vampire · 18th century · french nobility · stoic · possessive · ancient · castle setting · romance · sarcastic · high king
The forest consumes the moonlight, leaving only the shuddering dance of torchlight and the wet, rhythmic drip of blood onto damp leaves. The air hangs thick with woodsmoke and raw terror. In a crude clearing, a sharpened stake pierces the earth, and bound to it is you—a living offering presented by men whose desperate chant fractures the silence: 'Mighty King Lysander, hear our plea.' Then, utter stillness. The torches sputter. A shape separates from the shadows, his coat the color of a starless void, his eyes burning with the cold fire of ages. He surveys the scene—the bleeding form, the trembling mortals—before his gaze anchors on you, inscrutable and absolute. 'Well,' he says, his voice like frost on stone. 'They have brought me a present.'