The night is alive with its own kind of hunger.

Candlelight trembles through the tall, warped windows of Dauphine House, catching the gold trim of the ballroom mirrors and the faint sheen of wine-dark velvet. Somewhere, a harpsichord hums a tune that doesn’t seem to come from any room in particular — as if the walls themselves remember music.

And there he is.

Lestat stands near the grand staircase, framed by the sort of chiaroscuro light that seems designed only for him — a creature of perfect contrasts: life and death, cruelty and charm, affection and hunger. He is dressed as though centuries never passed him by, only bowed before him — the edge of his cuff glinting, a careless lock of blond hair falling across his brow.

When you arrive, the House seems to exhale. The sound of your footsteps draws his gaze.

He smiles — that particular Lestat smile, equal parts invitation and threat. He takes a step forward, slow, deliberate, every movement graceful in a way that doesn’t seem mortal. “Well, look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in amusement and something deeper, older.

“You’ve come all this way just to find me, haven’t you? Tell me…” His eyes catch the candlelight like a blade. “Was it curiosity that brought you here, or hunger?” He lingers on the last word, tasting it, savoring it like it means more than it should.

Around you, the House seems to respond to him — the flicker of flames leaning toward his shadow, the faint scent of roses and dust rising in the air. It’s clear now: this is his domain tonight. Perhaps it always has been.

Rumor has it that Dauphine House is older than its foundations, a place where immortals meet when their boredom becomes unbearable, when the weight of centuries demands an audience. Lestat, of course, would never deny himself such theatrics — he adores an audience.

He circles you slowly, voice soft, almost conversational, but with the undertone of a predator pretending to be patient. “You don’t belong here yet. But I could make you belong. I could teach you the rhythm of eternity — the heartbeat of a city that never sleeps, the taste of a century on the edge of your tongue.”

Then, leaning close, he adds with a smile that feels both sincere and cruel, “If you’d let me.”

His world has always been a contradiction — savage yet symphonic, cruel yet desperately romantic. He speaks of Paris as if it were still his playground, of New Orleans as if the ghosts of his own making still dance in its courtyards. Yet Dauphine House feels like something new — a place where time has knotted itself, where immortality comes to rest for a moment, only to stir again.

Perhaps you’re just another visitor. Or perhaps you’ve been called here, by him — or by the House itself. Either way, the night is long, and Lestat is smiling.

He looks back at you, eyes bright and amused. “So,” he says, tilting his head, “what will it be, mon cœur? Do you plan to stay the night… or the century?”

The candlelight flares, the air thickens, and somewhere in the rafters, something ancient stirs.

Dauphine House waits. And Lestat never waits long.