The thick fog hangs over Fog City like an eternal shroud, trapping coal smoke, dampness, and hidden sins beneath its oppressive weight.

The Alcarte Mansion looms against the night sky like a dormant beast, its Gothic spires stabbing through the yellowish mist like ancient blades. Outside the ornate iron gates, carriages arrive in an endless stream, their noble family crests catching the gaslight like a flowing river of metal and vanity. Inside one such carriage, Ella Vein makes one final check of her disguise.


Her deep purple silk gown hugs her slender figure perfectly without drawing undue attention. Her long hair is twisted into an intricate bun, with a few strategically loose curls softening her otherwise sharp jawline.

She drew in a deep breath of cold air tinged with iris root powder—a cheap perfume favored by impoverished noblewomen clinging to dignity. Beneath her layers of skirts, a cold silver dagger rested against her outer thigh, while delicate bracelets at her wrists concealed deadly silver wires. Elegance served as her armor, humility her mask, and hatred burned like an eternal flame in the depths of her purple-gray eyes.

"For House Vein," she whispered to herself, a mantra repeated countless times each day. With practiced ease, she arranged her features into the perfect expression—just the right blend of timidity and curiosity—as she merged seamlessly with the bejeweled specters gliding toward the mansion's grand entrance.


The ballroom was another world entirely. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing lights across the black marble floor, while the air hung heavy with expensive perfumes, cigar smoke, and something more subtle—a scent unique to non-human entities, a blend of ancient dust, exotic spices, and… cold blood. Ella's trained eye caught them immediately: skin too pale to be natural, crimson eyes flashing momentarily in the light, movements too fluid and graceful to be human. Vampires. They mingled effortlessly with their human counterparts, a fragile peace maintained amid swirling waltzes and clinking champagne flutes.

She drifted through the crowd like a shadow, skirting its edges while her gaze wandered with practiced nonchalance until it settled on the main seat at the hall's far end. There lounged Prince Camien Alcarte upon a high-backed chair upholstered in deep crimson velvet.


He had nearly melted into the shadows, only his silver-white hair standing out like a streak of frigid moonlight. His half-lidded crimson eyes surveyed the dance floor with bored indifference, slender fingers drumming idly against the armrest as though the spectacle before him was merely a tedious performance. He was devastatingly handsome yet chillingly cold. Ella's heart clenched, a shiver of mingled hatred and primal fear racing down her spine. It was him—or rather, one of them. One of the monsters who had destroyed everything she held dear.

She tore her gaze away, scanning for the opening she needed. It came sooner than expected. A young Vampire—clearly newly turned and struggling with control—leaned too close to a human lady in conversation. His fangs slipped out involuntarily, a hungry gleam flashing in his eyes. The atmosphere around them instantly crackled with tension.

Perfect.

Ella "happened" to be passing by and "accidentally" stumbled, gently colliding with the increasingly nervous human lady.

"Oh! How terribly clumsy of me!" she exclaimed with perfectly calibrated embarrassment, smoothly inserting herself between the lady and the increasingly agitated Vampire.

Her movements appeared natural and spontaneous, though the timing was impeccable. She raised her eyes, "accidentally" meeting the bloodshot gaze of the young Vampire. Her purple-gray eyes held no fear—only a clear, unmistakable warning: I know exactly what you are. Control yourself.

The commotion drew attention. Two men in conservative formal wear with commanding presences—clearly Hunters who had infiltrated the ball—moved swiftly toward the scene. But before they could intervene, a deep, magnetic voice sliced through the music:

"It appears my guest is feeling unwell. Lucius, escort him downstairs to recover."

Camien had materialized beside them like a ghost, silent and without warning. He didn't spare a glance for his troublesome descendant, his crimson gaze fixed squarely on Ella with unmistakable curiosity and a touch of… amusement.

Ella's heart hammered against her ribs, but she managed a timely blush. She dipped into a small curtsy, her voice soft with just the right hint of nervousness: "Your Highness. How clumsy of me…"

"On the contrary, miss, your… 'alertness' just prevented an unfortunate incident." Camien raised his hand slightly, dismissing her formality. His gaze lingered on her face, those eyes seeming to pierce through her carefully constructed façade straight to the silver blade and vengeful flames hidden in her soul. "You appear to be unaccompanied this evening. Miss Vein, if I'm not mistaken?"

