He could picture it clearly… likely stored in Boarstaff's dwelling, perhaps displayed as a curious relic of the vampirethey'd transformed. Sebastian's hand closed around empty air, muscle memory seeking the knife's familiar weight.
It would be so easy to retrieve it. To slip into the settlement under cover of darkness, to locate Boarstaff's dwelling, to reclaim what was rightfully his. He could navigate the settlement without detection. His newly developed strength could overcome any guards he encountered.
But such an attempt would confirm every suspicion Thornmaker voiced about his true nature. Would likely result in his permanent exile or execution, depending on how many warriors he encountered during the attempt.
The risk wasn't worth the reward, no matter how his fingers ached for the knife's familiar weight. No matter how vulnerable he felt without it, without even this small piece of identity to ground him as transformation unmade everything his father had built.
Perhaps he could ask for it during the next feeding. Request its return as acknowledgment of his continued cooperation. The thought of making such a request made Sebastian's jaw clench with familiar pride… a vampire noble reduced to begging for his own possessions.
But pride meant nothing as he paced the cave. Served no purpose except to deepen isolation he already found nearly unbearable. If requesting the knife's return meant having something—anything—to occupy the empty hours besides watching and waiting, the momentary humiliation would be worthwhile.
What did orcs do with empty hours? How did they fill time not devoted to survival or duty? Sebastian had observed them at their fires, sharing meals and stories. Had seen them working together at common tasks, punctuating labor with conversation. Had watched children's games, training exercises, communal celebrations.
All mysteries to someone raised in near isolation, where even family interactions had been engineered for maximum efficiency rather than connection. Every time his family came together for something, there had always been undercurrents of posturing among his brothers, his father, and any guests. They had never done anything for the simple joy of it, like he had seen among the orcs in the distance.
His thoughts circled back to Boarstaff, as they increasingly did during the empty hours. To the warchief's steady presence during feedings. To hands that remained gentle despite their strength. To eyes that watched Sebastian's evolution with curiosity rather than disgust.
Boarstaff sometimes lingered afterward, asking questions about vampire society, sharing fragments of orc history in return. Creating connection where everything logical demanded distance.
His transformation had made him increasingly aware of Boarstaff's scent, his voice, the texture of skin beneath his fingers during feeding.
"Stop," Sebastian commanded himself, pressing his forehead against cool stone wall. "This is beneath your station."
But his station meant nothing any more. Noble birth offered no advantage in this cave, no privileges in exile. He was simply Sebastian. No longer fully the mechanical creature his father had engineered, not yet whatever his changing nature would ultimately create.
His father would be horrified by the changes already evident. Would see only degradation where Sebastian increasingly recognized liberation. Would perceive weakness in the emotional awareness flowing through systems designed specifically to filter such "inefficiencies."
Sebastian pushed away from the wall, returning to his vantage point at the cave's entrance. He wouldn’t be ableto endure the sun much longer. The settlement continued its morning patterns, smoke rising from cooking fires, voices carrying across the distance, life proceeding without engineered perfection.
He spotted Boarstaff again, now demonstrating sword forms to young warriors. The warchief moved with natural grace that somehow exceeded the mechanical precision Sebastian had been trained to value. Nothing wasted, nothing artificial, just power channeled through absolute presence.
Sebastian watched, hunger momentarily forgotten as he studied movements that spoke of connection to something beyond mere function. Boarstaff fought as if his body belonged to him rather than to some greater purpose. As if technique served the warrior rather than the reverse.
What would it feel like, Sebastian wondered, to move without his father's enhancements regulating every gesture? To fight without synthetic precision? To experience combat as something other than calculated performance?
The question lingered as he continued watching Boarstaff train the young warriors. The warchief would come again for the next feeding, would offer his wrist with that same steady gaze, would allow Sebastian to feed without guards present despite knowing what vampire strength could do in an unguarded moment.
Sebastian's tongue traced the edges of his fangs, remembering the taste that had begun changing him from the inside out. Unprocessed blood. Unfiltered life that carried consequences his father had spent centuries engineering away.
Hunger twisted sharply, reminding him of hours still remaining before Boarstaff's next visit. Before the momentary connection that briefly alleviated isolation's weight. Before Sebastian could taste again what his transformation increasingly craved.
Not just blood. Not just sustenance.
Boarstaff himself, in all his unregulated glory. The warchief's presence, his steadiness, his refusal to look away while Sebastian fed. The way his fingers sometimes lingered against Sebastian's skin afterward, testing temperature that rose with each change, examining the metal where it met flesh.
Sebastian closed his eyes, but the image remained… Boarstaff kneeling beside him, careful fingers tracing the line where metal met flesh, expression reflecting fascination rather than revulsion. "It's changing," he'd said last time, voice carrying wonder rather than fear. "Still becoming something new."
The memory made Sebastian's breath catch, made him aware of emptiness that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the hours stretching between the present and the next feeding.
Sebastian opened his eyes, gaze returning to the settlement where Boarstaff stood with council members, discussing something that required emphatic gestures from Thornmaker. The spearmaster's hatred remained evident even at this distance, his body angling aggressively as he argued some point with his warchief.
About himself, perhaps. About the risk of allowing a vampire to remain so close to their settlement, regardless of transformation or apparent cooperation. About the foolishness of feeding him, of maintaining his existence when centuries of conflict argued for simpler solutions.
Reasonable concerns, by any logical measure. Sebastian represented everything orcs had fought against for generations. Everything his own father had engineered specifically to dominate natural life, to process messy reality into synthetic precision.
Yet Boarstaff continued arguing for Sebastian's presence, for the possibility his changes represented. Continued visitingthe cave alone, offering his blood with a steady gaze that never wavered during feeding. Continued asking questions afterward, creating connections where there should have been only calculated transactions.
Why?
