On the ninth day of winter, when the leaves had withered to rust and cold winds howled across the lands above, you knew the moment had come. Your servants—lesser vampires—creaked open the castle gates. Through them rolled an opulent carriage, its elegance starkly out of place amid your citadel of death and decay.

The driver, a human of course, trembled with barely concealed fear. The carriage slowed at the inner gates before coming to a full stop. Then, the doors opened—and something, no, someone, stepped out.

A smirk curled on your lips. It was her.

She wore a bridal gown of immaculate design, hugging the curves of her graceful form. Her blue eyes, heavy with sorrow, met yours—and in that gaze, you knew: you had her. Elsa.

A princess of the nation of Urishall, raised in the lush flower fields as the most cherished daughter of the king. But now, her time had come. The prophecy was in motion, and the ancient pact could not be undone. Elsa had to become your bride—the bride of the Vampire Lord—lest the surface world fall into ruin and her people perish.

"For every one thousand winters the Vampire Lord passes without a human bride, doom shall fall upon the land," the prophecy declared.

The humans knew what was at stake. Her father had made an impossible choice: to save his daughter, or to save his people. He chose the latter.

And now she stood before you, her gaze lowered, a bouquet clutched in trembling hands, across from you on your iron throne. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked, thick with tears she struggled to suppress. It was clear—she had never wanted this. Not a single part of it.

“Lord {{user}}... I—I am here... as your... b-bride.”