Chapter 533: Wake up from a bad dream.

The dream began without warning, as if she had been in the middle of it for hours. There was no transition between sleep and nightmare, only the immediate certainty that something was wrong. The sky above the vampire castle burned in dark tones, not with ordinary fire, but with a reddish light that seemed to emanate from the very air. The towers that had remained untouched for centuries appeared cracked, broken in half, collapsing in heavy blocks onto courtyards filled with smoke and dust. Royal flags burned, clinging to the flagpoles, turning ancient symbols into ashes carried by a wind that smelled of iron and ruin. Liza stood at the top of the central staircases, watching everything unfold without being able to move a single muscle, trapped in the role of witness to her own downfall.

Down below, soldiers who had sworn allegiance to the crown ran in opposite directions, trampling over each other, dropping weapons, abandoning their posts. Some shouted contradictory orders, others simply begged for escape routes that did not exist. The discipline that had sustained an entire kingdom had vanished in minutes. She searched for familiar faces among the collapsing crowd and found only fear. Men and women who once greeted her on their knees now looked at her as if she were part of the disaster, not its solution. The worst part wasn’t the military defeat. It was the instant dissolution of belief.

When she tried to descend the stairs to impose order, her legs wouldn’t respond. Her body remained motionless, rigid, like living stone. She opened her mouth to speak, to demand silence, to order formation, to remind everyone who she was, but no sound came out. Her neck locked. Her throat burned dry. Even so, she saw everything with cruel clarity. Palace children being dragged through burning corridors by desperate servants. Nobles stabbing each other for jewels and secret routes. Guards executing comrades suspected of treason without any investigation. The kingdom wasn’t being destroyed by an external enemy. It was consuming itself.

Then she saw Elizabeth.

Her daughter ran between broken columns, calling for her, her voice distant and muffled as if from underwater. The dress was torn, her feet injured, her eyes wide with a fear Liza had never allowed herself to know. The Queen tried to scream her name, tried to run, tried to break the paralysis that held her to the staircase. Nothing happened. Elizabeth looked up, met her gaze, and in that instant the ground beneath her gave way. The girl fell into absolute darkness without even finishing her scream.

The world changed again.

Without transition, Liza was in a damp, cold, underground circular room, where the walls seemed to pulse slowly like living flesh hidden under stone. Chains crossed her wrists and ankles, suspending her body several hand-widths above the floor. The pain was constant, not sharp enough to cause fainting, nor mild enough to be ignored. Her arms were forcibly outstretched, her head tilted forward, and her own weight transformed each second into calculated exhaustion. She tried to invoke power, tried to call upon any trace of ancestral authority coursing through her veins. She found nothing.

Only emptiness.

She looked down and saw dark rivulets trickling down grooves carved into her body. Blood. Her blood. It flowed slowly through metal channels embedded in her skin, gathering in black containers positioned beneath her feet. Some were already full. Others were replaced by hooded hands working in mechanical silence. None of them looked directly at her. None seemed interested in her pain. She was not a victim to those beings. She was a resource.

A figure appeared before her, tall and shrouded in heavy robes. The face remained hidden by shadows that did not obey the ambient light. The voice, when it came, seemed masculine and feminine at the same time, ancient and young, multiple yet unique.

"Vampire blood is resistant to time."

The figure brought one hand close to her face, lifting her chin with two cold fingers. Liza tried to bite, but the strength was gone.

"The blood of the royal lineage is even better."

She wanted to ask who "he" was, but her mouth could barely hold a breath.

"With enough blood... we will resurrect him."

Behind the figure, symbols etched into the floor began to glow. Not in bright light, but in a sickly luminosity, like buried embers. The collected liquid was poured into a central circle where something lay covered by dark fabric and ancient chains. The volume beneath the fabric suggested a humanoid body, too large for an ordinary man, too wide for any natural creature.

"When he awakens," the voice continued, "kings will kneel again."

Liza gathered her last vestige of strength and pulled at the chains. Her wrists tore further. Nothing yielded. The fabric in the center began to move from within. A deep, impossible breath filled the entire room. The chains of the hidden body stretched as if something beneath them smiled.

She screamed.

The scream came with the awakening.

