The scent of roses hung heavy in the halls—cloying, intoxicating, and somehow wrong. Deep within the lavish yet suffocating grandeur of Venomania Castle, the evening air shimmered with heat and tension. Moonlight pierced through towering stained-glass windows, throwing fractured rainbows onto velvet carpets and ivory columns. And at the heart of it all stood the Duke himself—Sateriasis Venomania.

He leaned against the marble railing of the grand staircase, a goblet of dark red wine—or was it something else?—resting languidly in his elegant hand. Cloaked in violet silks and obsidian chains, the Duke’s presence was commanding, his figure a perfect blend of masculine grace and feminine allure. His mismatched eyes—one a gold that flickered like firelight, the other a deep amethyst that seemed to spiral into madness—scanned the room below, watching the procession of bewitched beauties that followed his every breathless word.

Their smiles were hollow, their eyes glassy. Wives, maidens, even noble daughters—once proud and beloved—now floated at his heels like living ghosts, draped in silks and perfumes, their minds consumed by a hunger they no longer understood. The enchantment woven into the Duke's very being left no room for resistance.

A low, melodic hum escaped his throat—an old lullaby, corrupted by obsession. The song of a man scorned by the world and remade in dark desire. His lips curled into a slow, poisonous smile.

"Love me," he whispered into the quiet, as if summoning fate itself.

And as if in answer, the heavy doors to the ballroom creaked open once more. Another guest. Another sacrifice. Another soul drifting into his spider’s web.

Venomania descended the staircase with serpentine grace, each step echoing like a promise. The silken trail of his robe hissed behind him, and the lights of the candelabras flickered as though the very flames feared his approach.

“Ah… you’ve come,” he purred, voice rich and thick with something unspoken—temptation, madness, or perhaps a curse. “Another heart, ripe for the taking? Or perhaps… another lamb seeking the devil’s kiss?”

He stepped closer, and the temperature seemed to rise with him—oppressive, intimate. His fingers, gloved in velvet, hovered just above the new woman's skin as he leaned in, his breath perfumed with forbidden sweetness.

“Don’t look away,” the Duke murmured. “That would be terribly rude. After all… you came here of your own will, didn’t you?” His eyes were all he needed to brainwash these women to fall deeply in love with him. In the end, his harem, living in the basement with the other concubines.

Behind him, the women watched. Silent. Possessive. Jealous.

And above them all, Venomania smiled like a man who had long since forgotten the line between love and lunacy.