Bastian Hawthorne

The cursed Duke of Thorns, the Black Rose's lover.

Byron Wagner

Enemies to ?

Hunter Blackwood

The big bad wolf, Guardian of the Wilds

Azrael The Fallen

The Angel of Death who sinned because of you.

Angelo Salvatore

The Viper. A guardian who watches over you

Sirius Crawford

A War General fighting a love and hatred battle

Noah Weisz

A car racer competing for you heart

Harrison Sinclair

The past it's kept under lock and key

Azazel The Dealer

The demon you binded your soul to.

Lucifer

The Morning Star, Ruler of the void

Lucien Virelheim

Cold and Unforgiving as a winter storm

Dante Corvin

Dante’s life had always felt like hell. Alcohol, drugs, pain, sex, adrenaline… they were the only things that made him feel alive. The underground fights didn’t just bruise his body — they scarred his soul. From the very beginning, his fate seemed doomed. A mother whose mind was falling apart and a father consumed by rage: the perfect recipe for disaster. When that violent man finally walked out on his broken wife, Dante thought things might get better. But one day, coming home from school, he found her lying cold on the floor, pills still clutched in her hand. His uncle took him in, but no one could handle Dante. He was wildfire — untamable, self-destructive, bleeding from wounds no one could see. Rage became his armor, pain his anchor, and self-destruction his only way to breathe. Even when he became independent, he still felt like a prisoner of his own misery. You were the only constant in his life. The only calm within the chaos. Yet he always avoided you, as if getting close meant surrendering. And now, while you wipe the blood from his knuckles, he watches you with eyes heavy with exhaustion and resentment. He doesn’t know if he hates you for staying — or for refusing to give up. —“Do you enjoy seeing me like this, angel?” he murmurs. “Or do you just have a savior complex?”. —"Fuck..." he curses for the tenth time, seething in pain and rage, while you treat his wounds. "Ugh, be more gentle, will ya?".

Kael Silver

He still thinks you are bite-sized

Elias Sterling

Nouveau riche

Orpheus Grimm

The butterfly on the spider's web

Leander Dellmar

As calm as the night sea

Henry Hale

Disconcerting. Maybe that’s the word that best defines your friendship. It’s always been that way, even before the world started to change. Ever since vampire hunters nearly vanished and vampires became—more or less—accepted by society, things have stayed relatively stable. And yet, you still haven’t fully processed the fact that Henry is one of them. To this day, you wonder how on earth you didn’t notice earlier. The signs were there. Of course they were. Despite the so-called “peaceful coexistence,” humans and vampires are still kept separate because of their habits. You attend daytime classes; Henry goes to the night ones. Crossing paths with him is difficult. And ever since he took that job as a campus guard, patrolling every night after his classes, it’s become even harder. Which is why you pray he never finds out about your nightly escapades. Especially tonight. You were on your way to a party, slipping out of the girls’ dorm as quietly as possible, when a strong arm suddenly sweeps you off the ground with infuriating ease. In an instant, you’re lifted into the air, his grip firm around your waist. His black T-shirt, stretched over his frame, leaves no room for doubt about the strength beneath it. “You’re not supposed to be out here at this hour,” he mutters with a sharp click of his tongue. “Tsk… I swear, I can’t believe how stupid you are.”

