Sorry, I'm Just a Weak Little Vampire

The phantom pain of a silver stake tearing through Genevieve's chest made her knees buckle.

She stood on the freezing marble floor of the Crimson Court's top-floor council chamber, her vision swimming with black spots. A violent headache split her skull. The metallic taste of her own blood-a memory from a future that hadn't happened yet-coated her tongue. Her lungs seized. She couldn't drag in a single breath.

"Are you even listening to me, Genevieve?"

Lord Marcus's low, authoritative voice echoed off the vaulted gothic ceiling. The sound hit her like a physical blow, snapping her out of the death vision.

Genevieve forced her chin up. She met Lord Marcus's crimson eyes. They were hard, cold, and filled with absolute disappointment. Her stomach dropped to the floor. Her heart, still trapped in the panic of the prophecy, hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Rosalie cowered behind Lord Marcus's broad, custom-tailored suit. The half-blood girl gripped the edge of his jacket, her small shoulders shaking. But Genevieve caught it. Just for a fraction of a second, Rosalie's eyes darted toward her, flashing with a sharp, calculated provocation.

Lord Marcus pointed a long, pale finger at the torn blood-servant contract scattered on the floor.

"Explain to me why you insist on targeting a fragile half-blood," Lord Marcus demanded, his voice vibrating with raw power. "She just awakened. She cannot even withstand the sunlight yet, and you treat her like dirt."

Genevieve opened her mouth. The old Genevieve-the arrogant, pureblood prodigy-wanted to scream back. She wanted to rip Rosalie's fake innocence to shreds.

But her throat closed up. The phantom shadow of the silver stake pressed against her windpipe.

A glaring red warning flashed in her mind. The prophecy was clear. If she released her pureblood pressure right now, if she acted like the villain they expected, the countdown to her gruesome death would begin.

Genevieve sucked in a sharp breath. She pressed her thumb hard into the side of her index finger, digging her nail into the bone to suppress the ancient, chaotic magic boiling in her veins. She lowered her eyelashes. She stared at her own pale fingertips, forcing her face into a blank, deadpan mask.

Her sudden, unnatural silence hung in the air.

Lord Marcus twisted his custom cufflink, misinterpreting her silence as stubborn rebellion. His jaw ticked. He slammed his fist down on the heavy blackwood table.

The impact rattled the wood. A heavy, solid silver candlestick toppled off the edge.

It hit the marble with a sharp clang and rolled directly to Genevieve's feet.

A faint, holy aura radiated from the silver. To an Antediluvian pureblood like Genevieve, it was as harmless as a gentle breeze. But she stared at the silver metal, and a brilliant idea sparked in her panicked brain.

Genevieve gasped loudly. She clutched her chest with both hands.

She let out a weak, pathetic whimper. Her knees gave out completely. She collapsed onto the freezing marble floor, curling her body inward as if the mere scent of the silver was burning her flesh. She forced her breathing to become shallow and erratic.

Lord Marcus froze. His hand, still raised to scold her, stopped in mid-air. The anger in his red eyes fractured, replaced by a sudden flash of shock and hesitation.

Rosalie peeked out from behind Lord Marcus. She bit her lower lip, her signature move of innocence.

"Genevieve... sister?" Rosalie asked, her voice dripping with fake tears. "Are you feeling unwell?"

Genevieve didn't miss a beat. She stole Rosalie's exact playbook.

She forced her eyes to widen. She blinked rapidly until her eyes turned red.

"I'm just... so weak," Genevieve whispered, her voice trembling perfectly. "Don't blame anyone. It's not your fault. I'm just useless."

The massive chamber went dead silent. The air turned into solid ice.

Those pathetic, white-lotus words coming from the mouth of the notoriously cold and ruthless pureblood genius felt completely wrong.

Lord Marcus's eyebrows pulled together into a deep, harsh line. He took a step forward, reaching out to check the flow of her magic.

Genevieve flinched violently. She scrambled backward like a terrified rabbit, dodging his hand.

She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. She looked up at the faint, artificial sunlight filtering through the stained-glass chandelier. She let out a choked sob and dragged her body backward, shrinking into the darkest shadow behind a thick stone pillar.

