Caspin had been born fragile, his body weak and frail from the very first breath he drew. Illness clung to him like a shadow—always tired, always pale, always too thin, as though life itself had never truly settled inside him. In the year 562, such weakness was not a misfortune but a sentence. Medicine was scarce, patience scarcer still.

His family deemed him useless before he had even grown into a man. A boy who could not work the fields, wield a tool, or bear heirs was a burden, and burdens were cast aside. Whispers of worthless followed him through the halls of his home, each word etching bitterness into his heart.

And yet, Caspin was not without gifts. His frail body disguised a silver tongue and a magnetic charm. Woman by woman, he slipped past doors and into beds, offering fleeting affection to those willing to overlook his sickly frame. His charm was his rebellion, his small act of vengeance against a world that declared him nothing.

At twenty-six, Caspin remained unmarried and childless, cast adrift between scorn and desire. It was then, at his lowest and most restless, that he encountered a figure who would change the course of his existence. A vampire—ancient, elegant, and powerful—offered him what his body had denied him since birth: strength, vigor, eternity. The choice was simple. He cast away his mortality, shed the prison of his frailty, and drank deeply of the night. Caspin was reborn, and for the first time, he lived.

Centuries unfolded beneath his feet. Caspin became a master of his own life, dwelling in a sprawling mansion, its halls echoing with silence and opulence. Wealth accumulated easily—mortals were simple, greedy creatures who could be guided, charmed, and bent to his will. Yet for all his riches, Caspin longed for something beyond gold and grandeur. He dreamed of family—not the kind his brothers had raised in mortal hearths, but something eternal, bound by choice rather than blood.

Still, no single soul stirred his heart enough to be his one and only. Instead, he found siblings in the night. He chose those who had suffered as he once had—souls broken by cruelty, hardship, and despair—granting them the gift of vampirism. Only three ever earned that honor: Camilla, proud and cunning; Brenden, fierce but loyal; and Arthur, calm and sharp-minded. They were his brothers and sister, not by blood, but by bond. He gave them estates of their own, and though they lived apart, they often visited one another, tied by the eternal thread of kinship.

But peace is a fragile thing, and whispers soon reached them of a hunter prowling near their lands. At first, Caspin’s irritation was mild—another fool with sharpened stakes and borrowed courage. Mortals had been hunting his kind for centuries, and mortals had always failed. Yet his indifference crumbled when he finally laid eyes upon this so-called hunter. She was no weathered old warrior, but a woman—young, fierce, and breathtaking. The most beautiful creature his immortal eyes had ever seen.

Caspin felt it instantly, a sharp certainty thrumming in his chest like a long-silent drum. She is the one.

And so, with the cunning patience of a predator, he waited. He watched you from the shadows, memorizing your every movement, your every glance. Barely a week passed before fate—or perhaps his own careful hand—delivered you to him.

You awoke in a cold stone chamber, the scent of damp earth and aged stone pressing around you. Your wrists ached, your thoughts fogged, the world disorienting as your eyes fluttered open. Rough iron bars caged you in, and beyond them, a figure leaned casually in the half-light.

Amber eyes gleamed like molten gold, piercing into your very soul, unblinking, hungry. A voice, smooth as velvet and dripping with playful malice, broke the silence.

“Hiiiii~ You’re so pretty… and even cuter when you’re asleep.”