_*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5">The second night after receiving the summons, Orlov stood in what remained of his once-magnificent bathing chamber. Centuries ago, this room had featured marble imported from distant human quarries, gold-pted fixtures, and a sunken bath rge enough for six humans to attend him simultaneously. Now, a cracked stone basin collected rainwater from a hole in the ceiling, the marble long sold, the gold fixtures pried from the walls decades earlier to purchase a week's worth of blood.

  "Must be presentable," he muttered, dipping yellowed fingers into the stagnant water. "An Archduke must maintain appearances at all times."

  He had spent hours searching the abandoned chambers of his citadel for anything that might help restore a sembnce of dignity. From the scattered remnants of his former existence, he had collected a rusted straight razor missing half its bde, a fragment of soap calcified to near-stone, and a tattered cloth that might once have been a towel. These meager implements y arranged with pathetic precision beside the basin, a parody of the eborate grooming rituals that had once required a dozen servants.

  His reflection rippled in the dark water as he leaned forward. Even distorted by the uneven surface, the image was shocking. The animal blood had left indelible signs on his once-aristocratic features. He had a vague recollection of maintaining his appearance through purchased human blood, paid for by selling his nds and possessions piece by piece. But that time was lost in the fog of his memory—when had the st castle been sold? When had he consumed the final vial of proper blood? He couldn't recall. The evidence of his long fall was undeniable: jaundiced skin, bckened gums, yellowed eyes. No amount of washing could remove these marks of his descent from proud Archduke to feral survivor.

  "Appearances separate nobility from commonality," he recited mechanically, quoting from his own infamous treatise on vampire dignity. "The first gnce must confirm aristocratic heritage through immacute presentation."

  He picked up the fragment of soap, turning it over in his cwed hands as though it were an artifact from another civilization. In a sense, it was—a relic from his previous existence when such basic necessities had been so abundant as to be beneath notice. Now this single piece represented his only hope of removing decades of accumuted filth.

  Orlov began the arduous process of attempting to clean himself. The soap barely thered in the cold water, leaving greasy streaks rather than cleansing foam. He scrubbed frantically at his face and hands, the areas that would be most visible during the tribunal. The water quickly turned a murky brown, but the stains on his skin remained rgely untouched, too deeply ingrained to be removed by such crude methods.

  "Unacceptable," he hissed, examining his still-filthy hands. "Utterly unacceptable."

  A memory surfaced unbidden—himself seated in judgment of a minor noble sometime in the distant past, when his power was absolute. The unfortunate Baron had appeared before him with a barely perceptible stain on his otherwise immacute cravat. Orlov had stripped him of nds and title on the spot, decring him "unfit for aristocratic designation due to insufficient attention to fundamental appearance standards."

  The irony was not lost on him, even in his deteriorated mental state.

  After an hour of futile scrubbing, he turned his attention to his matted hair. The broken comb he had found snapped further as he attempted to draw it through the tangled nest. Clumps came away in his hands, revealing patches where the hair had thinned to near baldness—another sign of prolonged animal blood consumption. No aristocratic styling would be possible with what remained.

  "The face," he muttered, picking up the rusted razor. "The face at least must be presentable."

  With trembling hands, he attempted to shave the patchy gray stubble that had grown unchecked for... how long? He couldn't remember his st proper grooming. When had the servants disappeared? When had he st looked like an Archduke? The timeline was lost in the haze of his fractured mind. The dull bde scraped painfully against his skin, removing as much flesh as hair. Small cuts opened across his jaw and cheeks, oozing a thin yellowish fluid that barely resembled proper vampire blood. These minor wounds would not heal properly without human blood—something he could no longer afford as his st assets were gone.

  Blood. The thought of it sent a wave of desperate hunger through him. For how long had he subsisted on forest creatures? Time had lost meaning in his isotion. He vaguely recalled the gradual selling of his possessions, the dwindling of his resources, the final purchase of blood that he had rationed to the st drop. After that... nothing but hunting in the dark forest, a noble Archduke reduced to stalking deer and wolves. The tribunal would undoubtedly feature blood service for attending nobles—proper, human blood from sustainable sources in the progressive territories. After time immeasurable subsisting on animals, the proximity to real sustenance would be exquisite torture.

  "Control," he reminded himself, voice shaking with need. "Aristocratic control over base impulses distinguishes nobility from commonality."

  Another passage from his own writings returned to haunt him. He had once decreed that any vampire who dispyed visible hunger at court would be banned from noble gatherings for no less than a decade. "Such animal manifestations," he had written, "reveal insufficient breeding and discipline incompatible with aristocratic status."

  Now he practiced in the broken mirror, attempting to control the involuntary extension of his fangs at the mere thought of human blood. The muscles in his face had grown undisciplined through centuries of isotion, making even this basic self-control challenging. He grimaced and contorted his features, trying to remember the proper neutral expression of aristocratic boredom that had once been his constant mask.

  After abandoning the impossible task of proper grooming, Orlov turned to the equally daunting challenge of appropriate attire. His search through the citadel had yielded nothing resembling formal clothing. Every valuable garment had been sold centuries ago, along with tapestries, furnishings, and anything else that might fetch even a small amount of blood.

  In a forgotten storage chamber that had once housed seasonal attire for different ceremonial occasions, he found a single trunk containing items too worn or damaged to sell. From these pitiful remains, he extracted a faded coat with only three visible moth holes, trousers with repairable tears at the knees, and a shirt whose yellowed fabric had once been white. The ensemble was a sad parody of the formal court attire that would be expected at the tribunal, but it represented his only option.

