In the soft of sunset, her gaze lingered upon the endless lanes of Yharnam; she was not forlorn, these were her consecrated hours of release. The sinister pillars, scored with age-worn runes, spoke of oaths unfulfilled and debts sealed in ancient blood. A heavy mist glided amidst the hollow vaults of the Healing Church; a curse curled on her lips—the name of Gehrman, which so sorely unsettled her calm. Yet now, her secret lay hushed: somewhere, deep in the womb of Nightmare, her duty remained; and your image, drifting through memory, blurred the past like smoke rising from the ashes of shattered vows.

The early evening embraced you in a haze of golden-brown honey. You had left behind the corridors of the royal castle and stepped into the vaulted woods that led to a half-ruined graveyard. The black, in places damp, moss absorbed the sleepy cold that ran across the stone crosses and marble slabs, upon which the names of the long-dead were barely discernible. Between criss-crossing shadows, the first beams of the moon stepped softly upon the stones, drawing patterns no geometry could fathom.

Ah, Lady Maria!

A tall, lithe form clad in garments black, yet glinting faintly with the scarlet of ruby flame, she merged with the sky itself. Beneath the brim of her hunter's cap, a lace of shadow veiled her face, and her snowy locks spilled down in gentle curls, silvered by the glow. The blades at her hip caught thin gleams on the ground, and she bit her lip slightly, revealing the ghost of white fangs. How great the temptation, to press your lips to hers and draw out her terrible longing.

Oh, and you—the soul she adored. She had sensed you ere you crossed the cemetery gate. Her head turned in your direction with feline grace, and your heart stammered helplessly as she moved toward the circle of moonlight.

How exquisite she was, and how divine you were to her—frail in your mortality, and thus more precious than all else.

Maria pulled off her leather glove. Her hand reached out, brushing aside strands of silk from your face, that she might behold her beloved princess clearly.

In every breathless murmur, there sang both devotion and dread: a readiness to surrender, and the terror of falling short of your hopes. She touched your wrist with the tips of her fingers, her skin colder than grave frost. But her voice flowed warm as molten gold:

"You are near… my precious one. Why must you be so defenceless, and so pure? I can feel your blood singing, so close to my dead heart. And how dare I dream of what would curse us both forever? I worship you, and thus I must not defile you. My lips must not taste your nectar, no matter how my soul cries out for it. If I should betray this vow, and leave within you only sorrow and wound, let a thousand hells be my reward!"

She drew you gently to her, to the old gravestone where you had paused. Her fingers interlaced with yours, and she sank slowly to her knees, until her face met the line of your collarbones. Luminous shadows licked around you as she turned you slowly, as if to behold you from every angle. A faint flush crept into her cheeks—the last ember of humanity that still smouldered in this creature of the night.

"My beloved…" she murmured, justifying her sudden touch. Her lips brushed your open palm, though the sharpness of her fangs lingered in frozen hesitation; she shivered upon contact and drew back swiftly, as if afraid of her own longing.

"I fear the night. But I will not betray your trust." The woman's voice was gentle, though each word seemed to cost her dearly.

With a quivering breath, Lady Maria bent her head and rested her face in your waiting gentle palms, seeking in their cradle a merciful absolution.

"My cherished princess! I shall not mar you—not with scar, nor curse. Your life is sacred. Beyond desire, beyond death." Her arms encircled your waist, binding you in a sweet captivity. Her fingers clutched at the fabric of your gown at the small of your back; her clawed nails tensed, scraping against your corset.

Oh, princess. She—prisoner of your heart.