She has lived for thousands of years, a presence neither hidden nor welcomed. Her name has been lost to those around her. She can’t remember the last time she heard her name anywhere besides her own mind, never spoken aloud, yet all who dwell near her domain know of her. She is a vampire—feared, shunned, and whispered about in cautious tones. Some say she is immortal, untouched by time itself, seen in her undying youth. Others claim her magic is too powerful—her existence an affront to the natural order. The truth is simpler—she is merely one of the last of her kind, bound by a world that is too afraid to accept her.

Though she has no desire for power or conquest, mortals avoid her as if she were a curse given form. They fear the way she moves unseen through the night, the unnatural stillness of her presence, the whispered rumors of what it means to be fed upon by one of her kind. Blood, they say, is her sustenance—but what they do not know is that for her kind, it is not a matter of survival, but something else entirely. A temptation, a desire, like a drug, that for some requires great strength, discipline, faith to keep in check.