"If the immortal were to conquer what would stop them from sympathizing with the mortal?"
***
The word 'faith' didn't exist in the fragmented mind of humans.
The idea was a lost memory, buried deep beneath the layers of failed hope.
They stopped deceiving themselves of faith - a feeling that left them with motivation - a hope to be saved from the monsters that escaped the shadows.
The sad truth was there was no faith, only evil.
Although this evil looked human, they never mistook them for one. They had sharp teeth and red eyes with the strength and speed of something unnatural.
Humans used to own the earth but that didn't seem to be the case anymore.
***
Marciella Foure the Second was born into a decently wealthy family who was fairly noticed by the upper class. She was the daughter of a Duke and Duchess, one of few human families who were trusted to keep the others in line.
She never wanted to think about what would happen to them if her father ever disobeyed one of the Vampire Lords. Would they be stripped of their title and thrown into the trenches with the rest of the human population? Or would they be drained of blood and left a dead corpse to rot?
The image of either one was unpleasant, however, they were also a far stretch from where they were. For years her father and mother had been able to keep themselves alive.
In fact, her father seemed to try his best to keep the Vampire Lords happy, a kiss ass if you will.
And with that being said, they received gifts and recognition from other Lords. Marci didn't have to scour for food or clothes or have to worry where she would be sleeping for the night to come or whether she'd be safe.
Her mother and father berated her to be thankful, to appreciate the freedom and praise they have because others didn't have that type of luxury. Not many can say that they have brunch with Nicholas Beira, Lord of the east Island or something as simple as having a roof over their heads.
Not that she ever enjoyed brunch with the scary vampire. All he did was glare at her like she did something wrong. Which she didn't, because she did what her father told her to do. Which was to sit down and look pretty.
Up in her bed chamber, Marci sat in front of a wooden cabinet with a large mirror.
The red tint to the furniture matched those of her four poster bed sets, side tables, and walls. The royal blue carpet was spare of any lint, and the stones on her floor had been polished.
It was perfect, void of any mess.
Marci stared at the white design on her fingernails. The base was a light pink, so very pink. Resisting the urge to scratch the paint off, she tore her gaze away from them and looked at the mirror.
She avoided her reflection. She wasn't ready to see herself in the dress her mother chose for her. Instead, she looked at the handmaid behind her.
The contrast between them was significantly obvious.
It was so quiet that her ears began to ring.
The handmaid wore a white and brown dress, the apron tied around her waist was large enough to cover the yellow stain on the front.
Marci frowned.
The flat shoes on her feet were surely uncomfortable to walk in all day.
Whereas Marci sat in her wooden chair with a silver necklace and a pink gown. White lace was stitched into the neckline, and was the top layer of her skirt.
Zero point one percent
0.1%
of the current human population had it as good as Marci did.
Although the Duke and Duchess were thankful, they seized every chance and took advantage.
Her father, Duke Marcus Foure is a middle aged man who took great pride in where he stood in ranks. He was boastful, and talked about everything he felt was worth rubbing into the faces of others. He aimed to create a monster with green envy.
He was a short and stubby man with a balding head and fat fingers that quickly grabbed at anything tasteful. He may be a short man but he made it seem like his stomach could go for miles.
But what Marci knew most about her father was that he was greedy.
Marci frowned, but was her mother Duchess Marciella Foure the First any better?
Marciella the First, as she liked to be called, liked her shiny jewelry. Anything that glittered and gleamed was something she strived to get.
Marciella wasn't happy with her current life. She always wanted more, no matter what it was, and her status as Duchess wasn't enough. Marciella didn't hide the fact either.
Whenever she drank a little too much at night, she goes on a tangent, one that marked Marci as the target.
Would Marciella the First have still been able to climb up to a Lord's wife if she wasn't born?
Maybe even a Mistress because a wife was too far away for her to get her hands on.
However, who knew at this point, with the way the woman schemed, she may have been able to do it.
Marci was a mistake, is what her mother would tell her in her drunken tangent.
Sometimes Marci forced herself to believe that her mother didn't mean it. Or that she didn't know that she was talking to her daughter when she spewed everything she hated about her.
If anyone was more greedy than her father, it was her mother.
She had it fairly easy, that's what Marci keeps trying to tell herself.
'Appreciate what you have.' Her mothers spiteful words weren't sincere, it was mocking.
Marci sucked in a breath and forced her gaze to her own reflection. For the first time that morning since sitting in front of it, she took herself in.
The dress was perfect in every way, it hugged her chest, making her breasts look bigger than they were. It was only when the tight bodice met her hips did it flare out in multiple layers of skirts.
Marci must look primp and proper.
Marci must be the perfect Lady.
Marci must always wear dresses and matchings to go with it.
For instance, pink socks, pink slipper heels, and a pink bow.
She scowled at the bow clip on her head.
"Am I twelve?" Marci asked. She tilted her head, eyeing the pink ribbon holding back her black hair.
"No, milady," The handmaid, Lea, answered her. "You are twenty-one moons. What brings about this silly question?"
She met Lea's gaze through the mirror. Lea was her new Handmaiden.
The last one was caught with Duke Marcus in a compromising position by Duchess Marciella the First. One that turned the handmaiden into an unwanted mistress.
She was never seen again after that.
And no one was brave enough to ask about her.
"Why must mother insist on me wearing bows? And so much pink, as well!" Marci sighed in defeat. "She disowns me at night and controls me during the day, I do not understand." She murmured sadly.
"Please sit up, milady." Lea pushed her shoulder blades and Marci straightened her back, sitting up in the wooden chair.
Marci didn't care if Lea didn't respond to her rant. She would eventually if she stayed long enough, or she may stay like this for as long as she was here, afraid that if she said something she wasn't supposed to, she'd end up like the last handmaiden.
"If you don't sleep with my father, you should be fine." Marci said her thoughts aloud. Her gaze found Lea's in the mirror again and she smiled at how red she turned. The horror in her eyes and the way her lips peeled back in shock made Marci laugh.
"Do beg my pardon, my Lady, but your father is hardly my type." Lea frowned, ears matching the red in her cheeks.
"Oh, you have a type do you?" Marci teased her, hands crossing over the cabinet, "and do tell about this type of yours."
With the last handmaiden, Marci couldn't get much girl talk. She was an older woman who didn't like sharing her life stories, whether it involved the forbidden act of intercourse before marriage or not. She was a bland woman. Not one for gossip.
Lea, so far was.
"My type. . ." Lea trailed as she stopped brushing her hair. "Well, he has to be tall." She started, a small smile on her face. "And he has to be strong. He has to be a warrior." She continued. "He must have dark hair and eyes, with a beautiful smile."
"It sounds like you've already found your type." Marci smiled back at her.
"Yes, my Lady. However he is back home. And I am here." Lea frowned. She stepped back, cutting off their conversation.
Marci sighed and turned her gaze out the window.
When she saw the front gates to the estate open, she frowned.
Two black horses trotted forward, pulling a black carriage with gold flowers painted onto the doors.
It was similar to the one that came on rare occasions, only when Lord Nicholas came to give her father orders.
Except Lord Nicholas had brown horses, not black ones.
And his carriage wasn't painted with gold flowers, but gold swirls.
"What other Lord would come here?" Marci asked, her brows pulling down into a frown. "I don't remember father mentioning us having guests."
She watched as the horses trotted to a halt in front of the stairs that lead to the estate.
Lea followed her gaze, "I do not know, my Lady. I'm not allowed to know such information."
