The rain fell like ash over the city, each drop whispering secrets through the cracked streets of Valeblack. A city once proud, now sinking into the embrace of rot and shadows. Streetlamps flickered with dying light, and every alley seemed to pulse with the breath of watching predators.
Seraphina Vale pulled her hood tighter around her face, the wet wind clawing at her skin like cold fingers. Her shift at the Apothecary had ended late, and curfew was near. Mortals found outdoors after the tenth bell were easy prey. Especially women like her—young, beautiful, and unclaimed.
She turned the final corner toward her apartment when she noticed the envelope. It lay on the worn stone step like a wound—black wax sealed in crimson, the paper a shade too pale to be called white. There was no address, no name. But she knew it was for her.
Seraphina hesitated, glancing up at the silent corridor of doors above. Nothing stirred.
She picked it up.
Her heart beat harder as she broke the seal. The scent of rose and blood bloomed from within. The parchment read:
"You are cordially invited to the Masque of Shadows.
Midnight. House D'Argent. No mortals beyond the gate—unless chosen.
Wear red."
Her fingers trembled.
Everyone knew House D'Argent. It stood beyond the Blackthorn Gate, nestled atop the cliffs like a crown of bones. The vampire nobles who lived there never mingled with commoners. Certainly not with orphan girls who mixed herbs and scraped by on state rations.
So why her?
A heat stirred low in her belly—fear, curiosity, something darker. She should burn the letter. Pretend it never came. But instead, she tucked it into her coat and walked home with the strange knowledge that her life had just cracked open.
The dress was crimson velvet, old-fashioned and sinfully tight. Where it came from, she didn't know. It had been laid across her bed like an offering, laced at the bodice and slit at the thigh. A note had rested beside it, scrawled in the same inhuman handwriting:
"We are watching."
She should have run. But her reflection showed a different woman now—a creature painted in scarlet and secrets. Her eyes were too bright, her lips too red. She looked like someone who belonged at a vampire's masquerade.
Midnight struck as the carriage door opened before her. The driver was silent, pale, with glassy eyes that didn't blink. She climbed in without a word.
The city melted behind her.
House D'ArgentThe mansion rose like a cathedral of nightmares—black stone, silver windows, and vines that pulsed faintly like veins. Lanterns of witchlight flickered in the mist, casting long shadows of the guests who entered ahead of her—men and women in elaborate masks, feathers, leather, bone.
She stepped into the grand hall.
Music swelled—a haunting melody of strings and voices not entirely human. The room was enormous, the ceiling painted with scenes of gods and monsters. Candles floated in the air. Wine as dark as heart's blood was poured into crystal goblets.
Every guest wore a mask.
So did he.
He stood at the top of the staircase, one hand resting on the carved obsidian railing. His mask was shaped like a wolf's skull, bleached white. His eyes—visible beneath—were mercury and fire.
He was not like the others. He was not trying to appear human.
Their eyes met. And the room fell away.
Seraphina couldn't breathe. Her chest tightened as he descended the stairs with the predatory grace of something ancient. Every step felt like a countdown.
When he reached her, he didn't speak. He simply offered his hand.
She took it.
His touch was cold. And it burned.
He led her into the heart of the ballroom where dozens of couples moved like phantoms, spinning and gliding to a melody stitched with magic and melancholy.
Lucien said nothing. His hand settled at the small of her back—possessive, like he had every right to touch her. Seraphina's breath hitched. His palm was cold through the velvet, but her skin tingled as if it had been touched by fire.
They began to dance.
He moved like silk and smoke—effortless, precise, each step drawing her deeper into the thrall. Seraphina tried to focus on her breathing, on the rhythm, but it was impossible under his gaze. Those silver eyes studied her, devoured her, as though reading thoughts she had not yet formed.
"You shouldn't be here," he said finally, his voice low and dark—like thunder whispering in a cave.
"You invited me," she replied, searching his face beneath the mask.
His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile.
"I did not."
"Then who—?"
"Someone… reckless."
His hand slid higher, fingers brushing bare skin between her shoulder blades. Her heart pounded.
"You're different from the others," he murmured, dipping his head near her neck. "You smell like blood and flame. Like something half-buried that wants to rise."
She shivered. "You don't even know my name."
"I don't need to."
Their bodies moved closer, the space between them vanishing with each rotation. She could feel the outline of his form through his fine clothing—hard muscle, unyielding control. The music slowed. Her breath caught again as his thumb brushed the side of her rib cage, barely concealed by her dress.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.
"No," she whispered.
"Liar." His voice was like velvet soaked in sin. "You should be."
He turned her suddenly, pressing her back to his chest, one arm curling around her waist. The motion was so fluid, so intimate, that it stole her breath. Together they swayed—no longer dancing, but moving as if choreographed by instinct, by something older than memory.
"I can hear your heart beating," he said, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "It's calling to me."
Seraphina gasped as his mouth hovered just above the line of her neck.
"But if I bit you…" He exhaled. "You wouldn't survive it. Not yet."
She turned in his arms, chest rising. "You sound disappointed."
"I am."
Their faces were only inches apart now. Her lips parted involuntarily. His breath was cool and scented with wine and something ancient. Her body ached—not just from desire, but from the strange heat curling in her veins, as if something inside her was waking.
Then—he was gone.
Vanished between one heartbeat and the next, leaving only cold air and the fading imprint of his touch.
Seraphina stood alone in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by masked strangers, her pulse pounding like war drums. She didn't know his name. But she knew one thing:
He was the reason she had been summoned.
And she would find him again.