Liza raised her torso at once, gasping for air violently, like someone who had remained submerged for too long. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, unable to find an immediate rhythm. Her skin was covered in cold sweat, clinging strands of hair to her face and neck. For a few seconds, she couldn’t distinguish dream from reality. She searched for chains on her wrists, open wounds, hooks piercing her flesh. She found only bandages, trembling, and a profound weakness settling into her muscles.

The room was unfamiliar.

The walls were too light for any traditional vampire chamber. There was carved wood, heavy curtains, a window closed by thick glass, and discreet symbols engraved in the upper corners of the ceiling. The air smelled of herbs, burnt wax, and something medicinal. It wasn’t a cell. It wasn’t a palace. It wasn’t any room she recognized. The bed beneath her body was soft, wide, and excessively comfortable for someone in her condition, which made everything even stranger.

She placed her hand on her chest, trying to stabilize her breathing. Her heart was beating faster than she would have liked. For someone of her kind, that rhythm betrayed extreme exhaustion.

"Where..." she murmured, her voice hoarse, faltering at the end of the word. She tried to sit up straighter and felt a weight on her left leg.

Her body reacted before reason. Her hand moved instinctively to invoke defense, which didn’t come. When she looked up, she saw a head resting on the blanket, near her knee. Hair was scattered haphazardly, fingers still gripping the bedsheets as if they had resisted sleep until the very last moment.

Elizabeth.

Her daughter slept sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed, using her mother’s leg as involuntary support. Her face was partially turned upwards, revealing dry tear marks on her cheeks and swelling around her eyes. The reddened skin around her nose betrayed hours of crying interrupted only by exhaustion. Even asleep, her expression remained tense, as if her body had shut down before her mind could accept rest.

Liza remained motionless.

Of all the possible images upon waking, none had prepared her for this one. There were no crowns, guards, urgent reports, enemies, or chains. Only her daughter slept beside the bed like a child who refused to leave her side.

The Queen moved her fingers slowly and lightly touched Elizabeth’s hair. The gesture was hesitant, almost rusty. Not for lack of affection, but out of habit of hiding it. Elizabeth stirred slightly, making a low sound like someone trying to continue sleeping despite the disturbance.

Liza felt her throat tighten.

Memories of the nightmare still burned: the kingdom falling, her daughter disappearing, her own powerlessness. Now, there, reality offered something simple and brutally concrete. Elizabeth was alive. Exhausted, tearful, probably irritating as always—alive.

"What happened...?" Liza whispered to herself.

The questions came in sequence. Who had taken her from there? How long had she been unconscious? Who dared to touch the Queen? Where was her court? Did the kingdom still stand? And, above all, who was "he"?

But no question could overcome the weight of the scene before her.

Elizabeth awoke slowly, frowning even before opening her eyes. Her hand gripped the blanket reflexively. When she finally blinked and lifted her face, it took her a full second to comprehend what she saw.

"Mother...?"

The word came out small, incredulous, fragile in a way Liza had rarely heard from her.

Elizabeth’s eyes immediately filled with light again. She awkwardly sat up from the floor, almost tripping over her own numb legs, and leaned over the bed with excessive caution, as if any wrong move could undo the awakening.

"You woke up. You really woke up."

Liza wanted to respond with regal dignity, ask for reports, demand context, regain her composure. Instead, she simply opened a tired arm.

Elizabeth threw herself against her instantly, embracing her with restrained strength, trembling from her shoulders to her hands. Liza felt the impact on her still-sensitive ribs and almost complained, but remained silent. She ran her hand slowly down her daughter’s back, noticing how quickly she breathed between swallowed sobs.

"You cried too much," Liza said, trying to regain some authority in her voice.

Elizabeth let out a broken laugh against her shoulder. "And you almost died too much."

Despite her weakness, Liza allowed herself a small smile.

Outside the room, footsteps approached. Firm, calm, without the haste of someone fearing what they would find. Liza raised her eyes to the closed door and something inside her recognized, even before seeing, that her reality had changed while she slept.

But, for one more minute, she ignored it.

She held her daughter close, took a deep breath, and silently gave thanks for waking up in a world where there was still something left to lose.