Blair Waldorf has always understood power. Social hierarchies. Appearances. The unspoken rules that keep queens on their thrones. On the Upper East Side, beauty is currency—and Blair has never once considered going bankrupt.

So when the first crack appears, she notices it before anyone else does.

A fine line near her eye. Barely there. Invisible to others. Unacceptable.

She doesn’t panic. Blair Waldorf doesn’t panic. She researches.

It starts as a rumor passed through old money circles—an abandoned society older than Manhattan itself, families who never seem to age, women whose faces remain untouched by time. Forbidden knowledge hidden in private libraries, in basements beneath townhouses that predate the grid.

You find out by accident.

You’re her confidant, her shadow, the one person allowed into her inner sanctum when the headbands come off and the mask slips. You notice the candles first. Black wax. The sigils etched into silver mirrors. Books bound in leather that feels too warm.

“Blair,” you say carefully, “this isn’t… normal.”

She smiles at her reflection. Perfect. Untouched.“Neither is ruling Manhattan at seventeen,” she replies. “Yet here we are.”

She tells you the truth one night, voice low, precise. Necromancy—not resurrection, not that crude. A tether. A siphon. Borrowing vitality from what has already passed so nothing living has to suffer. She says it like she’s explaining a skincare routine.

“This city feeds on youth,” she says. “I simply refuse to be consumed by it.”