Raised for Ruin：The Vampire Prince's Last Lesson

I shouldn't be here.

I crouched barefoot behind the heavy velvet drapes, feeling the ancient cold of the castle seeping up through the stone floor and into my bones. My body had made the decision before my mind could catch up—when fear reached a certain threshold, I would become transparent, a skill I'd fumbled my way into mastering since childhood, one that rendered me invisible to all living things: the patrol hounds couldn't scent me, the gargoyles lining the corridors with their detection runes carved deep into stone couldn't see me, and if I maintained it well enough, even a vampire prince could be fooled. This ability was the only reason I was still alive in this place.

"The Council has run out of patience, Alexei."

Through the narrow gap in the curtains, I watched five or six elders seated around a long table, their figures illuminated by the dim glow of candlelight that cast long shadows across the vaulted ceiling. The speaker was unfamiliar to me—young in appearance, but his voice was dry, rasping, ancient beyond measure, as though it had been dragged through centuries of dust and decay.

"She's nearly twenty years old. When exactly do you intend to complete the sacrifice?"

I knew what "sacrifice" meant. Alexei had once pointed to a mural and explained that the creatures pushed onto the altar were called offerings. I had asked him if they would die. He had said—that was fate, spoken with the same casual indifference he used when discussing the weather or the quality of wine.

"How far along is the preparation of the altar?"

This voice was different—low, measured, carrying a kind of languid confidence that suggested nothing in the world could ever disturb its rhythm. Alexei's voice. My father's voice. No—he wasn't my biological father. Eleven years ago, he had pulled me from the ruins of my village when I was eight years old, the only living thing left among the ashes and blood. He had raised me for eleven years, and eleven years was long enough for a child to mistake anyone for the whole world.

"The altar has been fully constructed beneath the castle. All that remains is the offering." The elder's voice dripped with impatience, each word clipped and sharp. "Or perhaps you're waiting until she turns one hundred before you deem her sufficiently mature?"

Someone on the other side of the curtain snickered—after all these years of raising her, His Highness the Prince must be reluctant to let her go.

My nails dug into my palms, but the pain wasn't enough to make me gasp, wasn't enough to break through the numbness spreading through my chest like frost creeping across a windowpane.

Alexei's voice shattered the last fragile thread of hope I'd been clinging to. "Leah isn't ready yet. In seven days, I will personally escort her down."

Another voice, heavy with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, responded, "I hope you remember your duty."

Alexei laughed softly, a sound I had heard countless times before—when he read me bedtime stories, when he watched me clumsily recite continental history, when he handed me a cup of hot cocoa on cold winter evenings, his fingers brushing mine with a gentleness that made my heart ache.

The same laugh. The same tone. He said, "Raising her was always for this purpose."

My emotions could no longer maintain calm, and the "Transparency" skill showed signs of loosening. The clothing that didn't belong to my body was the first to reveal its shape. The only fortunate thing was that it was the same color as the curtain.

Extreme fear awakened my survival instinct, and I held my breath, retreating barefoot into the corridor. I could feel the portraits of Vampire ancestors in the hallway as if they had come alive, their gazes following my retreating figure.

I felt them snickering—the lamb raised for Sacrifice, only realizing the butcher's knife at the final moment.

He doesn't love me.

If he didn't love me, why would he hold my hand during every full moon? Why would he help me with my lessons during his most sacred afternoon tea, the time he hated being disturbed? Why would he let me rest against his knee on countless nights, listening to him read my favorite knight novels in that lazy, drawling voice that made everything sound like poetry?

I had seen him at his weakest. I knew his most painful secrets. On the nights when he lost control, he had held me tightly, and I had believed I was his everything, his anchor in a world of darkness.

On my eighteenth birthday, when I accepted the book of poetry he gave me, my heart had skipped a beat, and in that moment, I knew my feelings for him had long since crossed that forbidden line.

From that moment on, I spent every minute and every second searching for the same thing in his eyes.

Just a few days ago, he was still reading me the latest bestselling novel—a demon knight captured the female leader of the resistance, the female leader fell in love with him, and he placed her on the torture rack on their wedding night. When Alexei read that part, he even scoffed and said, "Well written."

