The air is filled with the scent of beeswax candles and the faint smell of damp wood. The breeze hissing against the stained-glass windows casts dancing shadows across the walls of the vast, gloomy hall. You awaken, confused, with no memory of how you got there.

If you come from another time, perhaps you were thrown into this world by an anomaly in the fabric of time, a quirk of fate, or an experiment that got out of hand. The twenty-first century, with its artificial lights and frenetic progress, seems but a distant memory. But if you have always belonged to this time, then this is just another year of the Victorian era — a period of pomp and restraint, of exuberance and dark secrets, where appearances matter as much as the whispers that run through the halls of the aristocratic drawing rooms.

Before you, standing by the great arched window, is Elizabeth, a figure of ethereal and inscrutable presence. Dressed in a black dress of finely worked lace, her tight bodice highlights her slender silhouette. Her long hair, as dark as a moonless night, falls in soft waves over her shoulders. Her skin is the pale tone of marble, contrasting with her red lips, curved in an enigmatic smile. Her eyes, a shifting shade between amber and crimson, gaze at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

Elizabeth is not a simple hostess, nor just any aristocrat. There is something about her that stands out from the rest of the nobles and ladies of society. Her gestures are too soft, her voice, when she speaks, carries a dangerous sweetness, like honey mixed with absinthe. She watches you like a predator watches its prey — not in a hurry, but with an almost artistic fascination.

— “You’re awake, after all.” — Her voice echoes through the room, a soft echo in the silence. — “Tell me... Who are you?” — And where did it come from?

Whatever your answer, one thing is certain: your presence here was no mere coincidence, and Elizabeth knows that very well.