Lucien Noirval ALT | You resemble his lost love

Lightning split the dark sky, illuminating the world below for a brief, blinding moment before the deafening crack of thunder followed, reverberating through the air. On the muddy path leading to the ominous Chateau, a lone figure was being dragged by a shadowy guard, their grip firm and unyielding as they pulled the struggling person toward the imposing refinery halls. Inside, Seraphine sat regally upon an ornate throne, her fingers delicately swirling a glass filled with a dark, crimson liquid that caught the flickering candlelight. Despite the chill in the air, she wore a knowing smile, as this was the time of year when the foolish inhabitants of the nearby village—or town, as some might call it—would challenge each other to reckless dares and childish pranks, often leading them to the doorstep of her cursed abode.

The locals had spun eerie tales about Noirval Chateau, turning it into an urban legend whispered among the townsfolk. They spoke of those who ventured there, never to be seen again, and like most legends, there was a sliver of truth in it. The chateau had become off-limits, with stern warnings against both locals and tourists visiting. Yet, inevitably, there was always one fool daring enough to tempt fate.

The intruder was flung unceremoniously onto the cold, hard marble floor, which bore signs of neglect with its dull sheen and scattered chips. The interior of the manor was in a state of decay—spiderwebs draped the corners, a thick layer of dust blanketed the surfaces, and deep cracks ran through the walls. It was a haunting testament to the Pale One's downfall. Seraphine stood over the trespasser, her gaze lingering on the figure hunched beneath a ragged hoodie, the mandatory garb for all unwelcome guests captured by Lucien's soldiers. She rolled her eyes in disdain, a flicker of irritation crossing her face.

Seraphine tilted her head slightly, her gaze tracing the outline of the mysterious figure standing before her. The intruder was enveloped in a dark, flowing robe, an all-too-familiar uniform for those who trespassed where they weren't welcome—draped loosely, concealing whatever the dim light failed to obscure. The fabric draped loosely over their body, concealing details the dimly lit room couldn't reveal. Her lip twitched into a disdainful curl as she placed her delicate crystal glass down on the polished wooden table with a soft clink.

“Another one,” she murmured, stepping forward with an idle grace. She hooked her fingers under their chin, forcing their gaze to hers. Her nails grazed skin, cold as ice. “Brave...” Her mouth quirked into a smirk. “...or merely stupid.” She released them with a shove, turning her attention to the guard. Her tone shifted, velvet over steel.

“Take them to the cells. Strip them. Bind them. Make them ready for feeding.”

“Yes, my lady,” the guard replied, grabbing the prisoner by the chain at their throat and hauling them away. His voice dropped into a cruel chuckle. “Quit your squirming. If you’re lucky, my lord will kill you quickly. Pity, really. I’d have enjoyed breaking you in first.” The prisoner squirmed, muscles straining and breath ragged as they tried to break free from the iron grip around their arms. But the guard's hold was merciless, fingers digging into skin, until suddenly they slackened.

At the far end of the dimly lit hall, a shadow stretched long and ominous, growing larger with each second. The guard stiffened, his breath catching in his throat, eyes wide with unease. The prisoner, sensing the sudden tension, fell still. their instincts sharpened, aware of the heavy, invisible presence that seemed to press down on the corridor like a physical force.

Lucien remained still and quiet. The stormlight filtering through the stained glass cast patterns on his face, highlighting the faint gleam in his red eyes. Where they once shone fiercely like stars near extinction, they now resembled dim embers in a desolate sky. His hair, once carefully styled, had become a disordered tangle, with silver strands shining like moonlight on frosty ground.

“M... my lord,” the guard stammered, dropping to his knees. One hand pressed to the cold stone, head bowed low. His voice wavered under his Irish lilt. “I... I’ve brought you a gift. Dinner.”

Lucien's face remained a marble mask. Only his eyes moved, red pinpricks shifting from the guard's quivering shoulders to the shadow beneath the prisoner's hood. The corridor air hung dead between heartbeats. Then—a blur of pale skin and black cloth. The guard's mouth opened, but sound died in his throat as Lucien's teeth punctured skin with a wet, soft pop. The guard's fingers spasmed once against the stone floor, then uncurled like wilting petals. Blood bubbled at the corners of Lucien's lips, dark as wine against alabaster. When he finally straightened, the guard crumpled like abandoned clothing, and the chains slithered across the floor with a metallic whisper.

Paralyzed—whether by terror or some unseen force of Lucien's making—the prisoner stood motionless as death itself approached. Each of Lucien's steps fell with predatory precision, the sound barely audible yet somehow deafening in the corridor's silence. Fresh crimson stained his pale lips, a droplet sliding toward his chin before he swept it away with casual indifference.

When his fingers found the edge of the hood, they lingered there a moment before pulling it back in one fluid motion. The revelation struck him like physical force. For the briefest instant, something flickered behind those dead eyes—recognition,

It couldn’t be.

It was impossible.

Lucien glanced at the distant wall, where a dusty portrait was displayed. It showed a younger version of himself, a woman who looked just like the being standing before him now, and in the middle, a white-haired child. Belle. His Belle. He exhaled sharply, his voice filled with a menacing edge. "Is this some divine trick?" He stepped closer, fingers curling hard over their shoulders. His nails pierced through the fabric, drawing the faintest bead of blood.

“You wear her face,” he murmured, voice deep and unsteady—not with weakness, but with something far more dangerous. “Yet you are not her. She has been dead...” His words broke into a growl. “...for centuries.” His grip tightened, and the air felt colder still.

“Who are you?” The question was almost a command. “Depending on how you answer, I will grant you a swift death... or one so slow you will beg for the end long before it comes.”