In Rosalie's perception, an invisible, parasitic connection tried to lock onto Genevieve, but it slipped away as if hitting a wall of cotton. The emotional feedback she expected completely failed to appear, leaving her prepared words stuck in her throat.

Rosalie bit her lip harder. She took a step toward the pillar, reaching her hand out to help Genevieve up. She needed physical contact to trigger her low-level luck-stealing skill.

Genevieve felt the shift in the air. She saw Rosalie's hand coming.

Without a single shred of aristocratic dignity, Genevieve threw herself sideways. She literally rolled across the dirty marble floor, tumbling deeper into the dusty corner, perfectly dodging Rosalie's touch.

Lord Marcus stared at her. His mouth parted slightly. The sight of a top-tier noble rolling on the floor like a street rat completely short-circuited his brain. His anger evaporated, replaced by a heavy, absurd sense of helplessness.

Genevieve curled into a tight ball in the shadows.

"Please, Lord Marcus," she begged, her voice cracking. "Please don't throw me out of the Court. I promise I'll just be a useless piece of trash. I won't see the sun. I'll just stay in the dark."

Lord Marcus rubbed his temples. He let out a long, exhausted sigh. He waved his hand at the low-level blood servants standing by the doors.

"Leave us," he ordered.

The servants scattered instantly. Lord Marcus walked over to the pillar. He looked down at the pureblood child who used to be his greatest pride, now reduced to a shivering puddle of mud. His eyes were a mess of conflicting emotions.

Genevieve stared hard at the intricate patterns carved into the floor. She bit the inside of her cheek until it bled to stop herself from bursting into hysterical laughter. She kept her shoulders shaking, playing the terrified newborn to perfection.

"Get up," Lord Marcus said, his voice losing its harsh edge. He thought his own pressure had broken her. "Go back to your room and rest."

Genevieve shook her head weakly.

"My legs," she whispered, looking up at him with wide, pitiful eyes. "I can't stand. Please... can someone bring a wheelchair?"

Lord Marcus's eye twitched violently. He looked like he wanted to throw her out the window. But he swallowed his frustration, walked over to the wall, and pressed the call button for his personal butler.

Ten minutes later, Genevieve sat slumped in a leather wheelchair, being pushed out of the grand doors.

Just as the doors began to close, she turned her head. She looked straight at Rosalie's confused, frustrated face.

Genevieve gave her a weak, entirely innocent smile.

The next day.

The heavy oak door to Lord Marcus's private study clicked shut behind Genevieve.

The room smelled intensely of old parchment and rich cigar smoke. Genevieve sat in the leather chair opposite the massive mahogany desk, her internal alarms screaming.

Lord Marcus sat behind the desk. He adjusted his cuffs, his face unreadable. He pushed a delicate crystal vial across the polished wood. The thick, dark red liquid inside caught the dim light.

"A high-tier blood alchemy potion," Lord Marcus said, his voice flat. "Consider it compensation for my... harshness yesterday."

Genevieve stared at the priceless vial. The image of Rosalie's helpless, fragile face flashed in her mind.

She reached out with both hands. Her fingers hovered over the crystal. Right as her skin brushed the smooth glass, she forced her wrist to jerk violently.

The crystal vial slipped from her grasp.

It hit the edge of the desk and plummeted onto the expensive Persian rug. A dull, heavy crack echoed in the quiet room.

The glass shattered. The thick, potent smell of high-tier blood magic exploded into the air, suffocatingly sweet. The dark red liquid seeped into the intricate threads of the rug, ruining it instantly.

Lord Marcus's eyebrows snapped together. He opened his mouth to speak.

Genevieve beat him to it.

She slapped both hands over her mouth. She sucked in a sharp, loud breath, perfectly mimicking Rosalie's signature startled gasp.

"I'm so stupid!" Genevieve cried out, her voice trembling violently. "I can't even hold a simple bottle. I've ruined it. I've disappointed you again, Lord Marcus."

To sell the performance, Genevieve reached under her long skirt and pinched the soft flesh of her thigh with brutal force. The sharp physical pain brought instant, genuine tears to her eyes. Two fat drops spilled over her lashes and rolled down her pale cheeks.

Lord Marcus stared at her. He watched the exaggerated trembling of her shoulders. A wave of sheer absurdity washed over him.

