Night - Eastern Border Road, Year 950

  The vampire patrol slowed, visibly stunned by the impossible sight before them. Wild humans—filthy, primitive, and completely unauthorized—standing voluntarily in the middle of their patrol route. The patrol captain recovered first, signaling his subordinates to maintain formation while he addressed this unprecedented situation.

  "What manner of resources are these?" one guard whispered, his aristocratic disdain evident as he studied the tribe's crude animal-skin garments and primitive bone ornaments. "They reek of forest and animal."

  "Silence," the captain commanded, observing the tribal leader's outstretched hands holding a stone-bded knife—a gesture clearly intended as submission rather than threat despite the weapon.

  The vampire patrol approached with predatory caution, surrounding the huddled tribe with practiced efficiency. Though the humans offered no resistance, several guards instinctively reached for restraints typically used on escaped blood farm resources.

  "We give blood," Cassandra repeated, her simple phrase the entirety of her negotiation strategy. "We ask life."

  The captain's expression revealed his disgust at their primitive state—matted hair crawling with vermin, bodies covered in dirt and crude tribal markings, the stench of unwashed humanity overwhelming to vampire senses. These were not the carefully maintained blood resources of civilization, but feral creatures more animal than human.

  "Captain," one guard ventured, clearly uncertain, "what protocol applies to... these? They bear no registration marks or farm designations."

  "I know there is no protocol," the captain interrupted, studying the tribal leader with cold calcution. "But I have specific orders regarding this... situation."

  His statement silenced the patrol's murmured objections. Though none said it aloud, all recognized the implications—someone had anticipated this impossible arrival. Orders regarding creatures whose existence should have been unknown.

  The captain activated his communication device, speaking in formal, measured tones: "Eastern patrol reporting unusual acquisition. Twenty-four unregistered humans located at sector seven. Awaiting transport as per special directive."

  The response came immediately: "Understood. Transport en route. Maintain isotion protocol."

  While they waited, the patrol established a perimeter around the tribe, whose wide-eyed terror at the vampires' inhuman speed and strength was barely contained. Several tribal members made superstitious gestures when guard captain used his communication device, clearly believing they witnessed magic rather than technology.

  Within minutes, an unmarked transport vehicle arrived—windowless and designed for discretion. The captain gestured toward it with aristocratic authority.

  "Resources will enter the transport," he commanded, using the standard term for human blood supplies.

  Cassandra understood the tone if not the words. She led her people toward the dark opening at the vehicle's rear, pausing only briefly to study the patrol captain's face. Something in her unflinching gaze—dignity despite her primitive state—caused momentary discomfort among the vampire guards.

  Once loaded, the transport departed immediately, its route carefully pnned to avoid public thoroughfares. The tribe huddled in darkness, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of mechanical movement without understanding its nature. To their stone-age perception, they were inside a moving cave guided by unknown powers.

  The journey sted less than an hour before the transport stopped. When the doors opened, the tribe found themselves in an underground receiving area, clinically designed for resource processing but currently empty of other personnel. This deviation from standard procedure—the absence of processing staff and medical evaluators typically present for new acquisitions—further confirmed the unusual nature of these orders.

  Guards efficiently escorted the tribe through dimly lit corridors, bypassing normal intake facilities. Their route, designed to avoid public areas, took them through service passageways until they reached an ornate door bearing the royal seal.

  The captain hesitated before this threshold, verifying his instructions one final time before proceeding. His communication device confirmed: "Bring them directly to the eastern chamber. No processing. No registration."

  As they entered a vishly appointed chamber, the tribal members gazed in stunned incomprehension at wealth beyond their ability to process—gleaming surfaces, intricately woven textiles, and artificial illumination brighter than any campfire.

  Their wonder was interrupted by the silent opening of an inner door.

  King Lucius entered alone, his ageless presence immediately commanding the room despite his ck of ceremonial regalia. The guards bowed with practiced synchronization, though their eyes revealed lingering confusion about this unprecedented audience.

  Lucius's gaze moved methodically across the primitive band before settling on Cassandra. Nothing in his expression revealed surprise or disgust—only calm assessment, as though their arrival was an expected appointment rather than an impossible anomaly.

  "Leave us," he commanded the guards, his tone permitting no question.

  When the doors closed behind the departing patrol, Lucius approached the tribal leader directly. He studied her face with the focused attention of someone confirming a long-held theory. For her part, Cassandra maintained remarkable composure, meeting his ancient eyes without the cowering submission typical of resources.

  "You come long way," he said simply, adapting his speech to match her primitive understanding.

  Cassandra's eyes widened slightly at his direct address, but she recovered quickly. "Tribe starve in forest. We come give blood for food."

  Lucius nodded, as though this exchange were entirely ordinary rather than unprecedented in vampire history. "Tribe get food. Sleep pce ready."

  The tribal members exchanged confused gnces at this easy acceptance of their proposal. After centuries of isotion and weeks of desperate journey, the simplicity of this transaction seemed suspicious even to their primitive understanding.

  "Why you help tribe?" Cassandra asked directly, her hand still gripping the ceremonial knife.

  Lucius's expression remained unreadable as he replied: "We talk trade. Good for you. Good for me."

  And so began negotiations between the Vampire King and the descendants of those who had once sworn to destroy his kind—conducted in private, away from the curious eyes of court nobles who would never understand their significance within a far greater design.