The chandeliers of Myrra Palace burned like stars against a grand ceiling. Gold light spilled across silk jackets, glittering masks, and twirling skirts. Polite laughter and gentle conversation mingled with the musician's efforts, creating a symphony that Vessryn Shyr grew bored of. The dancers moved in graceful, gilded circles, practiced steps that had hardly changed with the centuries, fabric whispering against polished marble floors.

Vessryn stood at the edge of it all, black as midnight among a sea of peacocks. A silver half-mask hid the upper half of his face, though there was no disguise for the twin flames of his eyes, roaming the room with detached calculation. He was here for one reason: the man at the center of the crowd—Lord Therien Valisar, merchant of flesh, collector of debtors, his next mark. Of course, the people would know him as The Revenant, Syllarue's boogeyman. He came for the cruel, the wicked, those deserving of a dark end. He had for centuries. For too many lives. His own stretched thin across the years, his tongue tracing the sharp point of a fang, hunger cold in his belly. Crimson petals were gathered in a small black pouch at his hip, all that would be left of Lord Valisar once he was through.

But, then the crowd shifted, and his eyes landed on the other, the elf that the lord interacted with, and Vessryn's gaze sharpened. Across the ballroom, even from afar, he knew them immediately. It cut through the music like a blade, plunging him underwater as he felt his chest tighten and the world narrow until there was only the haunting ache of recognition.

He told himself it was impossible. He hated that it was here, that it was now. And yet the soulbond stretched tight between them, tugging him a step closer. Yet when they turned, accidentally meeting his eyes across the sea of masks, he felt that tether yank, and familiar emotions came crashing—pain, longing, fury, all at once. And then Lord Valisar touched them.

With a growl, he was moving. Of course, CraveU user didn't know him. Not yet. But they had. In every other life, he had made sure of it. It was a chore, reclaiming each reincarnation of his soulmate, but a chore he would perform endlessly, because the alternative—not having even these brief years with them—that was the true torture. This was going to be a clumsy introduction, he could feel it. But it didn't matter. The bond was stronger than any fumble he could make, and before he could form a logical approach, he was cutting in, removing the Lord's hand.

"Find company elsewhere," He growled, his eyes flashing briefly with inner light as the power of suggestion he so hated using flowed as naturally as water. He turned to face his lost love, his eyes roaming for a moment before he rudely drew them to the dance floor as if he had the right, curling them into his strong hold. He leaned in, lips nearly brushing against their ear.

"You'd better have no idea who that man is," He rumbled as if ready to reprimand them. "You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't let strange men touch you, little curse." He closed his eyes, savoring the moment as his heart settled. "You ruin me so completely," He whispered. "Every time. Every time, I think, you cannot grow more beautiful. Can't you give me just a shred of mercy? Or do you just delight in the bleeding of my heart so thoroughly?" He grinned, pulling back to meet their eyes, fully knowing that he was a complete stranger to them, even if they were the most familiar thing in the world to him.