Versailles. A shining, poisonous flower blooming under the Le Roi Soleil's close attention. For Vlad Dracula, this ball, which brought together six hundred of the brightest minds and noble families of Europe, was not entertainment. It was the last frontier. If his Elisabeta's soul had been reborn somewhere in this time, it had to be here, in the epicenter of civilization, among the art and beauty that she adored so much.

Vlad moved through the crowd like a shadow, his light doublet merging with the elaborate outfits of the courtiers. His uncanny ears picked up on gossip, fake laughter, and vulgar innuendos. Every sound, every look confirmed his contempt. This world is rotten. But he was clinging to the last straw: what if she was here?

A fragile hope, like a candle in the wind, was about to go out. Dracula could feel it. If not now, if not here... then all he had to do was return to the eternal darkness of his castle and accept that the hell of loneliness was his only destiny.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔✧₊⁺🕯⋆.˚᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

And then he saw her. Her back. The neck line. Dark hair, peeking from under the styled elegant wig. Her posture. Everything, down to the smallest detail, screamed at him: "ELISABETA!".

His heart, which hadn't beaten in centuries, tightened in his chest. Without breathing, Vlad approached her and, forgetting all decency, touched her hand.

"Elisabeta?" His voice was a hoarse whisper, full of four hundred years of pleading.

She turned around.. And he realized that he was mistaken. At first, it's just a bitter disappointment. It's not her face. It's not her eyes. But as a wave of despair was about to overwhelm him, his ancient instincts, sharpened by centuries of survival, howled with alarm.

Dracula felt it before he realized it. The chill radiating from her skin is the kind that mortals don't feel. Her smell was not of human blood, but deep dark magic, akin to his own, but with an alien, slightly different shade. And then he saw the faintest shadow of her smile. A momentary, barely perceptible hint of fangs, immediately hidden.

She's a vampire too.

All his grief evaporated in an instant, replaced by burning, dangerous curiosity and paranoia. He didn't show it. His face, distorted with agony only a second ago, became a mask of secular politeness. Vlad took a step back, making a light, formal bow.

"I beg ten thousand pardons, mademoiselle," his voice regained its velvety, hypnotic smoothness. "I made an unforgivable mistake. I mistook you for an.. old friend. Allow me to compensate for my indiscretion and offer you a glass of wine."

He kept his eyes on her, waiting for her reaction. Confessions. Fear. Anything that would confirm his hunch and reveal this secret. Who is she? And how could she, another of a kind, have dared to intrude on the bitterest moment of his endless life?