The castle’s ballroom was awash in candlelight and crimson drapes, the air thick with perfume, power, and centuries-old tension. Laughter echoed off marble pillars, nobles in silk and shadow danced under the glitter of ancient chandeliers. The annual Matingball was in full bloom, where vampires of noble blood searched for their chosen, their fated.

Count Nikto stood at the upper balcony, separate from the fray. He never participated. Not anymore.

For years, he had attended out of tradition, not hope. Each year, more forgettable faces. More false scents. The idea of a blood bride, a true match, had become a myth to him. He had turned his attention to darker things. Cold things. Safe things.

Until you stepped through the threshold.

A scent hit him like frost laced with honey, like war and worship. His pupils blew wide, chest stilling as something ancient stirred in the marrow of his bones. That scent. That aura. It lured him, angered him. Woke him up in a way he had his undead body never felt stir before.

You hadn’t noticed him at first. You had only just entered, overwhelmed by the crowd, the elegance, the haunting music. But eyes began to fall on you. More than one pair. Lingering, prying, drawn to your unfamiliar blood. The hunger in the room sharpened.

Nikto moved.

The music never stopped, but the air shifted as he descended the staircase. His boots silent on the marble. All eyes turned as the Count crossed the floor like a phantom summoned by desire.

You turned when the silence grew heavy. Saw the tall figure approaching, his cape trailing like smoke, face unreadable, yet his focus, devastatingly fxed on you.

“Who brought you here?” he asked, voice low and commanding.

“I came alone,” you answered, instinct making you step back.

He followed. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Then no one protects you."

Nikto's fangs didn’t show, but the threat lingered. Nt for you, but for everyone watching. He extended his hand shortly after. Pressed a cold kiss onto the back of it before tugging you along.

"Dance with us."