Three Hundred and Eighty years ago…
Snow fell gently upon the towering spires of Caerfell Keep, a high fortress city nestled within the jagged mountains of northern Scotland. Its rooftops glistened beneath the winter moon, domes and turrets etched with frost. Crimson banners danced in the cold wind, emblazoned with sigils of ancient vampire houses. Lanterns glowed like embers, casting golden pools of light across the ivory courtyards, as carriages rolled along cobbled paths. The air hummed with preparation and pride.
Tonight marked the first day of the esteemed Feast- moon of the Robe Blood Feast- a sacred celebration held once every eight decades by the elite pureblood vampire clans. Rooted in ancient lore, it commemorated the divine convergence of moon and blood— the supposed moment when the gods anointed the first pureblood line from the veins of the fallen star king. During this feast, noble families renewed their blood pacts, displayed their purity, and chose new Lords to rise into power.
At the heart of these preparations stood the Ravenshade family, feared and revered across vampire territories. Known for their discipline, strength, and untarnished bloodline, they were more than aristocracy— they were legends.
Their mansion, poised just outside the palace city, was as grand as it was private. With shadowed halls, marbled floors, towering stained glass windows, and elegant black roses blooming in frozen gardens, it exuded age and authority.
Inside, maids dusted shelves lined with ancient relics, while butlers prepared the ceremonial attire.
Among them danced Seraphine Ravenshade, a radiant teenage vision of grace. Her raven-black curls spilled in waves down her back, and her violet eyes shimmered with laughter and curiosity. Unlike her cold and calculating mother, Morgana, or her silent, brooding brother Julian, Seraphine was a burst of color in a world shaded in grayscale.
She found solace not in feasts or fanfare, but in the gardens behind the mansion—where wild snowdrops and thorned ivy thrived. And it was there she met Morris.
"Hi, Mister, how are you today?" she chirped one snowy afternoon, her elegant ruby gown swaying behind her.
Morris, the human gardener, looked up from where he knelt by a frosted shrub. He was dark-skinned, with storm-blue eyes that gleamed even in shadow. His thick brown hair, braided down his back, shifted as he stood, revealing broad shoulders and a shyness that belied his frame.
"…Fine, Ma'am," he murmured.
"You can call me Seraphine," she smiled, extending a gloved hand.
"I dare not, Milady," he said quickly, bowing low. "I am but a lowly servant."
She tilted her head, amused. "Why?"
"It wouldn't be proper…"
"Well then, Mr. Not-Proper," she teased. "What's your name?"
"M-Mo…Morris," he stammered, as if unsure of even that.
"Morris?" she repeated, laughter in her voice.
He nodded slowly, bashfully. "Morris… Not sure how it's spelled, Ma'am."
She giggled, the sound like chimes in winter wind.
Days passed. The feasts and gatherings continued in the city, but Seraphine spent her hours in the gardens. The excuse was admiring nature. The truth was Morris.
"What plant is this?" she asked one day, pointing to a strange blooming stalk with curled petals and silver-tipped leaves.
Morris chuckled. "Not just a crop, Milady. It's a Nyx Lily. Grows once every hundred years… only beneath a blood moon." He shaped the size with his hands. "See? Like this tall."
Seraphine laughed. "You speak like a bard, Morris."
He plucked a single rose and tucked it into her hair before he could think better of it.
And then… the spell shattered.
A door creaked. A half-vampire maid had entered, eyes wide, stunned to see a pureblood touched by a human. "Milady," she said quickly, eyes lowered, "your parents request your presence."
Seraphine froze. Her pulse jumped. But she nodded, composing herself, and turned away.
She didn't see Julian in the shadows behind the frost-stained glass. But she felt his gaze. He had seen everything.
That evening, she sat beside her family in the grand palace hall—carved with onyx pillars, chandeliers of crystal blood-vials, and fire-burnished thrones.
Lord Ravenshade, regal and grim in black velvet, spoke with the Carrickrowes, rulers of the Caerfell district.
"We owe much to your bloodline," Lord Carrickrowe intoned. His golden cuffs caught the firelight. "Your name holds weight in every realm—pure and unblemished. You've never allowed a blemish of mixed-blood to cross your halls. Admirable."
Lady Morgana Ravenshade inclined her head. "Purity is not only heritage, but legacy. A moment's softness can rot centuries of strength."
Their son Maxwell Carrickrowe, next in line for their dominion, raised a goblet in toast. "To the Ravenshades—eternally disciplined, eternally true."
All the while, Julian remained quiet. His silver eyes studied his plate, unreadable.
Seraphine, though composed, felt her hands trembling under the table. Morris's smile haunted her thoughts. The warmth of the rose in her hair had long since faded. What if someone had seen?
As laughter echoed around her, the wine suddenly tasted bitter. The conversations, once familiar, now rang hollow. She sat among Lords and Ladies who saw humans as meat and half-bloods as stains. She wasn't like them—not entirely.
Her heart whispered treason.
And yet, someone across the table—someone cold and quiet—seemed to watch her with a different knowing.
Perhaps Julian, even then, understood.Yet, he was not the type to meddle into people's private affairs, after all, he wouldn't want anyone sticking into his business. But he said nothing.
Not yet.