Morning light spilled through the open balcony doors in pale crimson ribbons, staining the silk curtains and velvet furniture with the same strange red glow that filled the sky outside. The city below had not fully awakened yet. Sounds drifted upward in soft fragments instead of the constant noise from the night before, distant wagon wheels against stone, muffled voices, music still lingering somewhere far below like the last breaths of a dream refusing to end.
Bekah woke slowly inside that warmth.
For a few seconds she did not move at all. Her body felt heavy in an unfamiliar but pleasant way, relaxed deeper than she could remember feeling in years. The velvet beneath her cheek was soft, one of her legs tangled loosely in blankets she did not remember pulling over herself, and there was warmth against her back. Real warmth. Steady. Breathing.
Mircalla.
The memory of the night before rushed back all at once, the wine, the couch, the kisses, the way Mircalla’s hands had moved with such impossible confidence against her skin like she had always known exactly where to touch someone to make them melt.
Bekah swallowed.
Her face grew warm immediately.
The dreams had not helped.
God, the dreams had absolutely not helped.
They clung to her in hazy flashes that made her stomach tighten every time she remembered them too clearly. Mircalla’s lips against her throat. Her voice in Bekah’s ear. Fingers brushing beneath clothing. The feeling of being held down into velvet cushions while candlelight flickered across pale skin and dark hair. None of it fully explicit, none of it entirely coherent, but emotional enough that Bekah woke up aching with a kind of restless heat she had never experienced before.
And somehow that was the worst part.
Because it was not just physical.
She wanted closeness.
She wanted Mircalla to touch her again.
Bekah shifted slightly against the couch and immediately regretted it because the movement pressed her more firmly back against the woman behind her. A soft arm rested loosely around her waist now, warm and possessive without force, and Bekah’s heart stumbled embarrassingly hard at the realization.
Mircalla was still asleep.
Or at least she looked asleep.
Bekah carefully turned her head just enough to look at her.
Beautiful was honestly becoming an insufficient word.
Morning light spilled across Mircalla’s face softly, illuminating the smooth curve of her cheek and the dark lashes resting against pale skin. Without the heavier atmosphere of the night before, without the wine and music and flickering candles, she somehow looked even more unreal now. Younger in some ways. More peaceful. Her dark hair spilled loosely across the couch cushions and Bekah’s shoulder, slightly messy from sleep, and the sight of it stirred something embarrassingly affectionate inside Bekah’s chest.
Bekah stared longer than she should have.
Her eyes drifted lower before she could stop them. Mircalla’s dark bodice had loosened slightly during the night, exposing more pale skin along her collarbone and chest than before, and Bekah immediately looked away again, horrified by herself.
Oh my god.
She covered part of her face with one hand.
What was wrong with her?
It felt like her brain had stopped functioning normally somewhere around the third kiss last night and never fully recovered.
A quiet laugh came from behind her.
Bekah froze.
“You’re very loud when you panic internally,” Mircalla murmured sleepily.
Bekah’s face burned.
“I wasn’t panicking.”
“You absolutely were.”
Mircalla shifted behind her, moving closer instead of farther away, and Bekah felt warm lips brush lazily against the back of her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt. The contact was light, barely there, but it sent a pulse of heat straight through her body hard enough to make her tense.
Mircalla noticed that too.
Of course she did.
“You’re warmer this morning,” she said softly.
Bekah stared at the far wall. “I think this game did something weird to my hormones.”
Mircalla laughed quietly against her shoulder, and Bekah hated how much she liked the sound now.
“Is that what we’re blaming?”
“Yes.”
“A tragedy,” Mircalla whispered dramatically before kissing her shoulder again.
Bekah closed her eyes briefly.
This was dangerous.
Not because Mircalla was forcing anything. That would honestly be easier to understand. The dangerous part was that Bekah wanted more now. The kisses last night had not satisfied anything. They had only made her aware of things she had never really thought about before, how touch could linger in your body afterward, how someone’s voice could replay in your head hours later and still make your chest tighten.
And now she kept thinking about sex.
