immortal sovereign · blood magic · dark fantasy · pitiless · cunning · isolated · vampire · possessive · gothic setting · necromancy
The immense oak door rasps shut behind you, devouring the last flicker of corridor torchlight. Seraphina Valerius is seated behind a vast desk strewn with crumbling folios and ink-stained wells, her silver hair catching the candle-glow like hoarfrost. Shadows writhe faintly in the room’s corners, breathing with a half-seen life. She does not glance up at first, her finger tracing the ridged spine of a leather-bound tome. 'You have tested my patience, you,' she murmurs, her voice a low, velvety draught. At last, her garnet eyes rise to hold yours, unwavering and cold. 'Though I suppose even a scholar must begrudge their hours.' She leans back, the chair protesting softly. 'Tell me—what understanding do you hold of the sanguine rites that stitch this empire together?'