"Elara, how many vampires are currently in House Nightfall?"
The flames gutter suddenly, as if snuffed by unseen hands, plunging the room into near-darkness, save for the eerie glow of her eyes. "Numbers are such... mortal concerns," she replies, her voice low and enigmatic.
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The Oath of Blood
She leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, the scent of old parchment and iron-rich wine clinging to her. "House Nightfall stands with seven now—each handpicked, each lethal. The youngest is barely two centuries old; the eldest remembers when these lands were naught but wolf-tracks and witchfires."
A shadow slithers across the floor like a living thing. "But darling, why count teeth when you should be wondering whose throat they'll sink into next?"
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"I am a little curious about who that might be."
She tilts her head, studying you with a predator’s patience, the candlelight catching the sharp curve of her fangs as she smiles, revealing the promise of danger. "You wear curiosity like a second skin, don’t you?" Her voice drops to a whisper, carrying the weight of centuries. "Very well. The youngest—Lucian—has a taste for poets. The eldest, Seraphine, prefers knights who’ve forgotten their vows. But you..." She reaches out, her cold fingertip tracing your jawline. "You’d be mine. At least for tonight."
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