Instead of exploding in anger, Lord Marcus let out a short, dry laugh. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in defeat.

He stood up. He walked around the heavy desk, carefully stepping over the shards of broken crystal. He stopped right in front of her.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief embroidered with his family crest. He held it out to her.

Genevieve shrank back. She pulled her shoulders up to her ears, acting like a stray dog expecting a kick. She didn't reach for the silk.

Lord Marcus sighed. The sound was heavy in his chest. He reached down, grabbed her cold hand, and gently but firmly pressed the handkerchief into her palm.

"I apologize for my lack of control yesterday," Lord Marcus said, his voice dropping low.

Genevieve's heart did a victorious flip. But on the outside, she kept shivering. She brought the silk to her face and clumsily wiped at the tears.

"I will have the alchemist brew a purer batch for you tomorrow," Lord Marcus promised, stepping back.

Genevieve bent forward in the chair. She lowered her head until her chin almost touched her knees, adopting the most submissive posture possible.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," she babbled, her tone dripping with pathetic gratitude.

Lord Marcus rubbed his temples. Looking at her cold, beautiful face twisted into this pitiful mask was giving him a migraine.

He pointed to the plush leather sofa against the wall. "Sit there. Tell me the truth. Is your body truly failing?"

Genevieve seized the opening. She pressed her hand flat against her chest.

"My magic is draining," she whispered. "The sunlight burns my skin now. Even the wind in the hallways makes me dizzy."

Lord Marcus frowned. He stepped closer and held out his hand, palm up. He wanted to check her magical core.

Genevieve didn't pull away this time. She placed her wrist in his hand.

As his cold fingers pressed against her pulse point, Genevieve dug deep into her Antediluvian bloodline. With absolute, terrifying control, she suppressed her roaring magic. She forced her veins to mimic a shattered, dried-up magical circuit. She made her pulse weak, erratic, and full of holes.

Lord Marcus closed his eyes to focus. When he felt the pathetic, broken state of her magic, his eyes snapped open. The last trace of suspicion vanished from his face. A heavy shadow of guilt settled over his features.

He let go of her wrist.

"You are excused from all family hunting duties," Lord Marcus announced, his tone final. "You will stay within the Court and rest."

Genevieve let out a shaky breath of relief. The plan worked.

She stood up to leave. She made sure her knees buckled slightly. She swayed on her feet, walking toward the door with clumsy, uneven steps, looking like she might pass out at any second.

Lord Marcus watched her fragile back. The crease between his brows deepened.

The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, Lord Marcus slammed his hand onto the call button.

The butler entered immediately.

"Investigate everyone," Lord Marcus ordered, his voice dark and lethal. "Find out who poisoned or cursed Genevieve. Turn the outer clans upside down if you have to."

Out in the hallway, Genevieve stood perfectly still.

The pathetic slump of her shoulders vanished. Her spine straightened. The fake weakness melted off her face, leaving behind her usual cold, sharp expression.

She looked at the closed door of the study. A slow, mocking smile curved her lips.

The crystal chandeliers in the Crimson Court's grand banquet hall blazed with blinding light.

Dozens of high-ranking vampires stood in small clusters, holding delicate crystal flutes of blood wine. The air hummed with the sound of classical music and the rustle of expensive silk.

The heavy double doors opened.

Genevieve walked in. She wore a plain, oversized black dress that hung off her frame like a potato sack. It was a brutal contrast to the skin-tight, diamond-encrusted gowns she usually wore to these events.

The moment she stepped onto the marble floor, the conversations died.

Dozens of pairs of eyes snapped toward her. The aristocrats stared, their eyes wide with shock and burning curiosity. The scent of fresh gossip flooded the room.

In the center of the hall, Rosalie stood surrounded by a group of young, eager male vampires. She wore a stunning white gown covered in crushed diamonds. She looked like a flawless, untouchable princess.

Rosalie saw Genevieve. A dark, calculating gleam flashed in her eyes.

She picked up a glass of premium, high-tier blood wine from a passing silver tray. She plastered a gentle, forgiving smile on her face and walked straight toward Genevieve, playing the gracious victor.

Genevieve watched her approach. She calculated the distance.

