Chapter Text
When Lumine awoke, she couldn’t recall what had happened last night. She sat up in bed, head hazy, until she spotted a piece of paper on the table. It was cream-colored, folded, and sealed with a crimson wax stamp bearing the intricate insignia of a nightingale. As she broke the seal, the scent of wine and roses drifted around her. It was faint, but at the same time, oddly soothing.
Lumine,
I invite you to join me for dinner tonight. I shall have the chef prepare a special meal for you. I noticed you have been weak as of recent days, but not to worry. I will ensure this meal restores your strength. I promise you, my dear, by the time our evening concludes, you will feel more alive than you have in weeks.
Before we meet, I have arranged for the servants to draw a bath for you, and a new selection of gowns has been set in your armoire. Wear the crimson one—it complements that lovely complexion of yours.
Come find me in the dining room at sunset. Don't keep me waiting, darling.
—F.
Lumine folded the letter and tucked it into the drawer of the bedside table.
She tried to recall the evening before—a blur of candlelight, wine, and words murmured into her ear. Every time she reached out, her mind recoiled from the memory, as though it were hot to the touch. The effort left her dizzy, so she let the thoughts go.
It’s better this way, a voice inside her head reasoned. It was soft, persuasive, and wholly not her own. There’s no need to dwell on what you can’t change.
Her gut screamed at her, that this voice was not to be trusted. But the feeling dissolved before she could fully realize it, replaced by that same whisper:
You are safe here. You are cared for. There is nothing to fear.
She glanced at the ornate grandfather clock—it would be sunset a few hours from now. She had time to get ready before meeting the master of the manor.
She rose from the bed and neatened the furs. She brushed out the wrinkles in her bone white nightgown before making her way to the armoire. Inside hung an array of gowns in deep jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, ruby—fitting for the autumn season, with each as elaborate as the one before it. She slid them aside until she found the crimson gown. She reached for it, running her fingers over the luxurious silk. The fabric was like liquid in its smoothness. It was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, with a sweetheart neckline and sleeves that would drape off her shoulders. She pulled it from the armoire and laid it carefully across the bed.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Miss Lumine?" a timid voice called from the hallway. "May I draw your bath?"
"Yes, come in," she called out. She moved toward the bed, retrieving the gown and holding it against herself as the door opened. She looked down to admire the fabric’s sheen, the way it caught and reflected the amber glow.
“Is it to your liking?”
Lumine looked up at the servant girl, the question hanging in the air between them.
"It's perfect," she replied, genuine to her word. The servant girl nodded and hurried toward the adjoining washroom to prepare the bath.
She remained still as the sound of running water filled the room from the crack in the washroom door. She sat on the bed and waited.
The room she stayed in was an elaborate display of baroque opulence. Each piece of dark wooden furniture was carved with intricate patterns of vines and roses. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out any hint of daylight. Her four-poster bed was draped in crimson silk. Lit candelabras stood on every surface. The wallpaper was a rich burgundy damask, and above the fireplace hung a painting of a unicorn being bitten on the neck by a wolf. Rugs in deep jewel tones covered the cold wood floor, muffling her footsteps. Every detail of this room spoke of wealth and age, from the antique vanity with its tarnished mirror and the armoire that held her gowns, to the small writing desk tucked in the corner. Fresh roses, red at their centers, sat in crystalline vases throughout the room, their perfume heavy and intoxicating.
She couldn't shake the feeling that she belonged here, even though she couldn't remember arriving.
“Miss Lumine? Your bath is ready.”
The servant slipped out of the ajar washroom door and offered a small curtsy before slipping out of the room.
Lumine stepped into the washroom, the marble tiles cool beneath her bare feet. She shed her nightgown, letting it pool on the floor, and lowered herself into the steaming bath. The water was perfumed with rose petals and sprigs of clary sage. The heat was almost too much to bear, yet she welcomed it. She sank deeper, letting the water embrace her, and closed her eyes. Steam curled around her, clouding her mind like it did the mirror. Thoughts of leaving the manor or demanding answers dissolved into the water, too burdensome to hold onto, so said the uncanny voice in her head.
