. If a single noble finds dust where there shouldn't be dust, every servant assigned to that hall will be punished."

His gaze stopped on Jameson.

"You."

Jameson stepped forward immediately.

"Yes, Overseer."

"You'll clean the Hall of Ancestors."

A faint murmur spread through the line before disappearing just as quickly.

The Hall of Ancestors was the most sacred place inside Blackstone Manor. Only a handful of servants were trusted to enter it, because any servant caught stealing from the hall was executed without trial.

Jameson bowed.

"I understand."

Garrick studied him for another moment before speaking again.

"You've worked there long enough to know the rules."

"I do."

"If I hear that you touched anything except the floors, statues, or windows..."

Jameson finished the sentence quietly.

"...my hands will be removed."

Garrick nodded.

"At least one of you still remembers."

The servants dispersed toward their assignments.

Jameson picked up a wooden bucket, several fresh cloths, and a polishing stone before climbing the staircase that connected the underground tunnels to the upper floors of the manor.

The difference between the servants' quarters and the noble estate never failed to unsettle him.

Below ground, the air smelled of damp stone and old blood.

Above ground, polished marble reflected the morning sunlight pouring through stained-glass windows. Crimson banners embroidered with silver thread hung between towering pillars. Every corridor was illuminated by enchanted crystal lamps that burned without smoke.

Blackstone Manor was less a home than a monument to House Valerius' wealth.

Jameson reached the Hall of Ancestors and slowly pushed open its towering oak doors.

Silence greeted him.

The chamber was magnificent.

Jameson had cleaned this room for nearly six years.

He knew every statue, every painting, and every crack in the marble floor by heart. After filling a basin with fresh water, he settled into the routine that had defined his life for years, moving from one corner to another as he carefully scrubbed, and polished every surface until it shone.

Hours often passed without anyone speaking to him.

Oddly enough, those hours were the closest thing to peace he ever experienced.

As he wiped dust from the base of an ancient statue near the center of the chamber, his eyes drifted upward.

The statue depicted the founder of House Valerius standing beside another man wearing a long ceremonial cloak.

Jameson frowned as his gaze settled on the second figure. Unlike the others, its face had not been worn away by age or weathered by the passage of time. Someone deliberately carved it off with remarkable precision, removing only the face while leaving every other part of the statue untouched.

He noticed it years ago but never dared ask about it.

"You still stare at that statue."

The familiar voice belonged to Rowan.

The elderly thrall entered carrying another bucket, moving more slowly than he had only a year earlier.

Jameson smiled faintly.

"I've always wondered why someone destroyed the face."

Rowan placed his bucket beside one of the pillars before lowering himself carefully onto one knee to begin polishing the marble.

"Because history is written by those who survive it."

Jameson looked at him.

"That's not an answer."

"It isn't meant to be."

"You've served this house for forty-three years... Then you must know."

Rowan continued polishing without looking up.

"I know enough to understand that curiosity has buried better men than either of us."

Jameson leaned against the handle of his broom.

"Do you ever wonder if everything we're taught is true?"

Rowan finally stopped working.

His weathered face became unusually serious.

"When I was younger, I asked an old librarian why none of the books mentioned the years before the Crimson Dominion."

"What happened?"

"The next morning another librarian was assigned to the archives."

Jameson waited.

"And the old one?"

"No one ever saw him again."

The words settled heavily between them.

Jameson slowly returned to cleaning.

Questions were dangerous.

Answers were even more dangerous.

The peaceful silence lasted less than half an hour before footsteps echoed from outside the chamber.

Jameson and Rowan lowered their heads immediately.

The doors opened.

Several young pureblood nobles entered the hall dressed in dark crimson coats trimmed with silver. At their center walked Lord Adrian Valerius, the youngest son of the house and one of the rising stars among the younger generation.

He couldn't have appeared older than thirty, although every servant knew vampires often lived for centuries.

Adrian glanced around the chamber before speaking.

"The ancestors deserve more respect than this."

Jameson looked toward the spotless marble floor.

"My lord?"

Adrian walked directly toward him.

"You heard me."

"My lord, the hall has already been cleaned."

Adrian smiled.

"So you believe your work cannot be improved."

"I meant no disrespect."

"Of course you didn't."

The young noble reached out and gripped Jameson's chin between two fingers, forcing him to raise his head.

"You half-bloods always speak carefully."

Jameson met neither his eyes nor his expression.

He simply waited.

Experience had taught him that nobles rarely needed a reason to humiliate a servant.