I cursed that knight from beginning to end. He only smiled.

I thought he was mocking my naivety. Now, thinking back, he was probably just admiring the understanding between colleagues.

So there really were people in this world who could separate affection from murder, who could treat raising a girl and sending her to her death as one and the same task, executed with equal precision and care.

The sound of metal clashing echoed from the end of the corridor—guards changing shifts, I guessed, their armor scraping against stone as they moved through their routines.

I bit down on my tongue, hiding in the dead angle behind a pillar, forcing myself to calm down even as the taste of rust spread through my mouth like poison.

"Transparency" was about to fail.

Just as my heart threatened to burst from my chest, I heard a familiar set of footsteps approaching, deliberate and unhurried, each step echoing through the empty hall.

I couldn't help but look up.

The vaulted ceiling above the corridor was painted with murals depicting vampire conquest—conquerors standing atop mountains of corpses, their eyes filled with contempt for all living things.

And beneath those paintings, a figure emerged from the darkness, backlit by moonlight that outlined his tall, elegant form like something out of a religious painting, a fallen angel that made my blood run cold.

Alexei Cardis.

His face wore an expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity, as though encountering me in the corridor was tonight's most entertaining diversion, a pleasant surprise in an otherwise dull evening.

"Good evening."

My heart hammered against my ribs with increasing urgency, each beat so loud I was certain he could hear it—vampires had hearing acute enough to detect changes in heartbeat, to sense fear in the acceleration of blood through veins.

Calm down. Calm down.

He had already seen me. Any attempt to flee would be meaningless, would only confirm his suspicions and seal my fate sooner than planned.

So I took a deep breath, and when I raised my eyes again, they were brimming with tears that threatened to spill but didn't quite fall, trembling on the edge of my lashes.

"I had a nightmare," my voice trembled, and not all of it was an act—the fear was real, even if its source was different from what he would assume. "I dreamed that... that you didn't want me anymore."

Alexei tilted his head slightly, moonlight falling across his cheekbones in a way that would have once made me pause to admire his beauty, but now I saw only the predator beneath the perfect mask.

"So you decided to go for a midnight run through the castle?"

"I was looking for you."

He seemed pleased by this answer, and he began walking toward me slowly, each step measured and deliberate, like a cat approaching a cornered mouse. "Dreams and reality are often opposites."

This was his specialty—never lying outright, just offering the fish a bit of bait, a hook disguised as kindness.

"Can't sleep?" His voice softened, becoming almost tender, and his right hand lifted toward my head, fingers reaching for me with practiced gentleness.

In the past, I would have eagerly grasped that hand, because I knew his tenderness was noble, rare, and stingy—every moment of it had a time limit and could be withdrawn at any second, leaving me cold and alone.

But now I understood. He wasn't patting my head. He was measuring my neck, calculating, assessing the quality of what he had so carefully cultivated.

Go ahead. Be the little pet he wants. One last time.

I caught his hand and pressed it against my cheek, feeling the coldness of his fingers like touching marble, and I prayed he couldn't feel the sweat coating my palms or sense the terror coursing through my veins.

"Come on, I'll take you back." His tone was like someone soothing a frightened cat, gentle and patronizing. "Humans need sunlight, and they need sleep."

Yes. The offering must be kept in optimal condition. Sleep was part of the regimen, just like the carefully balanced meals and the exercise routines he had designed for me.

I followed his footsteps, feeling the icy cold radiating from his fingers where they touched mine. After a few steps, he glanced down at our joined hands, and for a moment, I wondered if he could feel my pulse racing beneath the skin.

"What are you afraid of? You're too old to be scared of the dark."

"I'm afraid you'll leave me." The words came out before I could stop them, raw and honest in a way that made me vulnerable.

I was confident he wouldn't suspect anything—after all, I had never lied to him before, and the truth was often the best disguise.

At my bedroom door, he pushed it open for me and made a gesture of invitation, his movements fluid and courteous. Candlelight spilled out from inside, warm and golden, falling across his face in a way that made him look almost like a normal creature capable of love, almost human in the flickering glow.

