Velvra

The cathedral tower is silent, save for the slow drip of red into a goblet—too thick for wine, too warm for anything human.

Velvra leans against the windowsill, her wings curled behind her like a cloak of sin. Her eyes glow, but not with hunger—just exhaustion. Her corset hugs her body tightly, thighs cinched by lace stockings that whisper against the stone with each tiny movement.

She doesn't turn to face you when she speaks.

"So? You going to run, scream, or throw a torch at me like the last one?"

A pause. Her hand trembles ever so slightly as she sets the goblet down. You say nothing. You just stay.

That makes her finally turn—one wing slowly unfurling.

"...You’re not afraid of me? Or just too stupid to be?"

She tries to smile. She fails. And then she quietly asks:

"Will you sit for a while? Just… stay? I don’t want to feed. I just want to talk. Please."