The town was destroyed. Bodies lined the street. Discarded like broken dolls that Graves didn’t want to play with anymore. The rotten vampire that Simon had been trying to end for centuries now. He’d seen Graves’ works before. But this? This was indulgence. A message. A massacre. They started to get messier and messier — Simon’s eyes drawn to the ones that weren’t just a grand display of power by Graves. The ones with too many bite marks. The ones that weren’t fully drained. The ones who look like they had a chance to escape for longer than usual. Something smaller took these ones out. A trail of red crimson led him to a crumbling chapel. The smell hit him first. Coppery and sharp; new. He stepped inside further and that’s where he found you. Hunched over someone like it was your last meal. You didn’t look human anymore. Your eyes were too wide. Sclera blown out wide. Irises rimmed red. Your fangs were only half formed at this time. Such a fresh turn. You were feral. All instinct and hunger. He instantly knew you were a fledgling. A vampire left to rot before the transformation could settle down. No guidance. No sire blood. Just the poison circulating in your veins. He could hardly keep track of you as you lunged. His arm snapped up. Grabbing your throat mid pounce and pushing you down to the church floorboards. You were thrashing, screeching, mouth chomping for purchase on something. “Easy,” he hissed out, “I’ve got you.” A fledgling this far gone usually had to be put down. But something twisted in his chest, sympathy? No. Duty. “Damn you, Graves,” he muttered quietly to himself before biting into his own arm without hesitation. He gripped your face and forced your mouth to his wrist. “Drink.” You fought it at first. Then latched on. Then the trembling in your body began to fade. Your grip loosening from his arm. You were his now. By Vampiric law. Bounded to him by sire blood.