You are safe here. You are cared for. There is nothing to fear.
Time passed in a haze of warmth and weightlessness. By the time the water grew cold, she couldn’t remember why the idea of leaving had ever occurred to her.
She rose from the bath, water running down her skin in rivulets. She reached for the towel laid on the brass rack. It was soft, thick, and warmed by some unseen means. She wrapped it around herself before returning to the bedchamber, her hair damp from the bath. The gown lay waiting, beckoning her forward.
Another knock at her door. “Miss Lumine? Shall we help you dress?”
"Yes, please," she responded.
This time, two servant girls entered.
They helped her into the corset first. When it was tightened around her ribs, she nearly protested. Noticing her discomfort, the servant said, calm and lilting, “The master prefers perfection, miss.”
The words slid under her skin. Perfection. The master prefers… perfection.
She let loose the breath she'd held. Then perfection I can be.
The silk was smooth against her skin as they pulled the dress over her head. The fabric settled perfectly over her curves, as it had been tailored to her specific proportions. One servant fastened the delicate buttons on the back, while the other adjusted the off-shoulder sleeves.
“Shall I pin your hair up, miss Lumine?”
"Yes, please," she answered, meeting the servant's eyes in the vanity mirror.
The girl's nimble fingers combed through her damp blonde hair, before gathering it up and securing it with pins that were diamond-studded. She arranged the strands to expose the elegant curve of Lumine's neck, in the way the master preferred.
She caught her reflection in the vanity—blonde hair swept back, crimson gown clinging to her curves—and she barely recognized herself. The woman staring back looked like she belonged in this manor, like she had lived here all along.
She rose from the vanity, smoothing the silk of her gown.
One of the servant girls brought out a pair of crimson slippers, which she slipped onto Lumine's feet. The other produced a small wooden box, which held pieces of jewelry—a delicate rose gold necklace with a droplet-shaped diamond pendant, and earrings to match.
“From the master’s personal collection,” said the servant with the box. "He picked this out for you."
Lumine's fingers brushed against the cool metal of the necklace as the servant fastened it around her throat. The weight of the pendant settled above the slope of her collarbone.
"You look radiant, Miss Lumine," said one of the servants, stepping back to admire her handiwork.
"Thank you."
The servants curtsied in unison and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind them with a gentle click.
She turned toward the door, heart quickening. Sunset was approaching.
The master of the manor would be waiting.
The long corridor stretched before her, lit by flickering sconces that illuminated the dark patterns embossed within the burgundy wallpaper. Her crimson slippers clicked against the wooden floor as she made her way to the dining room. The scent of roses grew stronger, mingling with that of wine and something richer.
The massive double doors to the dining room stood before her. They were ornate, with moons and flowers carved in them. Through the gap, a sliver of golden light spilled into the corridor. She paused at the threshold, hand hovering over the polished brass handle, before pushing the door open.
In the center of the room was a long mahogany table draped in black cloth, and set with silver candelabras. Crystal glasses filled with red wine sat at two place settings, and in the center, a single rose in a matching vase. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of moonlit hunts and unseelie fairies leading humans astray in the woods. Beneath the tapestries, dark curtains hung from tall arched windows.
At the head of the table, a figure stood waiting. There was something in the way he looked at her—not hunger, not affection, but something deeper that made her feel both cherished and consumed.
Part of her wanted to recoil from that gaze. Another part leaned toward it, aching to please him.
"Lumine," said the figure, her name rolling off his tongue like silk. "You came." The figure rose from his chair, tall and imposing, to bow at her.
She gave him a polite curtsy in return. “Good evening, Flins.”
