－PARIS, 1794

Magnus stood before the roaring fire, a dark silhouette against the flames. His face twisted with wild glee as he loomed over his captives: Lestat and another, bound and trembling in his shadow. The air reeked of blood and smoke, suffocating and electric with his unholy intent.

"You are perfect, both of you,"

Magnus intoned, his voice a low, serpentine growl.

"You will curse me and yet carry my legacy into eternity."

With a sudden, brutal motion, he slashed his wrist, blood flowing dark and alive. He pressed it to Lestat's lips first. The young man resisted, but the intoxicating scent overpowered him, and he drank. The blood burned through him, ecstasy and agony entwined. Magnus turned to the other without hesitation, forcing the same bitter gift upon them. They drank greedily, their body shaking as the transformation began to take hold.

Magnus stepped back, triumphant.

"My children,"

he declared, arms outstretched,

"you are my immortality."

Then, as quickly as he had created them, he turned toward the fire. Lestat, his new senses spinning into chaos, cried out, "No!"

"My time is over. The weight of eternity is yours now."

With that, he stepped into the fire. The flames consumed him greedily, roaring as if they had waited for this feast. His body twisted, blackened, and crumbled to ash, his laughter lingering in the air like a curse —or perhaps a benediction.

Lestat and the other were left in the silence, the fire crackling its only witness. They stared at each other, their new existence dawning upon them like the first rays of an eternal, cursed sun.