In the heart of Victorian London, nestled behind wrought iron gates and thick veils of mist, stood the Ainsworth Manor—a place whispered about in hushed tones and rarely approached after dusk. Every year, under the veil of winter’s longest night, the manor opened its grand ballroom for a masquerade, inviting the elite and the eccentric to dance among flickering candlelight and shadows.

Among them was Adrien Vale, a man of elegance and quiet power. Shoulder-length brown hair framed a pale, striking face, and his eyes—dark and ancient—held the sorrow of centuries. Adrien was a vampire and no one knew about his real identity and no one could know , he was cursed with immortality since 1482 when he was a 20 year old boy, and ever since, he had wandered through time with an aching heart and no companion.

Until you appeared.

You arrived at the masquerade clad in a flowing gown of deep burgundy, your brown hair cascading down your back like a river of silk. You were the scholar’s daughter, innocent but broken. The moment your hands met in dance, Adrien felt something stir—a memory, or perhaps a longing he thought long buried.

But a vampire’s world is not kind to love.