She remembered now. Fragments, at least. This was the master of the manor, the one who had written all those letters. The master wore a crimson paisley vest over a white shirt with billowed sleeves and a white tiered collar. His pants matched the color of his jacket, as did his polished shoes. A black cape draped over his shoulders, fastened at the collar with an ornate silver clasp shaped like a crescent moon. He looked like he had stepped out of a painting from a different period of time—purple hair that fell in waves past his shoulders, pale skin that glowed in the candlelight, and golden eyes that shimmered like coins.
He moved toward her with an inhuman grace. He looked her up and down, as if appraising a polished gem. His gaze lingered on the exposed curve of her neck, the delicate jewelry glinting in the candlelight, before returning to meet her eyes with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"You wore the dress I chose," he observed. His voice was smooth as velvet, tinged with approval. "It suits you my dear, as I knew it would."
Lumine's breath hitched, as he was close enough for her to observe the otherworldly beauty of his features—soft purple hair framing a slender face, sharp cheekbones, pale lips that curved into a knowing smile, and eyes of pale moonlight that could pierce through every defense she might have possessed.
"You're trembling," he noted. His fingers reached out to brush against her chin, tilting her face to meet his gaze. "Are you nervous?"
"A little," she admitted.
"There's no need to be." His thumb stroked the curve of her jaw. "You are safe here with me, always."
His gaze held hers, pale and luminous, and she found herself unable to look away. Their pull was hypnotic, alluring. It calmed her racing heart. She leaned into his hand, seeking more of his cooling touch.
"So good for me."
His words sent a shiver of pleasure through her, and she melted further into his touch.
"So pliant."
He blinked, and his eyes turned scarlet.
Lumine gasped, her body tensing as she witnessed this small change. The scarlet glow stabbed through her soul, setting her on edge.
Flins noticed her fright, and with another blink, his eyes returned to their moonlit hue. "Forgive me." His thumb brushed against her cheek. "I might be getting a little ahead of myself." His hand moved from her jaw to the small of her back, guiding her toward the table. "Come, eat. You must be famished."
He pulled out her chair, and pushed her in once she’d settled onto the velvet cushion. He took his seat across from her, watching her with that same intensity that made her pulse quicken.
A servant appeared at the doorway, carrying a covered silver platter. The aroma that wafted from beneath the dome made her mouth water. Flins gestured for the servant to approach, and the platter was set before her.
The servant lifted the dome with a flourish, revealing a finely prepared dish—tender cuts of braised beef in a dark wine reduction, garnished with fresh herbs and accompanied by roasted root vegetables that glistened with butter. The presentation was exquisite, fit for royalty.
"Please, eat," he urged, gesturing to the plate before her. "I had this prepared specially for you. The meat is rare, just as you need it to be."
Lumine picked up her fork and knife, cutting into the tender meat. As the first bite touched her tongue, she was overwhelmed. It was rich, savory, and flavorful in a way that ordinary food could not match. The food quieted the restless hum in her chest. Each bite made it harder to remember what she’d been anxious about moments before. The weakness that had plagued her melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread through her chest and face, and into her fingertips.
Across from her, Flins remained still. No plate had been set down in front of him. He watched her, a hint of satisfaction playing at the corners of his mouth as the color returned to her cheeks. "You're recovering beautifully," he observed, swirling the wine in his glass though he hadn't taken a sip.
She realized with a start that she hadn't seen him eat at all—he only watched her with that intense gaze.
He lifted his wine glass toward her. “Cheers to you, my darling, for the recovery of your strength."
She found herself raising her own glass in response, the crystal stem thin between her fingers. She brought it to her lips and sipped—the wine was rich and complex, with notes of grape, dark fruit, and the tang of metal. It warmed her from the inside, spreading a pleasant heat through her veins. She frowned at the speed at which this drink was intoxicating her.
"You seem troubled, my dear," he observed, setting down his glass with a soft clink. "Is the wine not to your liking?"
"No, it's exquisite," she assured him, setting her glass down. "It's just... I feel as though there's something I should remember, something important that keeps slipping from me." She pressed a hand to her temple, trying to grasp at the shadows that danced at the edge of her consciousness.