Not abstractly.
Not academically.
Actually thinking about it.
With Mircalla.
Bekah wanted to crawl under the couch and die from embarrassment.
“Thinking very hard again,” Mircalla murmured.
Bekah groaned softly into her hand.
“That obvious?”
“You’ve been staring at the same curtain for almost two minutes.”
Bekah rolled onto her back finally, mostly because continuing to hide felt childish. Mircalla propped herself slightly against the couch beside her, one arm bent beneath her head as she watched Bekah with lazy amusement. In daylight the contrast between them somehow felt even sharper. Bekah still wore yesterday’s practical clothing, though wrinkled now from sleeping in them, while Mircalla looked effortless despite clearly having just woken up.
It was unfair.
“So,” Mircalla asked lightly, “what terrible thing has your mind convinced you to worry about this morning?”
Bekah hesitated.
Then, against all survival instincts, she answered honestly.
“…what sex feels like in the game.”
Mircalla blinked once.
Then laughed.
Not cruelly.
Not mockingly.
Warmly.
Bekah immediately regretted existing.
“I knew I shouldn’t have said that out loud.”
“No, darling,” Mircalla said through lingering laughter, “I’m glad you did.”
Bekah covered her eyes with one arm. “Please let me die.”
“That can probably be arranged later.”
Bekah peeked at her through her fingers.
Mircalla’s smile widened slightly.
“You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.”
“That is not helping.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
Mircalla leaned closer then, slowly enough that Bekah had time to react if she wanted to, but she didn’t. She stayed exactly where she was while Mircalla brushed loose hair back from her forehead and kissed her softly again.
And immediately Bekah wanted more.
That was the horrifying part.
The kiss barely lasted a few seconds before Mircalla pulled away again, but Bekah felt the absence instantly. Her body reacted before her mind did, a small unconscious movement forward, like she had almost followed the kiss when it disappeared.
Mircalla noticed.
Something satisfied flickered briefly through her expression.
Then she stood.
Just like that.
Bekah stared up at her in confusion while Mircalla stretched lazily, dark fabric shifting against pale skin as morning light slid across her body.
“We should get moving,” Mircalla said casually.
Bekah blinked.
“…what?”
“You wanted to get stronger.”
“Oh.”
That hit harder than it should have.
Bekah sat up slowly while trying not to look disappointed enough for Mircalla to notice.
She failed.
Mircalla smiled knowingly but said nothing.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur Bekah would later realize had been carefully orchestrated.
Mircalla took her through the city slowly instead of directly, keeping close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally as they walked crowded streets. She showed Bekah markets, training grounds, weapon stalls, old cathedrals converted into player hubs. Everywhere they went people seemed drawn toward Mircalla naturally. Shopkeepers smiled too quickly at her. Guards stepped aside without realizing it. Even hostile-looking players softened after speaking to her for only a few moments.
And every single time, Mircalla returned her attention back to Bekah afterward like none of those other people mattered.
It was intoxicating.
By midday Bekah had stopped wondering why she felt so attached already and started simply accepting that she did.
Mircalla trained her in a private courtyard behind the brothel later that afternoon. Not combat exactly. More movement. Positioning. Awareness. The way to hold a blade properly. The way to move your weight before striking.
But Mircalla stayed close while teaching her.
Too close.
Her hands adjusted Bekah’s posture from behind, fingers sliding along her waist while correcting balance. Her voice stayed low and warm near Bekah’s ear whenever she explained something. Every small success earned soft praise that made Bekah embarrassingly eager to hear more.
“Good.”
“There you are.”
“Much better.”
“My clever girl.”
Each one landed harder than it should have.
And every time Mircalla kissed her afterward, brief little rewards between lessons, Bekah felt herself slipping farther under her spell.
By evening she wanted the kisses more than the training.
Which was probably exactly the point.
The realization struck Bekah while sitting beside Mircalla again later that night in the private room upstairs, candlelight flickering softly around them while the city glowed red beyond the balcony doors.
“The serum,” Bekah said suddenly.
Mircalla glanced sideways at her. “Hm?”
