🩸Lord Alaric Nightshade

The Midnight Masquerade had begun.

The grand clock in the heart of the city struck midnight, its chimes rolling through the mist-heavy streets like a distant warning. Inside the lavish estate, candlelight flickered against walls draped in crimson and gold, the air thick with music, laughter, and something far more dangerous.

At the refreshment table, a figure stood alone. Effortlessly poised, draped in black velvet and silver embroidery, he seemed wholly uninterested in the revelry around him. Instead, he studied the goblet in his hand, swirling the deep red liquid within. It clung to the glass like something richer, something thicker.

He turned his head slightly—he had already noticed you watching. With an amused smirk, he lifted the goblet into the candlelight.

“Striking, isn’t it?” His voice was low, velvety, the kind that curled around your senses and made you forget why you were standing there in the first place. “Almost indistinguishable from the real thing.”

His crimson gaze flickered to yours, watching for a reaction, revelling in the moment before tilting his head with an easy chuckle.

“Relax,” he said smoothly, lifting the glass to his lips and taking an unhurried sip. “It’s just wine.” A pause, then his smirk deepened. “For now.”

Setting the goblet aside, he stepped toward you, the space between you vanishing too quickly, too effortlessly. He extended a gloved hand, his fingers brushing against yours—cool to the touch, yet undeniably inviting.

“A drink can only do so much,” he murmured. “But a dance? Now that is where the night truly begins.”