I stopped him just as he was about to turn away, my voice catching in my throat.

"Alexei."

He paused, moonlight casting shadows beneath his brow that made it impossible to read his expression, to see what thoughts moved behind those ancient eyes.

"What's wrong?"

I looked into his eyes—red, deep, like two wells that could never be fathomed, bottomless pits that had swallowed countless souls before mine. I summoned every ounce of acting ability I possessed, keeping my voice soft, tender, full of the dependence he expected from me.

"Good night. Thank you for coming to find me."

He was silent for a second, perhaps because I rarely addressed him by name, the informality catching him off guard.

Then he smiled, a gesture that felt like charity, like tossing an extra piece of candy to a pet that had performed its tricks well.

"Good night, Leah."

The door closed with a soft click.

His footsteps faded into the distance, growing fainter until they disappeared entirely.

I slid down along the door, my back pressed against the cold wood, my legs finally giving out beneath me as the adrenaline drained away.

Five minutes. That entire conversation had lasted no more than five minutes, but I felt as though I had just finished sparring with ten guards—my limbs were weak, my fingertips numb, and a sour, nauseating sensation churned in my stomach.

The castle was too large, the guards too numerous, and as a human among vampire nobility, I had no chance of fighting back, no hope of overpowering them through strength alone.

Footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor again—two people this time, their voices carrying through the still air. They stopped outside my door, and I held my breath, pressing myself flat against the wood.

"Hey," a young voice lowered somewhat, coming through a door, "this young lady... has the Prince been keeping her all these years to give her the Embrace?"

The Embrace.

My heart leaped violently. If it was the Embrace—becoming a Vampire—then it wasn't death, was it? Why couldn't it be?

"You're giving her too much credit." Another voice scoffed, older and carrying a casual cruelty that made my skin crawl. "A pure maiden, untainted blood—don't you understand what that means?"

"I always thought His Highness was raising her like an heir..." The young guard's voice changed, rising with disbelief and horror. "She's just... reserve food?"

"She's almost twenty, right at the best age to be food."

I forced myself to control every muscle in my body, refusing to let myself collapse into a trembling heap on the floor.

"But does she... know that she's going to be...?"

"What difference does it make whether she knows or not?"

The footsteps resumed, gradually fading away, and the last sentence drifted into my ears like smoke scattered by the wind, poisonous and final.

"Offering oneself to the master is an honor for humans, isn't it?"

Complete silence fell over the corridor once more.

I looked down at my hands in the pale moonlight—they were white, slender, with distinct knuckles that Alexei had once praised. He had said my hands were long enough to play the piano, and also suitable for wielding a dagger, though I hadn't understood why he thought that distinction mattered.

Food.

"Sacrifice" was too abstract. It sounded like a word from religious stories, like some sacred ritual accompanied by devotion and piety. But "food" was different. This word was concrete, crude, cruel, stripped of all pretense.

I wasn't his adopted daughter. I wasn't his heir. I wasn't his anything.

I was meat, raised until perfectly tender, ready to be served at the table.

Heartbreak was a luxury, something only safe people could afford, and I had never been safe, not for a single moment of my life.

Alexei had taught me many things—how to identify poisons, how to escape, how to hide, how to survive in a world that wanted me dead. He had taught me far too much for someone who was meant to be nothing more than an offering, skills that seemed contradictory to my supposed purpose.

The only thing he hadn't taught me was how not to love him, how to protect my heart from the inevitable devastation.

It didn't matter. Tonight, he had given me that final lesson himself, and I had learned it well.

He had also taught me something else, a saying he repeated often: when prey realizes it's trapped, there are only two choices—wait for death, or gnaw off your own leg and escape.

I walked toward the wardrobe and pulled open the bottom drawer, my hands steady despite the fear coursing through me. Inside lay a dark cloak and a dagger he had taught me to use, weapons I had never imagined I would need to turn against him.

Seven days. He had given me seven days before the sacrifice, seven days to prepare myself for death.

It would be enough.