"Arghhhhhh..." A terror-filled scream rose from the depths of the century-old dungeon, followed by the tantalizing smell of blood, which could make any vampire's core tremble with hunger.
"Please... please... I've said everything I know! Please... arghhhhhhhhhh," another tore through the air, loud enough to shake the very earth.
Drakel's lips trembled, his eyes filled with terror as he begged the trio in front of him. He would have knelt and kissed their feet if he could, but his hands were chained to a cross—numb, battered, and drained. After enduring countless wounds and near-death bloodletting, all he could do was use the last vestiges of his strength to plead for mercy.
"Please… please…please…" he rasped, his voice hoarse and mingled with coughs from his parched throat, which hadn't tasted water in three days. He wasn't sure he would survive until dusk.
"Please…"
"Shut up, you worm!" one of the vampires bellowed, his glowing red eyes glaring with greed as he eyed Drakel like a coveted snack. "You are not to speak unless asked!"
The urge to speak twitched in Drakel's body, to plead for mercy, but the obedience beaten into him forced him to keep silent.
He wished desperately for death—a quick, merciful end. What he had endured here made him forget about the word freedom. Because; here is hell. This level of torment was beyond anything he could comprehend. He had no answers to give, no secrets left untold. All he wanted was freedom from these dark creatures whose legends had proven to be terrifyingly accurate: a group of evil, bloodthirsty bastards.
He had been one of Lord Xanthar's men, a trusted confidant privy to some secrets, but nothing like they were asking.
"Well, well, Veros, why are you oppressing our guest? Look at how frightened he is." A soft, seductive voice floated into the dungeon, followed by the rhythmic clack of heels.
Thump, thump, thump.
Drakel couldn't tell if the sound was his own frantic heartbeat or the echo of her heels against the stone floor.
The sweat on Drakel's face poured down like a waterfall of despair.
She was beautiful—stunning enough to make anyone's heart race and their breath catch. Her alabaster skin gleamed like a jewel in the darkness, her black hair cascading down to her waist. Her figure was so perfectly curved it could make even her own gender envious. But her beauty was a trap, and her obsidian eyes glittered with the kind of malice that made Drakel question his sanity.
From what he knew, a vampire's eyes were always a bright shade of red. The darker the red, the hungrier they were. But her black eyes? They reflected an entirely different hunger—something far worse.
Drakel knew her too well. She had been his tormentor from the moment he was brought here. Every single day, she fed on him, draining his blood to the brink of death. She made him wished that dragons like him didn't have their high regenerating ability. Right now, that thing is a curse.
Every morning, at precisely 9 a.m., she would sink her fangs into his neck and drink deeply. At noon, she would return for her lunch, and she would come for her dinner at night.
She always told him how much she loved his blood—dragon blood—and her devilish voice would go on, telling him with tales of her evil experiments. She claimed she wanted to see how long a dragon could survive without food or rest. She also promised that when he was on the verge of death, she would keep him alive, just so she could keep feeding on him.
The only thing he was thankful for was her declaration that he was hers alone. The other vampires weren't allowed to drink from him, though they were free to torment him in other ways—whipping, clawing, and torturing him for sport.
"Lady Lilith," the vampires said in unison, their previously cold expressions now respectful as they bowed their heads.
"Rise, boys. No need for formalities," she said, her tone light and playful.
"Yes, My Lady."
Lilith Bludd perched on the seat brought over by one of her men, crossing her legs elegantly. The expanse of her bare skin was impossibly seductive, yet none of the vampires dared look at her directly, their eyes fixed on the floor as they awaited her orders.
"How are you, my sweet guest?" she asked, winking at Drakel. Her smile widened as her gaze lingered on his wounds. "Did you miss me?"
"L-Lady Lilith," Drakel croaked, his voice trembling. His eyes were filled with desperation. "Please, I beg you. Let me go. I've told you everything I know. I have nothing left to give, nothing to say again."
"Is that so?" she murmured, raising an eyebrow.
Drakel nodded frantically, hope flickering in his heart.
She remained silent for a moment, her gaze fixed on him, and he held his breath. His pulse raced with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Finally, she stood and walked toward him.
Her cold fingers cupped his chin, tilting his face upward. Her obsidian eyes locked onto his. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.
"Absolutely, my Lady," he whispered.
"I suppose you might be right," she mused, her tone deceptively casual. "But why do I feel like you're forgetting something? Something very important…"
Drakel opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off.
"And you know," she continued, her voice dripping with malice, "my intuition is always right. So, I'm here to help you remember. To help you think of whatever crucial information you've conveniently forgotten to share."
Drakel felt tears welling up in his eyes. A grown man, broken and desperate, he wanted to cry. He had already revealed secrets he never thought he'd speak of—petty matters, confidential plans, and even the scandalous truth about the bastard child of the previous dragon lord, a hybrid, an abomination born of a dragon and a vampire.