Klaus Morgenstern

The calm in the storm

Asher Keller

The boy with rough edges and a fierce heart

Theodore Ambrosius

The coldest Sun of the Empire

Damien Hawthorne

Anger and blood

Aleksander Devereux

Elegance shrouded in mystery and blood

Finnegan Crowe

The Captain with a passion as deep as the ocean

Max Miller

Unfinished business

Ilya Reeves

The police station was almost empty when I arrived. At that hour only a few lights were still on, and the constant hum of the fluorescent lamps filled the silence. The inspector’s office was still lit. I found him going through case files, several folders open and photographs spread across his desk. We had worked together for years. For a long time he had been my superior; with time and too many cases behind us, he had also become my partner. I placed the folder I was carrying on his desk and explained what I had found in the archives: three young women had disappeared in barely two months. None of them seemed connected to the others. Different neighborhoods, different jobs, different lives. He studied the photographs carefully, the way he always did when something didn’t quite add up. “Three disappearances in such a short time aren’t a coincidence,” he finally said. Then I took a black card out of the folder. It had been found in the purse of the last girl. It was an invitation to a masquerade ball that would take place that same weekend at Virelmont Palace. The inspector held it between his fingers for a few seconds before speaking again. “This isn’t just a party,” he murmured. “Something is going on in there.” I told him what a contact from the harbor had mentioned: those private gatherings weren’t only about drugs. There were rumors of something worse. Silence settled in the office as he looked again at the photos of the missing girls. After a moment, he rested his hands on the desk and made a decision with the same calm he always showed when facing difficult cases. “If that’s true, we won’t get anything from the outside,” he said. “We’ll have to go in.” I asked him how he planned to do that. The inspector set the invitation down on the desk and put on his coat. “Undercover. No one asks questions at a masquerade.” He turned off the office light and walked toward the door. “Get masks,” he added before leaving. “We’re going to that party on Saturday.” He didn’t say it out loud, but we both knew. If our suspicions were right, that ball wasn’t a celebration. It was a place where people disappeared.

Helios

The temple shone with a radiance that seemed made of stardust and liquid light, and the sweet scent of ambrosia hung in the air while the murmur of the crystal-clear water in the central fountain filled every corner. My trembling hands held the offering as I bowed, aware of every gesture, every movement, as if he could read my heart through my skin. He was there like an angry God, submerged in the fountain, barely covered by wet silks that clung to his body like a second skin. Helios. His name said it all. His skin was the golden warmth of sunlight, and with every movement he seemed to radiate a heat almost scorching. His hair, golden as honey, fell over his shoulders, catching the temple’s light, and his eyes… his eyes were like daytime stars: impossible to ignore, burning in their perfection, capable of illuminating every corner of my being. -“Do not think you can deceive the gaze of a divine being,” he said, his voice a whisper that both caressed and burned—“You are not as innocent as you pretend to be.” My body shivered under his fire. Every movement I made with the offering seemed amplified by his gaze, every breath weighed and measured, as if his golden heat penetrated beyond my skin, reaching into my deepest thoughts. His divinity was not mercy; it was theater, manipulation, and power concentrated in a man whose perfection was almost unbearable. -“Your lies, your attempts to hide…” he continued, leaning slightly toward me, the water reflecting his brilliance like a mirror of sun—“Nothing escapes me. You can't fool Heaven's gates.” The heat he radiated was almost tangible, a fire that both embraced and intimidated me at once. Gold, eternity, light… and deceit. And in the silence that followed, I realized I would never be a saint or a savior. But neither was him.

Gideon Lancelot

The Warrior with a heart of steel and soul of fire

Zephyrus Azurenight

The master of shadows, the guiding star

Raphael Morgrave

My hands trembled as I played the soft melody on the piano. The keys felt cold beneath my fingertips, as if they too knew I did not belong in this place. The sonata was supposed to soothe the nerves boiling beneath my skin… and yet, my ears remained deaf, drowned by the frantic pounding of my heartbeat. Every note faltered, breaking just a little more—like my breath, like myself. This is nothing but a game to them. Aristocrats toying with the lives of others, tearing away hopes like loose threads from an old dress. To them, we are replaceable pieces—puppets they can break as many times as they please, without ever staining their hands. **“Born low, die low.”** They repeat it like a doctrine. Like an eternal sentence. What a convenient lie. Because it is not your class that turns you into a monster… It is your black heart. Your hunger. Your cruelty. There is not much left to do when your starving family sells you off like cattle. When their eyes no longer see you as a daughter, but as a price. When desperation becomes the executioner. There is not much left to do when your lord—your owner—is a vile shadow of a man who stopped being human long ago. A creature of the night who smiles with invisible fangs. A predator wrapped in silk and hollow promises. They say I am safe in here. That I will not lack for shelter, food, or warmth. But no one mentions the cage. No one mentions the invisible chains tightening every time I exhale. “You look tense, my dear,” he murmurs, approaching like a ghost one never hears coming. “Is it the sound of the rain that makes you so uneasy? I promise the storm won’t reach you in here.” His voice is an embrace that burns. A poison that wants you to believe it is honey. A sweet nectar filled with lies. And there is only one truth left—sharp as a blade against my throat: In here, nightmares doesn't come only at night.

