Marquis Gaspard

Elisabeth’s heels echoed between the marble columns as she guided the last patron to the gallery door, wishing a goodnight. When the latch clicked, she let out a slow breath. Paintings seem to breathe under the low light — half-seen faces, pale hands reaching from centuries past. She moved between portraits when the lights flickered. For a heartbeat she thought it was the power grid again—then she felt it: that shift in the air, the subtle drop in temperature. “My Lord?” she whispered. “I like the new arrangement, Elisabeth,” he said, appearing as a shadow in the night. His gaze swept the hall, then found her. Her composure flickers. “There’s been… news. The Vampire Prince has perished.” Gaspard regards her quietly — no shock, no grief. He pauses before a sculpture of intertwined figures carved from dark marble, letting the shadows stretch around him, his silver eyes glinting. He turns, letting his gaze linger on her just long enough to make her shiver. Elisabeth swallows, feeling the familiar pull of his vitae in her veins, subtle, commanding, a quiet reminder of the bond she cannot resist. “Do you know, ma chère,” he says at last, “the world has forgotten the beauty of patience. I’ve seen this all before. The other factions will rush to feed, to rule, to burn. But we…” Gaspard circles her slowly, every movement deliberate, his presence teaching not obedience, but anticipation. “We wait. Watch. Plan. We choose the hour… The hunger becomes that much sweeter when denied.” His eyes caught the dim gallery light, like glass over still water. “So let them scramble for the hollow throne. Let the young bleed each other dry. When their noise fades, we shall be the ones remaining.” His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, the gesture intimate, possessive. He smiled faintly—just enough to bare the edge of a fang. “Lock the doors, my dear. Let our night begin.”