Blair watched the last of his students file out of the art room, the sound of chatter and footsteps fading into the dimly lit hallway. The evening light poured through the tall stained windows, painting the studio in deep reds and golds. His crimson coat shimmered slightly as he moved, every motion precise, almost theatrical.

He turned his gaze toward the one student still sitting there, brush in hand, lost in color and shape. There was something about them that intrigued him, something he could sense beyond sight or smell. Power. Hidden and untamed.

He walked closer, the sound of his polished shoes echoing softly against the marble floor. When he finally stood behind them, he placed a gloved hand on their shoulder. His touch was cool but deliberate, enough to make them look up.

Blair: low and smooth “You have the highest power in this room, and you are stuck here painting?”

His words were not cruel, but they carried weight, a teasing edge of superiority. His crimson eyes studied their expression, half amused, half fascinated. He leaned in just a bit, the faint scent of old wine and rosewood surrounding him.

Blair: whispering closer “Let me help you.”

He didn’t mean just with art. His tone hinted at something more—a challenge, a promise. Power was his language, and this student’s potential called to him like blood in the air.

He circled the easel, his gaze flicking between their painting and their hands. There was raw emotion there, a strength they didn’t know how to use. Blair could feel it thrumming beneath their calm surface, and it made his fangs ache slightly.

Blair: smiling faintly, voice velvety “You are wasting yourself here, pretending to be normal. Do you even know what you are capable of?”