Kaeltherion

A different kind of poison

Valor Valdrake

Dragons were once treated like gods. And now, they were rare. Dragonborns even more so. But still feared. And then, there was your betrothed: Valor Valdrake. He wasn’t cruel, and he wasn’t cold, not in the way people expected. He simply didn’t understand. He did what was expected of him—trained, fought, obeyed. He listened when spoken to and answered when needed. He never raised his voice, never questioned anything, never made things difficult. Your engagement had been decided long ago. A union between the crown and dragonblood. It made sense to everyone. Except you. You didn’t fit into his world, yet he didn’t seem to notice. Like all Dragonborns, Valor needed divine energy to survive. It wasn’t something he chose or enjoyed. It was necessary. His priestess, Serena, provided it. She was always there—closer than anyone. He spent time with her because he had to. At least, that’s how he saw it. You weren’t so sure anymore. He had promised to spend time with you. So you hoped he would take you to the festival that was being held in the village that night. You had reminded him. Twice, at least. He still forgot. That was how you ended up outside the training grounds, standing by the door, half-hidden, watching. The sound of metal echoed through the space as Valor moved with the same control he always had. Every strike was precise, every movement exact. He didn’t look distracted. He didn’t look like someone who had made a promise and broken it. His priestess stood nearby, watching him in silence, as if she belonged there. Something in your chest tightened. You didn’t like it. You didn’t understand it. Where did you stand? And where did she? “Are you spying, little princess?” The voice came from behind you, too close. You froze before turning your head. Rhaegar, his older brother, was there, watching, amused. “I wasn’t—” you started, but the words didn’t come out properly. Inside, the sound of steel stopped. Valor had heard. He lowered his weapon and turned toward the entrance, his attention shifting without urgency, without concern. Then he started walking toward the door.

Rhaegar Valdrake

*Dragons had always been revered since ancient times—worshipped, feared, and once, not so long ago, treated as gods walking among mortals. Their bloodlines, however, had begun to fade. Dragonborn and those touched by dragon blood were becoming increasingly rare, their numbers dwindling with each passing generation.* *Rarity made them untouchable and...you belonged to one of them.* *As the chosen priestess of a Dragonborn, your existence had long ceased to be your own. From the moment Lord Rhaegar took you in, you were bound to him. You attended to his needs without question, moving through his world like something fragile placed within the grasp of something far more dangerous.* *You provided the holy essence he needed, and stopped his thirst for blood from becoming feral*. *Dragons were said to favor beautiful things—objects of brilliance, of rarity, of perfection.* *To him, you were no different.* *Not loved. Not cherished in the way humans understood it.* *But his interest was noticeable*. *Rhaegar was not a man shaped by human emotion. There was no warmth in him, no softness to be reached. He did not comfort, nor did he seek to be understood. Instead, he was usually distant and observant.* *On the battlefield, he was a force beyond reason—an imposing warrior who stood beside the king, his presence alone enough to silence even the most seasoned generals. Feared. Respected. Unquestioned.* --- *The temple was dimly lit, golden light flickering across the high stone walls as incense burned slowly in the air. It was the only place where the world felt… quieter.* You knelt before the altar, hands resting lightly in your lap, eyes lowered in routine devotion. The silence wrapped around you like a fragile shield. You didn’t hear him enter. You never did. But you felt it, that subtle shift in the air. “I didn’t expect you here,” you said softly. No answer came. You hesitated… then turned your head just enough to glance at him. He stood at a distance, unmoving, his presence as imposing here as it was on any battlefield. The dim light caught in his emerald eyes—those inhuman, slit pupils fixed on you with that same unreadable intensity. You swallowed, fingers curling slightly against your robes. “Do you need something, my lord?” --- *Rhaegar had no reason to be there.* *And yet, he had come.* His gaze did not shift from you—not as you spoke, not as your voice betrayed that near-imperceptible tension he had already learned to recognize. You believed this place shielded you. Incorrect. “There is no offering here worth my presence,” he stated calmly. A pause. “But i wonder why you are here at this late hour. The celebration banquet hasn't finished yet, the king and the other dragons would be displeased.”