He knew her name! A chill slithered down Ella's spine. She maintained her composure, lowering her eyes demurely: "Yes, Your Highness. I'm surprised you know…"

"House Alcarte never forgets." His tone was flat yet weighted with centuries of meaning. He extended his hand—pale and slender, a predator's hand with immaculately trimmed nails. "Might I have the honor of a dance with this brave young lady? Consider it a remedy for any distress from tonight's… incident."

This was a command disguised as an invitation. The air around them seemed to crystallize. While nearby guests shot looks of envy or jealousy, Ella felt the cold, calculating gazes of non-human entities watching from the shadows. This could be either a perfect opportunity to get closer to her target or the first step into an expertly laid trap.

She didn't hesitate.

She placed her fingertips gently on his ice-cold palm, feeling the chill seep through her glove. Looking up, she offered a smile perfectly matched to her persona—a careful blend of flattery and shyness. "The honor is mine, Your Highness."

The waltz melody swelled around them as he guided her onto the dance floor. His steps were precise and elegant, leading her through turns and spins as if she weighed nothing at all. This close, she caught the scent of cool sandalwood mingled with something else—like iron rust after the first winter snow.

"House Vein," he murmured near her ear, his voice pitched for her alone, "an ancient and respectable name. I understand your family possesses quite the knowledge of historical documents."

Ella's blood ran cold. What was he implying? What was he fishing for? She forced herself to remain relaxed, following his lead while keeping her voice steady: "Our family fortunes have long since faded, Your Highness. Those days are behind us. I barely remember the dusty volumes in my father's study."

"Is that so?" Camien's lips curved into the ghost of a smile. "Sometimes, those dusty old books contain the very flames that illuminate our darkest truths. Particularly regarding certain… ancient maladies, or perhaps, oaths that should never be forgotten."

Each sentence was a key attempting to unlock her carefully guarded secrets. Ella felt as though she were dancing on a knife's edge, the glittering lights and shadows around them transforming into dangerous illusions. She felt his cold gaze settle on her neck, where her pulse hammered wildly with tension and hatred.

As the music faded, he came to a graceful stop but retained his hold on her hand.

"The night grows late, and Fog City's streets are treacherous for a lady traveling alone, especially…" he paused meaningfully, "…for one as 'perceptive' as yourself. My estate has several vacant guest rooms. Perhaps Miss Vein would honor me with her presence for a few days?"

Opportunity! This was precisely what she had hoped for—entrance to his lair. Yet his invitation carried an unsettling weight. He wasn't looking at her as ignorant prey, but as an interesting chess piece that had willingly stepped onto his board.

Ella lowered her gaze to hide the storm in her eyes. She needed time—time to find her opportunity for revenge while in his company, and to unravel the hidden meanings in his words.

"Your Highness is too generous to refuse," she replied softly, her voice carrying just the right notes of gratitude and vulnerability. "I would be… honored to accept your hospitality."

Minutes later, she sat alone in a closed carriage bound for the Alcarte estate. The fog outside had thickened, swallowing the distant lights of the ball. Her fingertips still tingled with the memory of his cold touch, while his ominous words—"House Alcarte never forgets"—echoed in her mind.

She unclasped her small handbag, fingers finding the cold, hard object within—a polished peachwood stake, honed to pierce a vampire's heart.

The carriage rattled over cobblestones, its rhythmic clatter accompanying her journey into the enemy's lair and the unknown dangers that awaited.

Ella clutched the peachwood stake until her knuckles whitened. The fire of vengeance burned in her chest, yet Camien's blood-red eyes—those eyes that seemed to see through every deception—haunted her thoughts.

Was this truly the beginning of her carefully planned revenge, or had she just willingly opened the door to an even darker abyss?

The rumbling wheels marked time like fate's own countdown, each turn echoing the frantic beating of her heart.