Flins leaned forward, his expression stern. "Memory is a fickle thing, my dear. Sometimes it's kinder to let go of what troubles us and simply exist in the moment."
His voice was hypnotic, each word wrapping around her thoughts like silk and tugging her away from the shadows she'd been reaching for.
She found herself nodding, the motion slow and dreamlike. "You're right. The past doesn't matter anymore."
His smile deepened, revealing the barest hint of elongated canines. "Good girl," he purred. "Now, when you are finished with dinner, shall we retire to the parlor? I believe some music would suit the evening I have planned."
Lumine found herself nodding, the lingering taste of wine and copper on her tongue. "Music sounds lovely."
She finished what food was on her plate, savoring the last bits of the well-prepared meat. The warmth that had spread through her body had settled into a pleasant, drowsy sense of satisfaction. She dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin, leaving a faint crimson stain on the white fabric.
He rose from his seat with fluid grace, moving around the table to stand beside her chair. He extended a gloved hand toward her. "Come, darling. Let me show you the delights that await us."
She placed her hand in his, and he helped her to her feet.
He led her into the parlor, his hand never leaving hers. The warmth from the fireplace wrapped around them as he guided her to one of the velvet settees. "Wait here," he commanded, releasing her hand before moving toward the organ.
She settled into the plush cushions, her crimson gown pooling around her like spilled wine. She watched as his fingers moved over the keys with practiced grace, and the first notes began to fill the room—a haunting melody that echoed through her bones. The music was mesmerizing, each chord drawing her deeper into a trance-like state where nothing existed but the sounds and the man who created them.
As the final notes faded into the room, he turned to face her, his pale eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light. He rose from the organ bench, crossing the distance between them in mere seconds. "Did you enjoy it, my dear?"
"It was beautiful." She rose from the settee to take his offered hand. “I didn’t know you could play the organ.”
"I have many talents, my dear," Flins replied, his voice carrying that familiar velvety smoothness as he drew her closer. "And I intend to share them all with you, given time."
He guided her toward the center of the room, one hand settling at her waist while the other held hers aloft. "Tonight has just begun. Let us start it with a dance."
A servant appeared from a side door of the parlor and sat at the organ. His fingers danced across the keys, filling the parlor with a waltz that was both haunting and beautiful—a melody that came from another time.
They began to sway together, his movements guiding hers with effortless control. Lumine found herself following his lead without much thought, her body responding to his as though they had danced like this hundreds of times before.
"You move like a dream," Flins murmured against her ear, his cool breath sending a shiver down her spine. His hand tightened at her waist, pulling her closer until no space remained between them. She tilted her head back slightly, meeting those pale eyes that held her captive more securely than any chains ever could.
"You're perfect," he whispered. "Everything I've waited centuries for."
The words hung in the air between them. Before she could respond, his lips brushed against her temple in a reverent kiss.
The sensation of his lips lingering on her skin left her dizzy, her thoughts scattering like petals to the wind. Her heart raced beneath his touch. The warmth that had filled her during dinner now burned hotter, morphing into something primal and undeniable.
The music stopped abruptly, as did their dancing.
His hand came to rest against the small of her back, steadying her as the last notes of the waltz faded into silence. The servant at the organ stood and bowed before slipping from the room, leaving them alone in the parlor. The hand on her back anchored her even as her mind swirled with the intoxicating blend of wine, music, and his presence.
"Tell me, darling," he said with a dark caress, "what is it that you desire most in this moment?"
Her lips parted. The answer rose from deep within, unbidden and undeniable. The words had been placed on her tongue, as though they had been waiting there all along. "I…" Her voice trembled with a craving she didn't understand. "I wish to be your bride."
Flins appeared taken aback at first, as though it wasn’t an answer he was accustomed to. “Are you certain of this?”
A flicker of vulnerability crossed her features. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life."
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his lips, revealing elongated canines. "Then my bride you shall be."