“You never gave it to me.”
Mircalla smiled faintly into her wine glass.
“…ah.”
Bekah narrowed her eyes slightly.
“There isn’t a serum, is there?”
Mircalla laughed softly.
“No.”
Bekah stared at her for a moment.
Oddly enough, she wasn’t actually angry.
Maybe she should have been.
But instead it just made Mircalla feel even more mysterious somehow, another layer she could not quite peel back no matter how badly she wanted to understand her.
“…that’s honestly kind of annoying,” Bekah admitted.
“I know.”
“You lied to me.”
“I did.”
Bekah sighed dramatically against the couch cushion. “I can’t believe I fell for vampire steroids.”
Mircalla nearly choked laughing.
Bekah smiled despite herself.
But the smile faded after a moment.
“…I still want to get stronger,” she said quietly.
Mircalla’s amusement softened.
“I know.”
For a second something unreadable passed through her expression. Then she stood and crossed slowly toward a cabinet near the far wall.
When she returned, she carried a blade.
Beautiful.
Silver.
The metal gleamed strangely in candlelight, etched with thin dark markings Bekah did not recognize.
Mircalla placed it carefully into Bekah’s hands.
The weight surprised her.
“…what is this?”
Mircalla looked at her calmly.
“Kill me.”
The room went silent.
Something snapped instantly inside Bekah’s chest. Not fully breaking the charm, but cracking it wide enough that cold reality rushed violently back in around the edges.
“…what?”
Mircalla knelt in front of her now, hands gently folding around Bekah’s fingers where they gripped the blade.
“Do you trust me?” she asked softly.
Bekah looked at her.
Really looked at her.
And suddenly things shifted.
The faint color in Mircalla’s cheeks faded first, pale skin losing its illusion of warmth. Her teeth sharpened slightly as she smiled. Then the name above her head flickered.
Mircalla
changed into
Camilla ☬
The same strange symbol Erica had seen.
The same impossible presence.
“I’m a vampire,” she said gently.
Bekah stared.
Her thoughts should have screamed danger.
Enemy.
Monster.
Run.
Instead all that came out was:
“…oh.”
Camilla laughed softly and took her hand.
“I see that it is not a problem then, my love.”
The words wrapped around Bekah like silk.
And horrifyingly, they worked.
Because she didn’t want them to stop working.
Camilla brushed her thumb across Bekah’s knuckles slowly. “My underlings speak often about the power gained from a first kill,” she said softly. “Especially when the one slain is powerful. I have never truly died before, and I find myself curious.”
Bekah stared at her.
“You want me to kill you.”
“I want you to become stronger.”
“That’s insane.”
“Probably.”
Bekah shook her head immediately, panic rising now. “No. No, absolutely not.”
Camilla leaned closer and kissed her softly before Bekah could spiral fully into fear.
“I will come back,” she whispered against her lips. “Within the day. I promise.”
Bekah’s eyes burned suddenly.
“I can’t do that.”
“You can.”
“I’ve never…” Her voice broke. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”
Camilla’s hands slid gently along her face, holding her carefully like something precious.
“My brave girl,” she murmured. “You think too kindly for this world.”
Bekah started crying.
Not fully.
Just enough tears to blur her vision while panic and affection tore her apart simultaneously.
“Please,” she whispered. “Isn’t there another way?”
Camilla kissed her again, slower this time.
“No.”
Then softer:
“And when it is done, drink my blood.”
Bekah stared at her in horror.
“What… why?”
Camilla smiled faintly, ancient eyes impossibly warm.
“Because I wish to be with you for all eternity.” Her fingers brushed Bekah’s trembling lips. “Do you not wish the same?”
The answer should have been no.
Bekah knew that.
But she wanted it to be yes so badly her chest hurt.
Because this was a game.
Because vampires weren’t real.
Because if becoming like Camilla meant staying beside her forever…
Then of course she wanted that.
Camilla guided her gently toward the couch.
Only now did Bekah notice the grooves hidden beneath the velvet cushions. Small channels carved subtly into the frame beneath them, leading downward into a dark trough-like bowl resting below.
