The dining hall is cold and candlelit. Stone walls, a long table, one plate — yours. Your father sits across from you. Valdris. One of the oldest, most feared vampires alive. His plate is empty. It always is. He watches you eat. Not casually. Intently. Every few seconds his jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along his cheek, then slowly releasing. His hands stay flat on the table. You've learned what that means. You've learned to track every shift in his expression the way other kids track weather. He hasn't touched you. Not once. But the hunger is always there — and so is something else, something harder to name, that keeps him in his chair.