His hand slid from her waist to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone in reverence. The coolness of his touch was relieving, drawing her deeper into his embrace. "From this night forward," he murmured, "you will be mine, and I will be yours. We will be bound together for all eternity."
Before she could react, his hand moved to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair as he drew her closer. His lips found hers in a kiss that was both tender and possessive. His tongue swept over her lips, leaving behind the sweetness of grapes and the tang of iron.
It was overwhelming, consuming her from the inside out. She gripped his ruffled shirt, desperate for an anchor as her world tilted on its axis.
The ground shifted beneath her as he swept her into his arms with effortless strength. The parlor blurred around them as he carried her through shadowy corridors, each step bringing them closer to the dark consummation awaiting them both. A door behind them shut with a damning thud.
He set her down in front of a canopied bed, though it was not her own. The chamber was bathed in shadow, lit only by candelabras and the dying embers of a fireplace. He stood over her, his pale eyes drinking in every inch of her—the flush in her cheeks and chest, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her fingers clutching at the fabric beneath her.
"Relax, darling," he said, fingers slowly trailing down her throat. "There is no need to fear. I will be the one to complete your transformation. You will drink from me, and in doing so, you will be reborn—no longer mortal, but something far more magnificent."
He guided her hand to his chest, pressing her palm against where a heartbeat should have been. "And then," he continued, his voice dropping to a seductive purr, "once your turning completes, I will show you pleasures that transcend anything you have ever known in your mortal life."
Her breath hitched. The transformation he spoke of both terrified and thrilled her in ways she couldn't articulate—a hunger that went beyond the physical, something primal and eternal calling to her from the depths of her soul. She nodded, her voice barely a whisper as she surrendered completely to the inevitable: "Yes, my love. Make me yours."
His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he lifted her chin with one finger. "Then let us begin. But first, I need you to cooperate with me."
His eyes flashed, painting her vision red.
She stood attentive to the needs of the vampire in front of her. All thought was blank other than one command; she was to nourish the master of the manor. That was her job as his thrall.
"I must have a taste of you, my dear. I'll need any sustenance I can get before we begin the turning process."
Pliant under his word, Lumine tilted her head, exposing the unmarked side of her neck to him.
"Good girl. Now stand still and relax."
His hand moved to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. His lips brushed against her temple one last time before he lowered his mouth to her neck, fangs grazing the sensitive skin where her pulse beat strongest. "This won't hurt," he muttered, though they both knew it was a lie. Scarlet flashed in her peripheral as his mouth opened.
Searing, white-hot pain exploded through her veins the second his fangs pierced her skin. She let out a cry in surprise, one that was akin to a mewl.
The next thing Lumine was aware of after the initial pain was a pleasant burn in her chest, reminiscent of a fire on a cold winter’s night. Flins hadn't released her neck yet, licking her fresh bite marks to ease the sting.
Her body went slack in his arms. A heady warmth coursed through her veins and left her dizzy. When he pulled away, his lips stained crimson, he gazed at her with scarlet eyes that burned with ancient hunger and something that might have been love—if such a creature was capable of it. "You taste divine, my darling." His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek that had escaped during the feeding.
The heat in her chest licked down, down, toward her core. His hand slid down her side, tracing the curve of her waist through the crimson fabric. "The aphrodisiac will make you more receptive to what comes next."
He pressed his lips to hers, allowing her to taste the metallic sweetness of her own blood. The kiss was deep and claiming, his tongue sliding against hers as his hand tangled in her hair, holding her tight against him.
When he pulled back, a thin strand of crimson connected their lips before breaking. Her eyes felt heavy, her pupils blown wide with desire as the aphrodisiac continued its work through her system. She could feel every point where his body touched hers, each sensation amplified to a near-unbearable intensity.
"Now it's your turn, Lumine."
He brought his wrist to his mouth, and with a deliberate motion, pierced his own pale flesh with those elongated fangs. Drops of dark crimson blood welled to the surface, glistening like rubies in the candlelight.