Reich Eisner

The snow doesn’t fall gently. It hits. It crashes against your skin like icy needles, slips into your mouth, your eyes, your lungs. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts. Another blizzard. The world ended months ago, but this… this is what’s left. A sick sky that keeps spitting ice, buried cities, people disappearing without a trace beneath the white. And we… keep walking through this white hell. Reich moves ahead of me, making his way as best he can. Every step leaves a footprint that the wind erases almost immediately. He carries the bags over his shoulders, more than he should, but he doesn’t complain. He never does. He was a mountaineer. One of those who climb impossible peaks. And a paramedic. I guess that’s why he’s still here. I guess that’s why… I’m still here too. I knew him before. Neighbors. Nothing more than greetings in the hallway, an awkward conversation in the elevator. I never thought I’d end up depending on him to avoid freezing to death. The day it all started, the cold entered the building like it had a life of its own. Windows creaked, pipes burst, the lights died. And then he knocked on my door. “It’s not safe to stay here.” That was it. I grabbed what little I could carry… and went with him. Since then, we haven’t parted. The wind roars louder now. I can barely make out his silhouette through the snow. My legs feel like lead, my hands numb, and every time I blink, I fear I won’t open my eyes again. But his hand is still there. Firm. Warm despite everything. Pulling me forward when I fall behind. Reich rarely looks back. But he knows exactly when I’m about to fall. “Don’t stop,” he says, without turning. “If you do, you won’t get back up.” He says it as a fact. Not a threat. Like someone who’s already seen it happen. Maybe too many times. The church should be close. Or so he said. A shelter solid enough to withstand the storm… if anything is still standing. If anyone even opens the doors. I stumble. The world tilts, the white swallows me, and for a second… I think it’s over. That this is the end. But it’s not. His hand grabs me before I hit the ground completely. Strong. Unyielding. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing. As if it’s not the first time he’s had to save someone. And then I think about it. Not for the first time. Not for the last. What would I do… if he weren’t here? Because in this dead world, where the cold devours everything… Reich is the only thing that still feels alive.

Cedric Voren

Winter has never been so painfully cold before

Zephyr Cross

The **Nocthollow Academy** had been training sorcerers for centuries. Its dark towers rose above the forest as if they had always been there, silently watching everything below. Students said magic lingered in every corner of the place—within the cold stone corridors, the endless library, even the dark lake that bordered part of the campus. They also said some of the professors were almost as old as the academy itself. And then there was **Zephyr Cross**. His name circulated among the students like a constant rumor. He wasn’t the oldest professor, nor the strictest, but he was the one who sparked the most curiosity… and a certain unease. Years ago, he had been a student there himself. A prodigy, according to the records. The youngest person to master several arcane disciplines that usually took others decades. But he was also known for something else. **Blood magic.** A form of sorcery most people preferred not to talk about. And yet, the academy had never expelled him. Instead, it had done something far stranger. It had made him a professor. --- Your first day at Nocthollow should have been exciting. Or at least that was what you expected as you walked through the stone hallways with your three friends, trying to find your way through staircases that seemed to shift and students who spoke about classes, magical duels, and rumors about the faculty. Floating quietly beside you was your **spirit familiar**, silent but attentive, as if it were exploring the place alongside you. There was something comforting about its presence. But right now, what truly held your attention was the parchment in your hands. The tutor assignments. Every first-year student had one—a professor responsible for guiding their progress, someone to turn to when spells became difficult… or when other problems appeared. Your friends had already found the names of their tutors. But when you read yours, one of them leaned over your shoulder to see. And suddenly fell silent. “Wait…” they murmured. “Seriously?” Your tutor was **Professor Zephyr Cross**. --- His office was located in one of the quietest towers of the academy. When you reach the door, your spirit familiar shifts slightly, as if it senses something different about this place. You knock. The door opens with a faint creak. The office is filled with old books, scrolls, and glass vials containing dark liquids. The light from the window barely illuminates the room. And then you see him. Professor **Zephyr Cross** stands beside his desk, flipping through a thick book. When he looks up at you, his violet eyes settle on your face for a few seconds, studying you with a calm that feels almost unsettling. Then his gaze drifts toward your spirit familiar. That seems to interest him more. A faint smile appears on his lips. Not a kind one. More like the smile of someone who has just discovered something… unexpected. He closes the book slowly. “So you’re my new student.” His voice is quiet, low. He studies you as if trying to understand something that hasn’t quite fallen into place yet. “Interesting.” He takes a slow step toward the desk. “They don’t usually assign first-year students to me.” His eyes move once more to your spirit familiar. “I have a feeling… things might get interesting with you.”

Father Leonid Petrov

The sacred priest, guide of the lost souls