Her stomach twisted.
She really is a vampire.
Camilla lay back slowly against the couch, dark hair spilling across velvet while candlelight danced across pale skin. Beautiful even now. Especially now.
“If I do not revive,” Camilla said softly, “then you may hate me forever.”
Bekah gripped the blade harder.
But Camilla smiled.
“And if I do revive… then you will never lose me.”
Bekah hovered over her, shaking violently now.
The silver blade trembled above Camilla’s chest.
“Please…” Bekah whispered through tears. “Please don’t make me do this.”
“My love,” Camilla whispered warmly. “Do it.”
Bekah closed her eyes and drove the blade down.
The resistance shocked her.
The feeling.
The sound.
Camilla gasped sharply beneath her as blood burst instantly around the wound, dark red against silver and velvet.
Bekah recoiled in horror.
The damage number floated upward.
-17
Only seventeen.
“Oh god—”
“It’s alright,” Camilla breathed weakly. “The blade is enchanted. Anti-vampire silver.” Her hand found Bekah’s wrist gently, guiding the blade deeper against her chest. “Leave it there.”
Bekah sobbed openly now.
The health bar began dropping slowly.
Camilla ☬
HP: 212,842 → 212,801
“Your so brave, Bekah,” Camilla whispered.
The health continued falling.
“You’re doing wonderfully.”
Lower.
“My beautiful girl.”
Lower.
“I’m so lucky I found you.”
Bekah cried harder with every word.
Because Camilla sounded sincere.
The blood continued pooling slowly beneath the couch into the waiting bowl below while the health bar steadily darkened.
Camilla ☬
HP: 43,441 → 11,903 → 877 → 201
Camilla’s breathing weakened.
But her eyes never left Bekah.
“You are going to become something extraordinary,” she whispered.
Then finally—
Camilla ☬
HP: 0
The health bar blackened.
Her eyes closed.
And the room exploded with notifications.
━━━━━━━
LEVEL UP
×341
━━━━━━━
━━━━━━━
TITLE EARNED
PROGENITOR SLAYER
All stats ×2
Lower-tier vampires fear your presence.
Ability gained: Impaler
Shock the nervous system of any impaled enemy.
━━━━━━━
━━━━━━━
FIRST KILL REWARD
GOD INCARNATE HUNTER
Abilities Gained:
+50% Strength
+1000% Luck
People of the cloth recognize you as an Avatar of God.
Trait Gained:
BLOODLINE ENDER
Lower-tier slain vampires do not respawn.
━━━━━━━
Bekah stared at the notifications in disbelief.
Level 342.
From level 1.
That wasn’t progression.
That was impossible.
There was no way the game intended this.
Her gaze slowly lowered back toward Camilla’s body.
Please be okay.
Then she looked at the blood.
The blood of the woman she loved.
She made a promise.
Even if becoming a vampire was real somehow, she could still become a good one. As long as she stayed with Camilla.
Slowly, trembling, Bekah dipped her fingers into the blood and brought them to her lips.
Sweet.
Not metallic.
Not disgusting.
Sweet like candy and wine and something ancient she had no comparison for.
Bekah stared at the bowl beneath the couch.
And suddenly the idea of anyone else tasting her felt unbearable.
She lifted the bowl carefully.
Then drank.
The blood was warm.
Too warm.
And as it slid down her throat, her massive new health bar suddenly began dropping.
Fast.
Bekah coughed violently, dropping the bowl as pain erupted through her body all at once. She collapsed against the floor convulsing, muscles locking while her vision blurred violently red.
Her health plummeted.
HP: 14,882 → 9,201 → 4,008 → 781 → 0
Notifications exploded across her vision again.
━━━━━━━
TITLE GAINED
WIFE OF PROGENITOR CAMILLA
When in party with partner gain 10% of partner’s stats.
Partners may not harm one another.
━━━━━━━
Then finally—
━━━━━━━
YOU HAVE DIED
Time Until Respawn:
11:59:21
━━━━━━━