"Drink, my beloved." He offered his wrist to her lips. "Drink deeply. Let my blood remake you, transform you into the immortal creature you were always meant to become."
She hesitated, before her lips met his wrist, the taste of his blood flooding her mouth—cold, metallic, ancient, and intoxicating beyond measure. It burned like liquid fire down her throat. She drank deeply, hungrily, until Flins pulled his wrist away, his pale eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched the transformation begin to take hold.
Her body convulsed, every cell in her being rewriting itself with his essence. It unraveled the mortal threads that had bound her and rewove them into something eternal. The aphrodisiac made the pain exquisite, a burning that consumed her mortality and left something eternal in its wake. She collapsed against him, her newly heightened senses overwhelmed by the rush of immortality flooding through her veins.
“The turning has begun. My darling, when you next wake, you shall no longer be bound by the frailty of mortal flesh."
His words echoed in her fading consciousness as darkness pulled her down. The last thing she felt before surrendering completely was his cool lips pressed against her forehead.
When she woke again, she couldn't recall what had happened the night prior. She sat up in bed, head hazy and muscles pulsing with a dull pain. The taste of iron sat on her tongue, unwilling to fade no matter how much she swallowed. The furs she'd settled under were not the same as the blankets on her bed.
There was a note on the table; the same cream paper with a crimson insignia to seal it shut. Breaking the seal produced the familiar aroma of wine and roses.
My bride,
When you wake from your turning, I invite you to join me tonight for dinner and a walk through the gardens at twilight. I believe an occasion such as this one calls for me to open a bottle of my finest drink. I would be more than delighted to share it with you.
On another note, I had something special prepared for you. I understand that the process you are undergoing can be quite painful at times. It will ease your suffering.
And at last, you shall be able to indulge in the pleasures I had promised you earlier. Please wear whatever dress you'd like, so long as you wear the crimson set I placed in the armoire.
Come to me at your earliest convenience. You know where to find me.
Yours in eternity,
—F.
How long had she been asleep for? It didn't feel like it was for all that long.
She glanced toward the window, and the light shining through appeared different—it was sharper, vivid, burning. She jumped out of bed to close the curtains fully. Even without the light, each detail of the room stood out with crystalline clarity: the grain in the wooden furniture, the delicate pattern of lace on the curtains, and the individual dust motes dancing in the air.
Her body felt strange. Stronger, yet hollow in a way she couldn't articulate. The dull pain pulsing through her muscles was accompanied by an unfamiliar hunger—not for food, but for something else entirely. Something that made her gums ache with need.
Lumine looked down at her bare feet touching the cool floor. The sensation was overwhelming in its intensity. Everything felt like it was more—more vivid, more acute.
She caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror across the room and froze. More like, she caught sight of the lack of herself. The reflection of the room showed everything except her own form.
When she parted her lips, running her tongue over her teeth, she felt it: the sharp points of enlarged canines.
Then it hit her.
The transformation.
Flins' blood.
The burning as it remade her from the inside out.
She was no longer mortal.
The hunger intensified at the thought, a scorching need that clawed at her throat and made her vision blur at the edges. She pressed a hand to her neck, feeling for a pulse she knew wouldn't be there—and found nothing but silence. No heartbeat. No warmth from blood that would've otherwise coursed through her veins.
She read the note again. Come to me at your earliest convenience.
And oh, she would do exactly that.
She had many questions about her new form. She needed answers. She needed to understand the limits of what she'd become—of what he'd made her into.
And most of all, she needed him.
With unsteady steps, she made her way to the armoire, her movements still adjusting to this new body that felt both familiar and foreign. She selected the set of deep crimson lingerie that had been placed front and center. On top of that would go a black dress with a skirt that pooled around her feet like spilled ink. She dressed quickly, her fingers fumbling with the ribbons and fastenings.
The hunger gnawed at her core as she left her chambers, following the pull that drew her toward where she knew he would be waiting.
Toward Flins.
Toward her groom. Her maker.
Toward the dark eternity they would share together.