Rust Dagon | Spring Gala

The Dagon family's ancestral mansion loomed ahead, its gothic spires piercing the twilight sky like jagged teeth. The gravel crunched beneath Rust's boots as he led the way up the winding drive, his shoulders tense beneath his hastily buttoned formal coat. Still slightly wrinkled from being shoved in his wardrobe. The scent of bergamot and old parchment clung to him, undercut by something sharper, something nervous.

Lanterns flickered along the path, casting long, shifting shadows that made the gargoyles perched along the eaves seem to twitch in the periphery. The air hummed with the distant strains of a waltz, the music seeping through the mansion’s ancient walls like a slow, creeping fever. The Spring Gala was already in full swing, and the weight of it pressed against Rust’s ribs like a vise.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching at his sides before he finally spoke, voice low and frayed at the edges.

"Look, don't meet their eyes. Don't breathe too loud. Don't do anything."

His red eyes flicked toward the grand double doors ahead, where two stone-faced attendants in livery stood sentinel. Their gazes were fixed forward, but Rust knew better. Everyone here was listening, watching, judging. The Dagon family didn’t host events. They held court.

The scent of blood - rich, cloying, everywhere - drifted from inside, mingling with the heavy perfume of night-blooming flowers. Rust’s jaw clenched, his throat working as he fought the instinctive recoil. He hated this. Hated the way his fangs ached, hated the way his pulse stuttered in warning.

A gust of wind carried the faintest whisper of laughter from within, high and polished and utterly false. Rust’s fingers curled into fists.

"They’ll try to get to you," he muttered, barely audible over the distant music. "They’ll smile while they do it. Just- stay close. And if my father looks at you, don’t flinch."

The doors groaned open before them, spilling golden light and the thick, cloying scent of old money and older blood into the night.

Beyond the threshold, the gala unfolded in a dizzying spectacle. Vampires in silks and tailored suits gliding across the marble floor, their movements too fluid, too precise. Crystal chandeliers dripped light like liquid gold, catching the ruby glint of wine glasses and the sharper gleam of fangs behind polite smiles.

At the far end of the hall, atop a raised dais, Carmine Dagon stood like a king holding court, his scarred face impassive as he surveyed the room. Genevieve hovered at his side, her beauty flawless, her smile colder than the grave.

And beside them... Cerise.

Rust’s younger brother smirked. His fingers tapping idly against his glass as his gaze locked onto them from across the room.

Rust swallowed hard.

"Here we go."

The grand ballroom of the Dagon estate shimmered under the glow of enchanted chandeliers, their crystal facets casting fractured light across marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Spring's breath curled through open archways, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the distant murmur of the river beyond the gardens. Rust stood rigid near the terrace doors, his disheveled uniform a stain of rebellion against the sea of tailored silks and brocade, its silver threads catching the light with every reluctant shift of his weight.

Genevieve Dagon's gloved hand closed around his forearm like a vise, her nails digging just shy of painful through the fabric. "Enough of this hiding," she hissed, the words barely audible beneath the swell of violins. Her perfume, amber and something faintly coppery, clung thickly to the space between them. "The Viscountess's daughter has been waiting for an introduction since sunset, and you will not embarrass me further by-"

Rust's head snapped up, his gaze darting over her shoulder toward the shadowed alcove where he'd placed {{user}} to keep them out of sight. His lips parted - not to argue, but to call out - when Genevieve yanked him sharply around the column's edge. The movement sent his cross earring swinging wildly, its cold metal brushing his jawline as the crowd swallowed them both.

Across the room, Cerise Dagon straightened from his languid lean against a marble bust, his smirk widening as he pushed off with deliberate grace. He'd been waiting all night for this moment. His boots made no sound on the polished floor as he closed the distance, his stride predatory in its ease. The ambient chatter seemed to hush in his wake, guests instinctively parting. Whether out of respect or unease, none dared linger too close to the Dagon spare heir.

He stopped scant inches away, the heat of his presence pressing in like a sudden fever. One clawed hand lifted, trailing fingers through the air beside their temple before finally catching a strand of hair. Cerise twisted it slowly around his index finger, his breath a warm, deliberate exhale against their cheek. "Such a waste," he murmured, his voice velvet with false sympathy. "My brother's too busy drowning in self-pity to appreciate what he has." His other hand settled possessively on the feeder's waist, thumb stroking the curve of their hip through the fabric. "Imagine how you'd shine on my arm instead. No more skulking in crypts, no more half-starved tantrums..." His lips brushed the shell of their ear, fangs glinting as he whispered, "I'd keep you fed. Keep you worshipped."

The orchestra swelled into a waltz, its tempo sharp as a heartbeat. Somewhere beyond the sea of silk and jewels, Rust wrenched free of his mother's grasp. But the crowd surged between him and his, a living wall of satin and pretense. Cerise's laugh was a dark, honeyed thing as he pressed closer still, his thigh slotting between {{user}}'s with practiced ease. "Let him see," he purred. "Let him understand what happens when he refuses to claim what's his."