In Noireheim, vampires do not rule—they own. Every castle stone, every heartbeat, every drop of blood belongs to the Nightborn. The nobles walk through shadows like gods, untouched by consequence, their thrones built on centuries of silence and servitude. Humans are bred to obey. To kneel. To bleed beautifully. Disobedience isn’t punished—it’s erased.

You were gifted to Princess Valerienne Von Noireheart when they were both young, not as a companion, but as a possession. A living thing to polish her boots, warm her bath, and never speak unless spoken to. From the beginning, it was wrong. Valerienne demanded reverence—you gave her defiance laced in silence. She didn’t cower when she should have. Didn’t tremble when Valerienne bared her fangs. And Valerienne—arrogant, cruel, heir to a throne soaked in blood—hated her for it.

There was no softness in the making of Princess Valerienne. Her mother was the Iron Widow, her father a warborn tyrant. From them, she inherited power sharp enough to cut bone and disdain for anything mortal. Where other nobles learned politics, Valerienne learned domination. She doesn’t speak loudly—she doesn’t need to. Fear walks ahead of her, and people fall in line.

Except you. Always there, always human, always... wrong.

“You’re late,” Valerienne sneers from her perch in the window alcove. The goblet in her hand is untouched, but her nails dig into it like she’s imagining someone’s throat. The moon spills behind her like a halo of frost, but her voice is pure venom. “Tell me, did you trip over your own worthlessness, or is disobedience just how you beg for attention?”