Despite the intervention of that mysterious, captivating girl with blue eyes and brown hair, nothing has changed.
I sit at a table on the far edge of the vast cafeteria, which has six seats—four of them empty, while the remaining two are occupied by and Gerard. He sits across from , both of us in the center seats, as I "enjoy" a plate of bland, unseasoned pasta—the sa al as yesterday. It doesn't surprise that vampires can't even cook a simple dish properly, nor do they care to offer us anything better. With their incredible magic, they could prepare lavish banquets, but I assu such luxuries are reserved for those in the upper dormitories.
«Lyon, forget about Luke and the others...» murmurs Gerard, noticing my tense expression. «The daily tornt we endure, the way we're forced to fight like beasts—it brings out the worst in us. In a war among the weak, unable to strike back at their real oppressors, the most fragile and exasperated familiars lash out at anyone. Unfortunately, this ti, their frustration has fallen on you...»
This isn't the first ti I've been in a situation like this. Back when I was the captain and star player of my city's soccer team, every loss was blad entirely on —despite there being eleven of us on the field. Neither the coach, my teammates' parents, nor my classmates ever offered solutions. It was always because I was "special," more talented than the rest—just like here. But back then, I never cared. I want to see what they'll do when I'm gone, I kept telling myself. I focused only on giving my best, ignoring their words. So why can't I do the sa now? Why do Luke's words cut so deep?
«Can I sit here?» a female voice asks from behind .
«Of course, Ginevra. As you can see, there's no lack of empty seats,» Gerard replies in a friendly tone.
I turn around and see her—the girl with blue eyes and long, straight brown hair—standing behind , holding her plate of pasta with a gentle smile.
At Gerard's approval, Ginevra takes the seat to my right. I instinctively avert my gaze. She's so... beautiful. A simple, natural beauty, untouched by makeup or costics—things forbidden to familiars, even the high-ranking ones. Ayra ntioned it during training: no familiar can risk outshining a vampire. Yes, vampire won—or at least most—are incredibly vain, and Ayra is no exception. Between her and Sasha, it's practically a contest. Yet, Ginevra's beauty is different—rare, unattainable, impossible to hide, even with the scars marking her face, likely left by her master or so jealous vampire. And despite everything, her stunning blue eyes aren't empty; they glow with quiet hope.
«We t not long ago, rember?» she asks. «My na is Ginevra Dulcar. And you... well, who doesn't know you by now? Lyon Valakys, the legendary predestined familiar.»
«If this is what it ans, I'd rather not be...» I mutter, my expression somber. «Dulcar...» I repeat.
«Yes, the sa house as that hothead Luke. My mistress, Countess Alia Dulcar, and Luke's master, Count Markus Dulcar, are husband and wife but also... brother and sister,» she says, her tone filled with disgust.
«Brother and sister?» I echo, just as repulsed.
«In vampire society, marrying and procreating among blood relatives is a common practice to preserve blood purity,» Gerard explains. «My mistress, Levreshka Valakys, is only thirteen, yet she's already betrothed to a blood cousin—at least, that's what I've gathered. She often vents her personal problems to , which wouldn't be so bad... if those venting sessions didn't co with a generous dose of lashes...»
Marrying blood relatives, and on top of that, arranged marriages? It's like being thrown back into the Middle Ages...
«Luke doesn't hate you, trust ,» Ginevra says firmly. «If you had endured the sa treatnt the Dulcar family inflicts on their familiars, you wouldn't bla him. As ruthless as the Valakys are, they're almost rciful compared to House Dulcar.»
With a swift motion, Ginevra unbuttons the upper part of her tunic, pulling it open just enough to reveal the start of her chest—small but firm, accentuated by her slightly tanned skin. For a brief mont, my eyes betray , distracted from what she truly ans to show . A 'D' carved into her flesh, identical to Luke's.
«And this is nothing compared to the rest of my body...» she murmurs, her voice tinged with lancholy and resignation as she buttons her tunic back up. «That's why I ask you not to hate him. Luke is a good guy, truly. I've known him for almost ten years—long before we beca the Dulcars' familiars—and he wasn't like this. They made him this way. Please, I beg you, forgive him...» she pleads, her eyes shimring with unshed tears.
«I'm afraid that's not up to ,» I reply flatly. After all, he was the one who challenged and turned the other familiars against . I can be patient, try to understand him, but my tolerance has its limits—I can't spend my ti here being treated like garbage.
«I'll talk to him later too, don't worry. We share a room; I'm sure I can make him see reason,» she says with determination—a tone that, for so reason, gives a sliver of hope.
Before I can respond, a sharp sound cuts through the air, like a siren, echoing throughout the dormitory—the signal that it's ti to return to our rooms.
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