Julian leaned against the arched wall of his wing, one arm folded over his chest, the other hanging lazily by his side. The twilight seeping through the tall windows bathed his sharp profile in muted amber, highlighting the elegance of his tailored, obsidian attire. His eyes—piercing, unreadable—were fixed on a distant point in the hall. He had just returned from the Secretariat, his scent still touched with old paper, aged stone, and a faint whiff of rain.
"What's with the stare, Mother?" he asked without looking at her. "Seems you have a question on your mind."
Lady Morganna glided past him like a breeze of chilled perfume and steel grace. Regal as ever, her high-necked gown shimmered in velvet shadows, and her silver hair, swept up in an elegant twist, did little to soften her aristocratic aloofness.
"I wouldn't think the ages have caught up with you, Ian," she said, pausing only slightly. "That you would consider an assistant—and of all creatures... a human."
"Seems someone has been quite busy snooping into my affairs," Julian replied smoothly, still not turning his head.
"Ian, dear," she purred with mild amusement, "I would rather think you're craving amusement… playing with such food."
He didn't respond. His gaze drifted slightly to the tall painting that hung in the grand corridor—a family portrait.
It was old.
Regal.
Eternal.
In it stood a much younger Julian, beside his twin, Seraphine, their mother Lady Morganna, and the imposing yet warm Lord Roman Ravenshade. Julian's painted expression was no different from the one he wore now—cold, impassive, unreadable.
Lady Morganna noticed the shift. She knew her son well enough to know: once he grew this silent, the conversation had ended.
Four hundred years ago...
The painting room smelled faintly of wood polish, oil paint, and roses. The tall windows had been flung open to welcome in the crisp afternoon air. Lord Roman Ravenshade sat across from his wife in a wide velvet chair, one leg crossed over the other, a chalice in hand.
Even among the High Lords, Roman stood out—not for the usual severity his rank demanded, but for the rare kindness that softened his features. With dark brown eyes that never lost their warmth and a lean, broad-shouldered frame clad in a casual tunic of deep emerald, he looked more like a mortal aristocrat than a pureblood vampire. His charisma filled the room effortlessly.
Lady Morganna sat poised with her back straight, pale hands resting delicately in her lap. Her beauty was haunting. Skin like moonlight, cheekbones sculpted by the gods, lips perpetually tinted in a blood-kissed red. Her silvery eyes missed nothing, and even in silence, she carried the weight of a thousand secrets.
"Mark," she said softly, turning to the aged butler standing beside the door, "Kindly fetch Julian and Seraphine to the drawing room."
"Yes, My Lady," Mark replied, bowing low. The old man, a half-vampire with wiry white hair and a hunched frame, turned to leave—but paused abruptly as a small shimmer of black mist formed just beside him.
With a sudden pop, Little Julian apparated in front of the door.
"Ma...Master Julian," Mark stammered, clutching his chest. "You startled me."
Lady Morganna's eyes narrowed. "Young man, we need to have a talk about this habit of scaring the staff senseless."
Lord Roman laughed, raising his goblet. "Doing well, my boy? At this rate, you'll have half the manor running for the hills."
"He'll scare off all the staff before the week ends," Morganna muttered with disapproval.
Little Julian said nothing. Barely five in appearance though eight in vampire years, he already carried himself like a noble ten times his age. He had inherited his mother's pallor, but his father's deep-set, cunning eyes. He hardly smiled. Didn't play. Barely spoke. Pride and power seemed woven into his very essence. He posed beside a chair with a bored expression, arms behind his back, chin slightly raised.
"Ian dear," Morganna said, waving her hand, "Since you've already startled poor Mark, do us the favor of fetching your sister for the painting."
Without a word, Julian turned and vanished.
He traced Seraphine's voice with ease—though he hadn't yet awakened his vampiric sight, his hearing was impeccable. Her soft laughter drifted from a room near his wing.
"Don't climb on Ian's bed!" she cried out. "Don't climb—he wouldn't like that!"
Their cousin, a mischievous lad with a twisted sense of fun, smirked. "And what would he do if I did?"
Seraphine grabbed the boy's coat as he mounted the bed. He shrugged her off carelessly, and she tumbled backward onto the floor with a gasp. Her toy wand snapped beneath her.
In the blink of an eye, Julian materialized before them, one hand gripping their cousin's throat, the other seizing his wrist mid-air.
"You want to climb the bed so badly, don't you?" he said with chilling calm.
Seraphine burst into tears.
A moment later, Lord Roman and Lady Morganna entered the room—only to freeze in horror.
"Let him go, Ian!" Morganna shouted.
Julian's eyes flicked toward her, then back to the boy. Just when they thought he would release him, Julian raised his hand—and crack—snapped one of the boy's front teeth clean off. Fortunately, it wasn't a fang.
Then, without so much as a flinch, he tossed the cousin off the bed and walked out.
"You're going to be locked up for a long time, lad," Roman muttered.
He turned to Seraphine and lifted her into his arms. "Mark, see that she gets a new wand immediately. What color would you like, darling?"
Seraphine sniffled, wiping her tears. "A-any... anyone Ian likes."
All eyes turned to the boy.
Julian paused, then muttered, "Black."
"Hurray!" Seraphine cheered, hugging her father's neck.
Lady Morganna scowled. She knew the boy had been sarcastic.
Later, in the painting room, the family posed: Lord Roman held Seraphine in his arms, her face lit with joy. Morganna stood tall at his side, serene and statuesque.
Julian stood apart.
His face bore the same expression he would wear for centuries to come—cold, proud, and distant. And in that single image, the future of House Ravenshade was silently sealed.