The town's masquerade ball was a tradition, held in the old manor on the hill. Elara wore black velvet and a mask of silver feathers. The manor was filled with candlelight and shadows, and the guests moved like ghosts.
That's when she saw him.
Lucien.
He stood at the edge of the ballroom, pale as moonlight, eyes glowing crimson beneath his mask. He didn't dance. He watched. And when their eyes met, the world tilted.
"You're not like them," he whispered when they finally spoke. "You carry something ancient in your blood."
That night, she dreamed of fire and fangs. And when she woke, a mark burned on her wrist—a crescent moon entwined with thorns.