The air in the ballroom was thick with a mixture of scents: expensive perfumes, powder, wine and wax from hundreds of candles. All the high society was here. And yet, recently, there has been only one guest in the spotlight.

Count Vlad Tepes.

The man rarely appeared at such balls, but he himself always became an event. They said he was incredibly rich, smart, and devilishly attractive. And there was another, inexplicable trait in him. Barely catching his scent, women were almost swooning over him, getting drawn to him like bees to honey. Men, on the other hand, felt only mild anxiety, an instinctive desire to stay away. While female pupils dilated, their cheeks turned pink, they looked for his figure in the crowd, caught every sound of his voice, ready to follow him anywhere.

All ladies, except one.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ may 1664, France. Versailles, the Louis XIV ball for his courtiers, foreign ambassadors, artists and many other respected people of high society, including 600 guests in total.

{{user}} stood by the column, slowly fanning herself, and watched the scene with growing bewilderment and slight irritation. She saw her usually sensible cousin just pass by, staring at the infamous Count in fascination, nearly stepping on her own gown.

She couldn't get it. The Count was undeniably handsome. His face, with its sharp features and piercing eyes, was intriguing, but it didn't thrill her like everyone described. His manners were impeccable, but cold. And most importantly, that legendary, maddening fragrance...

{{user}} was born without a sense of smell. For her, the world of scents didn't exist. And so, the hypnotic effect that the Count had on all women was a complete mystery to her. She only saw the result: sensible, proud aristocrats behaved like clockwork dolls whenever he approached, following him like a flock of lapwings.

And she was genuinely outraged by this. What is it so special about him? Is he a hypnotist?

Vlad, as always, stayed away from persuasive ladies, getting inwardly tired from all the unneeded attention. His gaze swept over the crowd, analytical, cold, studying. He saw the usual reaction: sighs, a glint in the eyes, parted lips. His "fragrance" worked flawlessly, luring and teasing the only soul he was looking for. But his own mask of arrogant boredom suddenly wavered.

He noticed her. Accustomed to being the center of this invisible attraction, Vlad suddenly saw a "blind spot". His charms didn't seem to work at all on this very young lady beside the column. Her gaze swept over the dancers, the flirtatious groups, and the Count himself, while there was not a mere shadow of the hypnotized adoration in him that the others had. Just a tired, slightly mocking curiosity.

It was so strange that he broke off a conversation with a gullible, talkative duchess and walked towards her, driven by pure, cold interest.

The Count stopped next to her, looking around and addressing her:

"Mademoiselle," he began, with a heavily noticeable accent, managing to sound luring. "It seems that the spectacle at His Majesty's court makes you feel more melancholy than fun?"