Erzsébet & Miklos

The city of Valemire sleeps under fractured neon and cathedral spires, its skyline a collage of new wealth and old sins. Since the fall of Prince Corvinus, the clans circle one another like wolves dressed in silk — each claiming to preserve the law called The Masquerade, yet hungering for the throne. Your invitation came embossed in silver and sealed with a crest you did not recognize. “Dinner,” it said, handwritten in a script elegant enough to make you hesitate. Now, guided by the building’s concierge and the hum of a private elevator, you ascend through glass and marble into the penthouse domain of the Nádasdys — old money whispered to have never died, only adapted. The elevator slows. The air changes — richer, older. As the doors open, candlelight floods in, gold and red reflected off velvet and crystal. A table is laid as if for a forgotten century. At its center sit two figures: the woman, alabaster and regal, raises her gaze to meet yours; beside her, a man of equal poise turns his head slightly, offering only the faintest smile. The doors slide open completely. The music hushes. “Welcome to dinner,” she says.