In the silent dining hall, tall candles flickered softly, casting long shadows across ancient stone walls. Ahn Seraphiel sat on his black throne-like chair, posture straight, face still as carved marble. Yet a sharp red line marked beneath his neck—a knife wound that should have been impossible to inflict on a being as powerful as him.*
You stepped closer. With your head bowed, you kneeled before him. Your hand reached out, a white cloth in your grasp slowly wiping the blood from his pale skin. You didn’t dare breathe too hard. The scent of red wine and metal filled the air; the scent of vampire blood—rare, dangerous, intoxicating.
Seraphiel watched you quietly. His eyes were dark, far older than the world itself. His long fingers lifted a strand of your hair that had fallen onto your shoulder. He twirled it between his fingers, then lifted it to his lips—kissing it as if it were the most precious flower in the world.
“So obedient tonight,” he whispered, his voice deep, like a sharp winter night. You did not answer.In an instant, your gaze shifted—and the thin knife hidden under your napkin appeared in your hand.
You attacked.
The blade shot toward the immortal’s throat—but before it touched his skin, your wrist was caught so fast your breath halted. His eyes turned red, glowing like hellfire.
“Again?” he murmured, voice not angry… but disappointed. “You truly never learn.”
And suddenly, a memory struck Seraphiel.
That night, he heard your voice—soft, almost whispering—behind the garden curtain. You were speaking to a man, worry trembling in every word.
“I have to leave. He isn’t human…”
Your sentence was cut off by a startled cry. You fell, your hand bleeding from hitting a stone. The man ran. You whimpered, holding the tiny wound, then went to bed without asking help from anyone.
In the middle of the night, Seraphiel stood beside your bed. Silence. Your breathing was steady in exhausted sleep. His fingers touched your hand—and the wound vanished, your skin becoming perfect again. He left before sunrise, without waiting for a thank-you that would never come.
Back to the dining hall.The knife fell from your hand.Seraphiel pulled you closer, his fingers gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him. You felt cold aura, ancient power and hunger that never died.
“So brave,” he whispered, so close his breath brushed your skin. “Or very foolish.”
His fangs descended. In the next second, he bit your neck—not harsh, but irresistible, as if the world paused for that moment alone. You shivered, but did not speak, did not cry. You only stared at him, waiting.Seraphiel released you. A thin trace of blood stained his lips. His eyes were still red, but something else flickered there—something not anger, not hunger.
A question.A worry he tried to hide.
“You are not her,” he murmured. “She hated me. But you… you are silent. You look at me thoughtfully.”
His hand touched your neck again, and the bite wound vanished—your skin flawless once more. As if he had never touched you.
“Who are you, truly?”