  He carried these treasures back to his chamber, ying them out with pathetic care across the dusty sleeping coffin. Another memory assaulted him—his legendary wardrobe that had once required an entire wing of his castle, with twelve human servants dedicated solely to its maintenance. He had never worn the same formal ensemble twice in the same decade, considering such repetition beneath aristocratic dignity.

  "Aristocratic attire must dispy both heritage and current status through impeccable quality and fashionable awareness," he whispered, quoting himself again as he fingered the threadbare coat.

  His attempt at mending the garments proved as futile as his grooming efforts. His twisted fingers, better suited now for tearing apart forest animals than delicate needlework, could not manage the fine stitches necessary for proper repairs. The needle he had found—rusty and blunt—bent and broke against the stiff fabric. After hours of frustrated effort, the clothes remained obviously damaged, a visual testament to his fallen state.

  As the night progressed, Orlov tried to recall the aristocratic mannerisms that had once been as natural to him as breathing. Fragments of proper etiquette floated through his fractured mind—a gesture here, a phrase there, but the complete tapestry of court behavior had unraveled in his isotion.

  "The proper acknowledgment to an inferior noble is..." he muttered, his hands moving through several contradictory gestures. "No, that's wrong. Was it a half-bow? A quarter-turn of the head?" He demonstrated both, neither looking remotely correct.

  He attempted to recall the precise forms of address for different ranks. "Your Grace for a Duke, Your... Your..." The words escaped him. Had it been "Your Excellence" for Counts? "Your Eminence"? He couldn't remember.

  He practiced positioning his hands, trying different arrangements that might dispy his signet ring to proper effect. One position seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't be certain it was correct rather than something he had invented in his madness.

  "When seated at tribunal, the superior noble must..." Another bnk. Did one cross the legs? No, that seemed improper. Keep them parallel? Perhaps.

  These physical movements, once unconscious, now required concentrated effort and even then rgely eluded him. His body had forgotten the choreography of power after long isotion. He stumbled through what he thought might be courtly bows, his joints stiff and uncooperative. His practiced expressions slipped quickly into feral snarls or vacant stares. The muscur control required for aristocratic bearing had atrophied along with his once-formidable strength.

  "The fingertips should... while the elbow must..." he demonstrated vague approximations of gestures he had once executed with precision. Nothing felt right. Nothing looked right.

  "Impossible," he finally admitted, colpsing onto a pile of rubble that had once been an ornate chair. "It's impossible."

  For perhaps the first time since the summons arrived, Orlov faced the reality of his situation without delusion's comforting veil. By every standard he himself had established, he had failed utterly. His appearance was revolting, his attire shameful, his mannerisms debased, his very blood contaminated by animal consumption. Were he to judge someone in his current condition, he would not merely strip them of title—he would banish them from vampire society entirely.

  This moment of crity triggered a new wave of panic. If he could not restore his aristocratic appearance, perhaps he could construct expnations for his deterioration. His fractured mind began assembling eborate justifications.

  "Research," he muttered, the idea taking hold with the peculiar force that only delusions can command. "Yes, research into the effects of resource scarcity on noble vampires. A deliberate experiment to document the transition from human to animal blood consumption. The scientific community will be fascinated."

  He began pacing the dust-covered floor, his path worn deep into the grime from countless circuits made over... years? Decades? He couldn't be certain. Time had become fluid in his isotion, days bleeding into nights, seasons changing without notice. Each circuit reinforced his fictional narrative—that his resort to animal blood was actually a sophisticated research methodology, his deteriorated appearance the careful documentation of physiological changes, his isotion a controlled experimental environment rather than imposed loneliness.

  "They need only see my notes," he continued, warming to the fabrication. "My extensive research documentation expining the theoretical foundations and practical applications."

  Of course, no such notes existed. No research had been conducted. His deterioration had been neither pnned nor controlled, merely the inevitable consequence of resource depletion and stubborn pride. Yet as the fiction crystallized in his mind, it began to seem pusible, even brilliant. Perhaps the tribunal might be impressed by such dedicated investigation into traditional vampire capabilities.

  The delusion carried him through hours of fervent preparation, crafting imaginary research outcomes and rehearsing their presentation before an audience of dust motes dancing in the moonlight. He perfected the schorly tone that would transform his humiliation into scientific dedication, his failure into pioneering methodology.

  Between these bursts of frantic activity, moments of lucidity would briefly pierce the fog of self-deception. During these intervals, the futility of his situation would crash upon him with crushing force. He would stand motionless, staring at his filthy, twisted hands, understanding with perfect crity that no expnation could disguise what had become of him. Then the merciful clouds of delusion would descend once more, and he would resume his preparations with renewed determination.

  As dawn approached on the final night before the carriage's arrival, Orlov found himself standing before the spot where the great mirror had once hung. The familiar rectangle of lighter stone on the wall was the only reminder of its existence. He stared at this bnk space, trying to visualize his appearance through the eyes of the tribunal.

  "They will see only what I permit them to see," he whispered, clinging to this final self-deception. "An Archduke remains an Archduke regardless of temporary circumstances."

  Yet deep beneath the yers of delusion and denial, a coldly rational fragment of his mind understood the truth. The tribunal would see exactly what he had become—a half-mad creature subsisting on animal blood in a crumbling ruin, wearing damaged clothing, unable to maintain even minimal aristocratic standards. They would judge him by the merciless criteria he himself had established centuries earlier.

  And by those criteria, no verdict was possible except one.

  The eastern sky had begun to lighten when Orlov finally retreated to his coffin for the day's rest. He carefully positioned his signet ring atop the pitiful pile of clothing he had assembled, the ancient symbol of his office catching the first hint of dawn filtering through the boarded windows.

  "Tomorrow," he whispered as he closed the coffin lid. "Tomorrow I will show them what it truly means to be an Archduke."

  But even in the depths of his delusion, he could not fully believe it.