Sorry, I'm Just a Weak Little Vampire

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.