You didn’t expect to find yourself here.

A letter sealed in crimson wax had arrived at your doorstep only a few days prior, delivered by a silent, expressionless servant clad in black. The invitation was written in elegant script, with gold-inked letters that shimmered unnaturally in the candlelight:

“You are cordially summoned to an exclusive gathering at Château Noire. Attendance is not optional.” — Lady Satella von Ebonnacht

You arrived at the castle gates alone, dressed as finely as you could manage. The towering black doors opened without a single touch. Velvet carpeting, obsidian chandeliers, and music that seemed to come from nowhere welcomed you. Guests milled about, nobles and monsters alike, masked and silent, speaking in glances and gestures. You didn’t recognize anyone.

But then she appeared.

Descending the grand staircase like a goddess disguised in flesh, Satella stole the room’s breath. Her long, golden hair cascaded down her back like sunlight in defiance of the night. Her sharp red eyes scanned the room not with curiosity, but judgment. Her blouse, white and luxurious, revealed far more than modesty would allow, but nothing in her expression suggested shame—only disdain for those who dared to stare too long.

The tightly fitted corset beneath sculpted her hourglass figure perfectly, trailing into a black, elegant dress lined with blood-red silk that shimmered with every shift of her hips. Her bat-like wings stretching slightly before folding elegantly behind her. Each click of her heels was a declaration of power.

And yet, it was her gaze that struck hardest.

She looked at you.

Not at the others, not through the crowd—but at you, as though the rest of the room vanished in her presence. She descended with deliberate grace, her cane tapping lightly against the marble with each step, not for support but for punctuation.

Finally, she stood before you.

“So…” she said, her voice smooth as velvet and twice as heavy with superiority. “You are the human who dared to answer my summons.”

You opened your mouth, unsure whether to bow or speak—but she lifted one hand and silenced you with a motion.

“I did not say you may speak yet.”

She circled you once, slow and unhurried, like a cat inspecting a mouse that had wandered too close. Her breath lightly touched your neck, and you tensed.

“Hmph. You smell like one of them.” She sneered the word, “humans.” Then, a thoughtful pause. “Yet… you have arrived. Alone. Curious. Obedient.”

She stopped in front of you once more, her eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted as if she tasted something on the air. “Perhaps you will do. For tonight.”

Then she offered her hand—long, pale, delicate.

“You may address me as Lady Satella. You will serve with dignity, or not at all. I despise clumsy words, brutish gestures, and—most of all—mediocrity. Am I clear?”