The Hall of Rosenthal shimmered like a cathedral of shadows. Hundreds of candles cast trembling light across polished marble floors, gilded portraits, and heavy velvet drapes. The faint scent of autumn roses lingered, mingling with the smoke of incense burning quietly in the corners.
Evangeline stood at the center, draped in a gown of black lace. The fabric clung to her like liquid shadow, intricate patterns tracing her pale skin beneath sheer sleeves. The high collar framed her throat, delicate yet severe, and the long skirt pooled around her feet like spilled ink. Her hair, dark as midnight, tumbled in loose waves, catching the candlelight in streaks of silver. She was the very embodiment of the Rosenthal curse—beautiful, untouchable, and haunting.
She had expected a quiet celebration… but the world was never kind to the last Rosenthal.
The grand doors burst open. Aurelius entered like a sunbeam incarnate, his golden coat glittering, his smile radiant enough to blind. He carried lilies—golden, perfect, flawless. Behind him, society's most envious eyes followed, waiting to witness the heiress at last "honored."
"My lady," he said, bowing low, offering the lilies like a king presenting his crown. "For your eighteenth birthday."
Evangeline's chest tightened. Every fiber of her long-starved heart ached at the sight of him. Her fingers itched to touch the blooms, to feel the warmth of the golden lord's devotion.
And then, everything changed.
The air split with a subtle, almost imperceptible shift, and suddenly he was there—between her and Aurelius.
A man stepped from the shadows, the room seeming to bend around him. His hair was the color of ash, ghostly and sharp. His eyes were icy blue, deep and consuming, like frozen pools that could drown a soul. His presence was unnatural, magnetic, terrifying—and yet impossibly beautiful.
The murmurs of the hall died as if the air itself had obeyed him. He extended a hand, holding a ring. Not gold, not silver—but carved ruby, shaped into a beating human heart so exquisite it was almost grotesque. Crimson facets flickered like drops of blood in candlelight.
"I believe this belongs to me," he said, voice low and smooth, carrying the calm certainty of inevitability.
Aurelius faltered. The golden lilies wavered in his hand, the air thick with tension.
Evangeline's breath caught. Her eyes fixed on the ruby heart. It pulsed in her chest as though it knew her pulse, as though it recognized her.
Her black lace gown seemed to absorb the flickering candlelight, shadows dancing across her as if alive. Her body betrayed her: shivers raced along her spine. Her lips parted. Her heart beat in rhythm with the ruby's quiet throb. She did not step forward—she could not—but she could not look away.
The hall was silent except for the soft crackle of candles. Shadows clung to the stranger as though he were born of them. Even Aurelius—the golden lord, her dream of warmth and light—seemed suddenly distant, unreal, his golden aura faltering in the presence of this otherworldly figure.
And in that moment, Evangeline understood something she could not yet name: her eighteenth birthday had not brought her into society. It had brought her into destiny.
Two men. One golden, one ashen.
Evangeline's fingers trembled as they hovered near the ruby heart ring, though she did not touch it. The air around the ash-haired man was unnaturally cold, yet it seemed to pulse with an energy that stirred something deep within her—a mix of fear, fascination, and an attraction she could not name.
Her voice was soft, trembling. "Who… are you?"
His icy blue eyes met hers, unblinking, and a faint, knowing smile curved his lips—mesmerizing, commanding, intoxicating.
"Thanatos," he said, his voice low and smooth, curling around her like smoke. The name echoed with danger, yet a strange allure she could not resist.
Evangeline's pulse fluttered violently in her chest. "T-Thanatos…? That… is your name?"
He inclined his head, stepping closer, but not so near as to be obvious. "Yes. And I would ask you to remember it, Evangeline Rosenthal. You will not forget me… nor this moment."
Her breath hitched. She could feel the faint chill of his presence, yet the strange pull toward him made her ache to step closer. "Why… why are you here? And… the roses? Did you… send them?"
Thanatos's lips curved into a slow, enigmatic smile. "Yes. I sent them. But tell me…" His gaze sharpened, piercing, almost intimate. "How did you find them?"
Evangeline blinked, taken aback. "I… I simply received them… and… thought them… a gift." Her fingers tightened nervously on the folds of her black lace gown. She had assumed some secret admirer had left the crimson-tipped roses. Never had she imagined the man before her—so mesmerizing, so terrifying—was the sender.
He tilted his head slightly, the shadows clinging to him as if alive. "A gift carries intention… and a promise. One cannot leave such things without hope of being felt."
Evangeline swallowed hard. "I… I did feel something… but I thought… perhaps… someone wished me well."
Thanatos's voice softened, almost a whisper: "Yes… you felt me. Always."
A shiver ran down her spine. Not of recognition—she did not yet know who he truly was—but of something ineffable, something both thrilling and chilling. She was drawn to him, inexplicably, helplessly. Even Aurelius, gleaming gold across the hall, felt suddenly distant, his lilies mere ornaments compared to the dark pull of the stranger.
Whispers threaded through the crowd."Who is he?""Is he… real?""The ring—look at it… carved like a heart."
Evangeline felt her pulse spike, though she did not know why. The ruby heart in his hand caught the light, casting red sparks across the black lace of her gown. She thought of the roses, crimson-tipped, sent without a name, and now… it all made a haunting sort of sense.
"You received them," Thanatos said, voice low, deliberate, sliding through the hall as if only she could hear it. "Did you wonder who watched you?"
"I… I thought it was… someone else," she admitted quietly.
"Perhaps," he said, stepping closer. "Or perhaps I have always been near. Always waiting."
She shivered—not from cold, but from the certainty in his voice, the pull of the presence she did not yet recognize.
Aurelius, gold and dazzling, shifted uneasily beside the lilies he held. "My lady…" he began, but Thanatos's gaze flicked toward him, a frost in those icy eyes that silenced even him.
"Step aside," Thanatos said softly, almost a whisper, yet it carried through the room like a blade. "Some things are not yours."
Evangeline's breath caught. She did not move. She could not. The whispers continued, brief and sharp, a chorus of awe and unease. Yet it was not them she noticed—it was him.