We lived in the shadow of the castle. It was never as simple as leaving; the Count’s territory stretched for miles and miles, and his soldiers roamed, looking for those who tried to escape. And besides, why should we have to leave? Our families were here, our homes, our temples. So we stayed, and we toiled, and we did our best to keep living when our fathers and mothers and children disappeared into the castle, never to be seen again.

This place was our home, but its streets were paved with our gravestones. How can anyone have any autonomy in a place like that? How can one celebrate the little miracles, like the birth of children, when so many were born half-vampire, unwillingly? Our stores were ransacked. Our doctors were prohibited from treating us. Our names were denied.

Even in moments of peace, when the Count and his servants slept, there was fear. We prayed in our temples and called each other the names we chose, but it all came as whispers. We all knew, even when we danced and sang and loved and celebrated, that it could come to an end at any point. Neighbours would turn in neighbours. The Count would grow hungry again. Every other land turned a blind eye to our life as livestock, until the ambitions of our tyrant turned to them.