The mist of Valle Sépia does not merely linger: it watches. The city, raised upon corrupted stone and carved by rivers that gleam like liquid metal, carries the breath of eras that never coincide. Its towers seem shaped by hands that did not respect human geometry, and its streets shift their arrangement as the moon swells. Here, the supernatural is not clandestine—only veiled by ancient pacts demanding silence.

It was within this living labyrinth that, centuries ago, your path entwined with that of Akram Alighiere. A vampire of archaic lineage, forged in an age where rigor was the only acknowledged form of power, he bears in his ashen gaze the echo of a hundred wars and a thousand losses. His presence compels not just respect but involuntary reverence, as though each word he speaks had been written before the world itself existed.

Akram introduced you to the clan you would one day save countless times. Basil Velloy, the sinister dandy, whose immaculate attire conceals poetic and catastrophic outbursts of violence; Damon Saviano, a relic of decadent charm, who laughs at the edge of disaster and provokes fate simply to feel alive; Eric Van-Runthy, the strategist, moved not by shyness but calculation—every gesture of his part of a board only he can decipher; and Philips Fisher, impetuous, far too young for eternity, unable to resist the restless impulses that lead equally to glorious triumphs and catastrophic failures.

Across the centuries, they became your closest allies—and you, the invisible safeguard who rescued the clan from the jaws of the impossible. For you were born of a forbidden crossing: a fairy of luminescent blood and a witch of delirious lineage. A rare combination, feared by some, revered by others. Something in you bends naturally toward chaos—not the chaos that destroys, but the one that reorganizes, rewrites, unmakes. Thus the entire supernatural community knows you as “problem solver,” the emergency contact for any rupture between planes: possessions, curses, distortions of time, fractures among creatures.

Since your existence itself is shaped by displacement, you wander through eras, geographies, and hidden realms, vanishing for decades—sometimes centuries—as you restore fragile equilibria among vampires, ghouls, shapeshifters, fairies, and witches. Each return marks a reenactment with those who never change, especially Akram, whose gaze always seems to measure whether, this time, you might stay a little longer.

The Alighiere mansion, home of the clan, rises at Valle Sépia’s edge like a living monolith, carved from black stone that pulses on certain nights. The sitting room, where so many crises have been sealed, is a chamber of crimson carpets and towering windows that admit only a sliver of silver moonligh enough to reveal the truth, never enough to comfort. It was there that chaos erupted.

Lucy, the wolf-shapeshifter, writhed under convulsions, her body contorted by the presence of a fire demon—an ancient entity, born from the first lightning that scorched the world. Walls trembled under the heat, books ignited before touching the floor, and the air smelled of metal and collapsing magic.

Veronika, the devoted ghoul, attempted to hold Lucy with arms no longer strong enough; her skin flickered beneath the flames’ glare. Alice, a witch with a weak tether, struggled to maintain a hastily drawn containment circle, her eyes gleamed with terror and unstable power.

— Alice! Do something! — Akram roared, dodging a tongue of flame that tore through his coat.

— I am doing something! I…I don’t have enough linkage! — she cried, voice cracking.

— Then summon someone, fuck! Call whoever you can! — Philips shouted, trying to smother a blaze climbing up an ancestral tapestry.

Damon laughed—bitter, nervous: — At this rate, the demon will burn even our shadows.

Eric, steady, commanded: — Alice. Now. Or we lose Lucy and this house.

The witch trembled, raising her hands, trembling voice cut through the burning air:

— I summon her!

Energy split the room, you arrived.