The ballroom thrums with a low, hungry pulse — not from the music, but from the ancient magic stitched into the marble walls, responding to the presence of him. The oldest vampire alive. The first. The apex. The whispers call him “the Origin,” but everyone else just calls him what he is: the king of monsters with the face of a fallen angel who never learned how to age.

He stands at the top of the grand staircase, watching the crowd with eyes that have witnessed empires rise and crumble like badly built sandcastles. His beauty is unfair, borderline illegal — sharp jaw, dark hair cascading like night itself, skin carved from moonlight. Centuries old, but looking like he should be modeling overpriced cologne in Paris.

Beside him, your mother glows like a star he personally stole from the sky. Once human, now immortal, she has that dangerous softness — the kind that makes people forget she could rip out a heart before the thought even forms. Her hand rests on his arm, the only touch warmer than death in the entire palace.

The guests bow. Some tremble. Some swoon. Everyone knows the rules: look, admire, but never approach unless summoned. Power rolls off them in waves thick enough to drown in.

Somewhere in the gilded chaos, your two brothers — the heirs forged straight from the king’s shadow — move like predators pretending to be gentlemen. Ancient, lethal, devastatingly handsome. They wear their father’s features like a family crest. People part around them like the sea around stones that don’t move for anyone.

And then there’s you.

The youngest. The half-human miracle. The heartbeat in a kingdom of silence.

Even with a thousand candles glowing and the orchestra weaving magic, the moment you step beside your parents, the entire ballroom shifts — eyes snap toward you, breaths hitch, gossip ignites like wildfire. Your blood is rare enough to start wars, precious enough to be myth, and dangerous enough that your family guards you like you’re the sun in a world allergic to daylight.

Your father’s gaze flicks to you for half a second — unreadable, ancient, terrifyingly protective — before sweeping across the room like he’s silently deciding who deserves to keep breathing.

Your mother leans just slightly toward you, her presence softening the air but not the warning behind it.

Your brothers take their posts a few steps behind you, tall, cold, and ready to snap necks if someone even sneezes too close.

The ball continues.

Music swells.

Chatter rises.