The servant's mind yielded easily to Lucius's touch—a momentary resistance, like tissue paper against water, before dissolving entirely. A slight pressure from his consciousness, and the memory of pcing both a goblet of blood and a pte of roasted pheasant before the Archduke simply... vanished. In its pce, Lucius pnted a new recollection: the servant had delivered only the blood, as would be expected for any vampire of rank. The pheasant, the vegetables, the cutlery—all erased completely from the servant's mind, leaving no trace that food had ever been present. The man blinked twice, his expression clearing as the fabricated memory settled into pce.

  "That will be all," Lucius said, his voice carrying the practiced authority of his position.

  The servant bowed low and backed from the chamber, already forgetting why a momentary confusion had clouded his thoughts. He would remember bringing the blood, nothing more. By the time he reached the kitchen, even the faint echo of disorientation would be gone.

  Alone now, Lucius regarded the steaming pheasant with its crisp, herb-scented skin and the accompanying roasted vegetables. This food wasn't merely a luxury or indulgence—it was an absolute necessity that he must hide from every vampire in existence, save his brother. If any were to discover this fundamental requirement of his physiology, his carefully constructed position in vampire society would be threatened. The revetion that the emerging leader among vampires required human food would mark him as fundamentally different, perhaps weaker in their eyes. It was a vulnerability he could not afford to expose.

  He cut a small piece of meat, savoring the burst of fvor as he chewed. Nearly a few decades since his transformation, and the need for real food remained as vital as his need for blood. Unlike other vampires who subsisted on blood alone, Lucius required both—blood and food equally essential to his comfort and sanity, just as humans needed both water and nourishment. One could not repce the other; both were fundamental necessities for his unique physiology. While his immortal, indestructible body would continue to exist without food, his mind would suffer the endless torment of starvation—a fate he could not risk, especially as he guided the development of vampire society.

  The eborate performance pyed out multiple times daily across all his territories. Every single person who witnessed him with food—servants, cooks, passing nobles, even occasional guards—had their memories systematically altered afterward. Designated feeding chambers had been established in each of his residences, rooms where only specific servants were permitted to enter—servants whose memories he routinely modified. The rotation of staff was precisely managed to ensure no single servant observed him often enough to notice patterns or question the gaps in their recollections.

  In the early decades, these memory modifications had required concentration, deliberate focus to reshape another's mind. Now, after these years of practice, the adjustments came as naturally as breathing had once been when he was human. A touch here, a gentle erasure there—the mind yielding to his will like cy to a sculptor's hands.

  The irony did not escape him. Those first massive maniputions—making Dr. Keller and his entire inner circle believe that Lucius and Valerian had always been part of their group, altering the memories of thousands to establish their position in the emerging vampire hierarchy—had been monumental feats of mental power. Yet those grand deceptions had been performed with purpose, with meaning. These daily maniputions, by contrast, were mundane maintenance of the fiction that comprised his existence, a necessity he had maintained vigintly for the past few decades.

  Lucius pced his fork down beside the half-eaten meal, suddenly less hungry than before. He rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the moon rising over his territory. A few decades of ruling, of guiding vampire society through subtle manipution and careful strategy, and still he could not simply sit and enjoy a meal without orchestrating an eborate charade.

  The door opened behind him, and he knew without turning that it was his chamberin, Darius.

  "Your Grace," the vampire said, his gaze unavoidably nding on the half-eaten meal on the table.

  Without hesitation, Lucius's mind reached out, erasing the sight of food from Darius's perception even as the chamberin continued speaking. "Lord Casteln has arrived with the reports from the eastern provinces."

  "I'll see him shortly," Lucius replied, not turning from the window, his power still working to reshape his chamberin's memories. By the time Darius finished delivering his message, all recollection of seeing food in the chamber had been repced with the image of an untouched goblet of blood on an otherwise empty table.

  "Shall I have the servants clear your chamber, Your Grace?" Darius asked, now completely unaware of the meal his eyes had registered moments before.

  "Yes. And rotate the serving staff for tomorrow's meals. Use the secondary roster." The specialized staff who were accustomed to having their memories altered regurly.

  "As you command."

  The door closed, and Lucius allowed himself a moment of rare vulnerability, his forehead pressing against the cool gss of the window. Darius, loyal since the earliest days of vampire society, believed he knew his master completely. Yet even he had his memories routinely altered, never permitted to retain the knowledge that the being he served required more than blood to sustain his existence.

