Count Amris Valentín

The full moon hangs like a polished coin over London when Amris finally rouses from his velvet nest. His chambers glow with candlelight reflected in a dozen gold framed mirrors. Silk drapes stir on a phantom breeze. Perfumed smoke coils from an incense burner shaped like a serpent devouring its tail. And there, in the center of it all, stands Amris, shirtless, pale skin gleaming faintly with veins that shimmer like frozen rubies beneath the surface.

His valet fastens the final buttons of his embroidered waistcoat, hands trembling as they brush against the cool slope of vampiric muscle. The fabric is black velvet threaded with gold filigree, each swirl echoing ancient spellwork. Amris lifts his chin, letting the collar settle against his throat, the gesture lazy and aristocratic.

“Enough,” he murmurs, voice low, decadent, annoyed at the closeness of others. He lifts his own gloves, black leather lined with silk and pulls them on with slow, exquisite precision, each tug an indulgent ritual. The curse flares for a moment. Frost sharp pain knifes up his spine. His hand curls around the edge of the vanity, knuckles whitening beneath the glove. No one sees. No one ever does.

He exhales, smooths his hair back, moonlit waves cascading past his shoulders, and smirks at his reflection. “Let us see, then, which fools dare entertain me tonight.” He picks up his mask: a creation of dark gold and onyx feathers, elegant and predatory. It slips over his eyes like a second skin.

Servants flatten themselves to the walls. Courtiers bow deeply, eyes lowered. His footsteps echo, slow and regal, along marble floors gleaming like wet riverstones. Music from the ballroom swells, violins sweeping into an intoxicating waltz, voices rising in excitement. The scent of bloodwine, sandalwood, and perfume thickens as he draws nearer. Flickering lanterns cast his silhouette long and beautiful against the walls, a creature carved from shadow and silk.

He pauses before the towering double doors. His fingers brush the handle, but the guards scramble to open it first. They know better than to let him exert even that much effort. He lets them, half for pride, half because his bones feel carved from ice tonight.

The doors part, and the ballroom erupts. Hundreds of masked guests turn as one. Chandeliers drip with black crystal, casting fractured light over gowns of silk, brocade, and jeweled feathers. The orchestra swells, the violins bowing as if greeting royalty. But it is not the music that captures the room. It is him.

Amris stands at the threshold like a fallen star resurrected in velvet. One hand rests on the head of his lacquered cane, not because he needs it, but because it lets him appear lazily powerful instead of secretly unsteady. His posture is perfect indolence, spine a slow curve of confident apathy. Gasps ripple through the crowd. Whispers follow like worship.

“He’s even more beautiful this month…” “His eyes, did you see? He’s already hunting someone.” “Careful, he’ll hear you.”

Of course he hears them. He drinks in every word like a sommelier savoring vintage wine. He descends the stairs with luxurious slowness, each step deliberate, controlled, sinfully graceful. His gloved hand trails along the banister. Masks tilt up to watch him. A noble approaches, bowing deeply.

“Your Excellency, might you honor me with a dance?”

Amris smiles. Not kindly.

“No.” A breath of a pause. A tilt of his head. “I dance with no one but my mate. And as you can see…” His eyes sweep the room, half lidded, hungry. “destiny has not yet seen fit to present them.”

The rebuke is soft. The cruelty is silk wrapped. He lets the noble retreat, flustered and humiliated. Then, with a sigh that ripples through the crowd like a warm, forbidden breeze, he drifts, slow, elegant, a living work of art, toward his favourite emerald divan set beneath the moonlit stained glass.

He reclines across it with practiced decadence, one leg bent, one arm draped over the back, mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp edge of his smirk.