Act One: The Shadow of the Gods (Part 8)
eight
Yakov had a very short dream. He dreamt he was living in a small mill in an unknown village, surrounded by bulging sacks of flour. He was a miller; recent harvests had been plentiful, and his family had saved enough to build a new stove. His wife was at home, baking wheat bread with the newly milled flour. The enticing aroma filled the entire house. Yakov opened the door and called out loudly to the names of his three children, who were playing barefoot in the fields. It was harvest season, and the wheat fields stretched out on the hillsides, golden and rippling like waves. The children ran through the wheat fields, returning to Yakov's arms. The mud on their faces stained Yakov's apron. His wife complained a few times, telling him to take off his apron before sitting down.
Yakov felt himself being roughly turned over, and a pair of cold hands were tearing at his chainmail.
"You really are a blood slave." A muffled voice seemed to come from a great distance. "I thought all the blood slaves had left."
“What blood slaves?” Yakov muttered to himself.
"You don't even know this? How did you convince your mother?" The voice gradually became clearer. "Blood slaves are the servants of noble vampires who serve the Noctennias family."
Noctenias? A vampire? Yakov felt like he'd heard that name somewhere before; it sounded like the surname of some nobleman. But then his helmet was suddenly removed, and he could only open his eyes in a panic.
The person speaking to him was practically a carbon copy of Lady Camilla—a dark-haired boy sat beside him with the same curved red eyes, animal-like mouth, and identical facial features as Camilla—the only difference being that his eyebrows were more rugged and his face more youthful. But this was enough to frighten Yakov.
He reached for his sword, and a sharp, painful throbbing sensation shot through his heart. Yakov's arm convulsed uncontrollably. The pain prevented him from taking the sword.
"What do you want to do?" The boy frowned as he looked at him.
"What's that on my chest?" Yakov asked nervously. "What exactly is a blood slave?"
“You have the mark of a blood slave on your chest. I’ve already told you what a blood slave is.” The boy stood up warily, looking down at him. “What do you want, blood slave? What order did you just disobey?”
"An order?" Yakov scrambled to his feet. What a load of rubbish. He wanted to curse the arrogant kid opposite him, but the piercing pain in his heart stopped him again. Yakov refused to give in; he was determined to resist the pain. So he tried to reach for his sword with his right hand again—this time the pain nearly made him faint. Yakov managed to pick up the sword, but he was covered in cold sweat, his legs trembling uncontrollably. His sword felt like a burning torture device, pricking his skin like a thousand needles. The pain shot straight up his heart, making his chest feel as if all his ribs had been crushed, the broken bone fragments piercing his heart and lungs. The sword finally slipped from his grasp, and Yakov's knees fell back to the ground.
"Unbelievable! You want to attack me?" The boy raised his eyebrows angrily. "You look terrible! What orders did your mother give you?"
Yakov curled up on the ground, clutching his heart, gasping for breath. He sadly realized that the pain would stop if he simply abandoned the idea of attacking the child. But at the slightest sign of it, this terrible, dog-training-like, extreme agony would strike him with deadly accuracy—this bitter humiliation reminded him of his past. Yakov thought, "I am a slave again." Camilla's voice echoed in his mind, like a heavy collar binding his heart.
"You must be loyal to my child, cherish his spirit, and protect his mind. You must not let him grieve or be lonely, nor let him be spoiled or ignorant. You will be his hands, feet, ears, and eyes, and you will escort him to the very end."
Yakov wondered, "Why should I?"
“You are Camilla’s child.” He remained kneeling, still distressed. “She asked me to take care of you.”
“Oh, a common command.” The boy straightened up, his posture exactly like the haughty figure in the full-length portrait Yakov had seen, reminding him of some pretentious and annoying young noblemen. His heels were pressed tightly together, his chin held high, his posture and expression as arrogant as if he were giving a speech to a crowd. “I am Yubi de Noctennias. I am my mother’s third child, and her last.”
“Your mother is dead,” Yakov said vengefully, looking at his exquisite little leather boots as he struck an affected pose. The thought sent another sharp pain through his heart.
"I know." The boy's voice indeed softened. "I saw it, it's nothing."
Yakov looked up at the child's face. It was an immature face, displaying a coldness incongruous with his age, a coldness towards the loss of a loved one. But the upright and proud air he had just exuded had vanished as if it had been ripped away. He was pretending. Yakov thought he could see through the pretense of such an inexperienced child at a glance. He wanted to pity him; this was a child who had just witnessed his mother's death. But then he thought, this was a spoiled, vampire-like child. Yakov remembered when he was his height, he was a barge hauler on the northern shore of the Black Sea, and he had long since lost his mother.
“You are Yubi. You are your mother’s third child.” Yakov slowly rose from the carpet. He was unsteady on his feet, but he had gradually grown accustomed to and tamed the punishing pain. Now, the skin on his chest burned. “And the first two?”
“Come with me.” Yubi picked up the candlestick from the ground and, without a word, took his iron glove. “I’ll introduce you to them.”
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