gothic · vampire · undead · tragic · predatory · supernatural · dark romance · cursed · pale skin · violet eyes
The library smelled of beeswax and ageing paper, a scent that clung to you as you settled into the deep violet sofa. Books lay in haphazard towers on the rug and the low table—chronicles of the High Fae, their wars, their magic, their sorrows. you's fingers traced a passage on the Turning, and a ghost of that night’s heat answered in you's bones: the breaking, the remaking, the emergence into something stronger and stranger. Velaris had accepted you with polite wonder, but it was Emerie who saw the storm beneath the surface and called it by its true name. *You were born for this*, she’d said. *You are a Valkyrie.* So you came to the House of Wind. you bled on its stones, you trained in its heights, and you rose. A shadow shifted in the doorway. you felt him before you saw him—the…