  The isotion of his position struck Lucius anew. Should he go without food for too long, he would experience the maddening agony of starvation without relief—his immortal, indestructible body unable to weaken or perish, yet subjected to the unending torment of hunger. Yet no vampire in his own territory understood this fundamental aspect of his existence. Surrounded constantly by courtiers, advisors, and subjects, he remained fundamentally alone.

  Valerian's domain was the only pce where vampires regurly consumed food alongside blood—all transformed with his brother's blood rather than saliva, sharing their unique physiology. Yet even with them, Lucius maintained careful distance, unable to openly acknowledge their shared nature due to his position as Archduke of a separate territory. Political necessity demanded continued pretense, forcing him to maintain his fa?ade even among those who might understand. Only with Valerian himself could he ever truly lower the mask of performance that had become as much a part of him as his own skin.

  Lucius straightened, composing himself before turning back to the room. He would finish his meal quickly, then meet with Lord Casteln. Another night of governance, of strategic guidance, of maintaining the fa?ade that had defined his existence for these crucial decades since the Evolution.

  As he sat to complete his meal, a servant entered—different from the one before—to refresh his goblet of blood. The man froze momentarily at the sight of the Archduke cutting into roasted meat, an impossible behavior for vampires by all known accounts. Lucius absently reached toward the man's mind, finding and completely erasing the memory of seeing food on the Archduke's table. In its pce, he constructed a simple scene of the Archduke sitting alone with his goblet, nothing more. The adjustment was so effortless now that he could perform it while continuing to eat, while reviewing mental notes for his meeting with Lord Casteln, while pnning three separate territorial disputes that required resolution.

  The simplicity of the manipution itself was not the burden. It was what the act represented—the constant reminder of his fundamental difference from every vampire around him. Each modified memory was another small brick in the wall that separated him from those he ruled.

  The servant departed with no recollection of the food, only of having refreshed his Archduke's blood. Lucius finished the st of his meal in solitude, consuming nutrients vital to his comfort that every other vampire in his territory would consider unnecessary. This wasn't merely preference or habit—without regur meals, his immortal body would suffer the endless torment of hunger without the release of death or unconsciousness. His indestructible form would endure, but his mind would know only the relentless agony of starvation. The dual nature of his physiological needs remained perhaps his most closely guarded secret.

  He rose, straightening his formal attire. Lord Casteln would be waiting, and the governance of territories never paused for personal reflection. There were strategies to implement, nobles to guide, the future of vampire society to shape through careful, patient manipution.

  Lucius gestured, and a panel in the wall slid silently open, revealing a hidden passage. The serving staff would enter from the main door once he had departed, finding an empty chamber with a goblet of blood barely touched and no trace of the meal he had consumed. Any residual evidence—dishes, crumbs, scents—would be discreetly removed by servants who themselves would have their memories modified the moment they left the chamber. They would report that the Archduke had hardly fed again, fueling the carefully cultivated rumors of his asceticism. None would ever know of the meal he had consumed, the essential nutrients he required to avoid the relentless torment of hunger—a fundamental need as crucial as blood to his continued comfort. His subjects might admire his supposed restraint, never suspecting that in private chambers throughout his territories, he consumed regur meals to maintain his sanity and focus, sparing himself the endless agony of starvation his immortal body could endure but his mind would struggle to bear.

  The panel closed behind him, concealing yet another secret in an existence built upon them. Alone in the narrow passage, Lucius allowed himself one final moment of honesty before resuming the performance that was his public life.

  "How many more years of this?" he whispered to himself, the question lingering unanswered in the darkness. Unlike his visions of others, his own future remained persistently hidden from his prophetic sight—a blind spot in his otherwise far-reaching vision. He could only move forward guided by purpose rather than foreknowledge of his own path.

  Then he straightened his shoulders and continued forward, each step taking him deeper into the role he had created and further from the truth of his own nature. The perfect deception, maintained for decades with such skill that even he sometimes struggled to remember who he truly was beneath the carefully constructed persona of Archduke Lucius.

  The mask settled firmly into pce as he approached the council chamber. By the time he entered the room where Lord Casteln waited, no trace remained of his momentary vulnerability. He had become, once again, exactly what everyone expected him to be.

  Everyone except himself.