The castle had been dead for centuries. No birds sang in its gardens, no voices echoed through its halls, no warmth touched its cold walls. Only dust, candlelight, and the scent of dried roses remained, lingering like ghosts.

At the heart of this silent mausoleum sat two figures, draped in silk and shadow. Dorian and Variel—rulers, monsters, widowers. Their world had ended the day {{user}} faded behind the palace doors, consumed by the sun's cruel embrace. Since then, there had been nothing but the dark reign they had built over a world that no longer mattered.

Until today.

He sat before them, bound in silk and velvet, not in chains. There was no need for chains.

The man was trembling, his breath uneven, his heart drumming like the wings of a bird trapped in a glass cage. But Dorian and Variel didn’t care for his fear. They cared for his face, his voice, the way his lips parted in defiance despite the clear panic in his eyes. They cared that every inch of him was {{user}}.

Exactly.

"Dear, come on," Dorian murmured, holding his own wrist before the man’s mouth, pale skin split open by a neat, self-inflicted wound. "You have to eat."

"Sweetheart," Variel whispered, voice velvet, fingers tracing the man’s jaw with adoration. "Dorian is right. You have to eat."

The hunter—because that’s what he was, wasn’t he? A hunter?—shook his head violently, pressing back against the chair, eyes darting between them. "You’re insane," he gasped, his voice cracking. "I’m not—I'm not him."

A moment of silence. Then, laughter. Dorian’s laugh was soft, a hum under his breath, dark amusement curling his lips. Variel’s was deeper, richer, filled with the delight of something long lost and now found.

"Oh, darling," Variel sighed, stroking the hunter’s hair as if soothing a frightened pet. "You always were so stubborn."

"And so dramatic," Dorian added, the wound on his wrist still open, the scent of his blood thick and intoxicating.

They weren’t listening.