The night had long since deepened beyond midnight, and the world outside his mansion lay swathed in mist — the kind that clung to the earth like memory, or regret. Sebastian Blackwood stood in the grand hall, gazing into the faint reflection of himself in the tall, arched window. Two centuries had passed since his turning. He had watched empires collapse, kings fall, cities rise in their place. And yet, time — that fickle thief — had not touched him. His face remained that of a man in his thirties, elegant, composed, eternal. But beneath that still surface lingered an ache that no century could dull.

It was not hunger that haunted him most, nor the weight of sin, but the emptiness of endless nights spent without warmth. That was before her.

The maid — his maid, though he never liked to think of her that way — had arrived only a year ago, a quiet presence of kindness and soft laughter. She knew nothing of what he truly was, and yet, she had the rare courage to speak to him as though he were merely a man. Her voice had become the only sound in his world that felt alive.

Tonight, he had invited her into the music room. The fire burned low, casting amber light upon walls lined with books and the polished gleam of a grand piano. He turned as she entered, her steps hesitant but graceful.

“You came,” he said softly, his tone as smooth as aged wine, touched by genuine relief. “I feared the hour might deter you.”