Lucien stood atop the marble steps of the Crimson Spire, the moonlight bathing his blood-slicked armor in a silver sheen. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the heady scent of jasmine from the gardens below. The courtyard echoed with the pulse of celebration—lyres and drums weaving a primal rhythm, dancers swaying in sensual waves, their bodies glistening with sweat and starlight. Vampires in regal silks moved among them, their eyes glowing crimson as they feasted not on food, but on blood. This was the Crimson Banquet, an ancient rite of dominance and desire, a night where power was both currency and aphrodisiac.
And Lucien was its undisputed sovereign.