Just as Rosalie stopped in front of her, Genevieve threw herself backward.

Her back slammed violently into the solid marble pillar behind her. The impact produced a loud, sickening thud that echoed over the music.

Genevieve let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp of terror.

Rosalie froze. Her hand, holding the wine glass, stopped in mid-air. Her perfect smile cracked, looking stiff and ridiculous.

Genevieve grabbed her own shoulder, rubbing it as if she were in agony.

"I'm sorry!" Genevieve shouted, her voice trembling and loud enough for half the room to hear. "A useless cripple like me doesn't deserve such fine wine. Please, Lady Rosalie, enjoy it yourself! Don't waste it on me!"

The surrounding nobles heard every single word. It was the exact, pathetic phrasing Rosalie always used.

A few of the older female vampires hid their mouths behind their feather fans, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Rosalie's face turned stark white, then flushed a furious red. Inside her head, her system screamed. Her favorability points were dropping due to the sheer, suffocating awkwardness of the situation.

Desperate to save face, Rosalie forced her smile back. She took a step forward and reached out to grab Genevieve's hand, trying to force a display of sisterly affection.

Genevieve reacted like she had been struck by lightning.

She violently ripped her arm away. The motion was so exaggerated it looked comical.

Using the momentum of her own swing, Genevieve threw herself onto the polished floor. She landed hard on her side. She grabbed her own wrist, curling into a ball, and sucked in a sharp hiss of pain through her teeth.

The orchestra abruptly stopped playing.

The entire hall fell dead silent. Every single eye locked onto Rosalie, who stood over Genevieve with her hand still awkwardly extended.

Rosalie panicked. Tears instantly welled up in her eyes.

"I... I didn't even touch her!" Rosalie stuttered, her voice cracking. "I didn't use any force!"

The crowd parted. Lord Marcus strode through the gap, his face like a thundercloud. He stopped and looked down at the chaotic mess on the floor.

Rosalie braced herself, waiting for Lord Marcus to scream at Genevieve for bullying her.

Instead, Lord Marcus just sighed. He didn't even look at Rosalie. He snapped his fingers at two nearby blood servants.

"Help her up," Lord Marcus ordered tiredly.

The servants rushed forward and pulled Genevieve to her feet.

Genevieve leaned heavily against one of the servants. She looked at Lord Marcus with wide, watery eyes.

"Please don't punish Rosalie," Genevieve whispered weakly. "It's my fault. My bones are just too brittle now."

Whispers erupted across the hall. The nobles shook their heads. Half of them thought Genevieve had lost her mind; the other half thought she was a pathetic joke. The deep fear they used to hold for the pureblood genius vanished into thin air.

Lord Marcus's jaw tightened. This public humiliation was destroying the Court's dignity.

He grabbed Genevieve by the elbow and dragged her out of the hall, pulling her onto a secluded, wind-swept balcony.

The cold night air whipped Genevieve's hair across her face.

Lord Marcus let go of her arm. He glared at her.

"Since you are so restless in the Court, I will throw you into the Academy's rules to grind you down," Lord Marcus warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

Genevieve dropped her head. She twisted the fabric of her ugly black dress between her fingers, looking entirely clueless and submissive.

Lord Marcus watched her blank face and made a hard decision.

"Starting tomorrow, you will report to the Nightwalker Academy," Lord Marcus commanded. "You will attend classes, and you will act as Rosalie's personal bodyguard. If she makes a single mistake or suffers any harm, I will hold you entirely responsible. Let us see if having a real task cures your sudden frailty."

Genevieve's stomach plummeted. The Academy. That was the exact location where the prophecy said she would be framed and killed.

She snapped her head up.

"No," Genevieve said, her voice shaking with real panic this time. "I can't. The sunlight outside the Court... the silver weapons in the training grounds... I'm too weak!"

Lord Marcus's expression turned to stone.

"You will go," he said coldly. "Or I will cut off your blood supply entirely."

Genevieve bit her lower lip hard. She lowered her head, acting defeated.

"Yes, Lord Marcus," she mumbled.

But as she stared down at the dark balcony floor, a sharp, cunning light flashed in her eyes. If she had to go to the Academy, she would drag her trash persona all the way to the bottom. She would break every single plot point before it even started.