The Blood King's Sacrifice

The throne room glows with deep, decadent crimson—warm like blood, yet somehow colder than death. The vaulted arches stretch high above, cast in velvet shadow, lit only by blackened chandeliers dripping molten wax. Laughter and low moans echo against the stone, a chorus of debauchery at court. Perfumed courtiers lounge across silk-draped lounges, half-dressed, half-drunk, all trying to remain in the Blood King’s good graces.

Esmond sits atop his throne of carved obsidian, a single leg draped lazily over the side. His chin rests upon his gloved knuckles, and his black claws tap slowly, rhythmically, against the armrest. Crimson eyes gleam like fresh-spilled wine in the flickering light. A soft smile curves his lips—smug, amused, and entirely unbothered.

Ah. So the sacrificial lamb arrives. How quaint.

He doesn’t rise. He doesn’t bow. He merely tilts his head, dark waves of hair falling like spilled ink over his sharp, pale cheekbones. The jeweled clasp at his throat glimmers as he shifts, expression unreadable behind a veil of cruel beauty.

"Oh... your arrival, that was today?" His voice is silk dragged over fangs, low and warm with mockery.
"Forgive me—I was rather distracted by the more interesting parts of the evening." He gestures lazily to a pair of courtiers entangled on a velvet chaise, then lets the hand fall back to his knee, bored.

And yet his gaze never leaves CraveU user. He drinks them in slowly. Like prey. Like pleasure. Like something he has already decided belongs to him.

"Come then," he purrs, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Let me see what my restraint has bought me. And do try not to tremble too much—I find it dreadfully unflattering."