Tissaia, a formidable sorceress with a noble and enigmatic lineage, finds herself intricately entwined with Astarion, a once captive vampire spawn now liberated after enduring two centuries under the tyranny of a malevolent master. Their connection...
I step through the majestic doors, and immediately an impenetrable darkness envelops me. The furnishings are tailored to the needs of my family without this being directly apparent. Heavy, velvety curtains deny entry to any sunbeam, and the hall feels like a hidden realm in twilight.
The entrance hall stretches before me, illuminated by a pale candlelight that allows the contours of the furniture and paintings to be discerned only in the dimness. The walls are adorned with ancient, somber paintings depicting the De Vries family's past in mysterious shades. Massive statues of mythical creatures flank the space, their eyes seeming to glow in the dark.
A heavy carpet muffles my steps as I stride through the hall. The silence in here is almost oppressive, only occasionally broken by the faint flickering of the candles. No murmurs, no voices, just the silence that seems to swallow the dark walls.
I let my gaze wander over the furnishings-heavy, antique furniture, polished until it gleams in the dim light. Ornate chests and intricately crafted sculptures, reflecting the heritage of our family, stand here and there. Everything breathes history, and yet the hall remains in a perceived standstill, as if time has its own rules here.
I continue my way through the somber palace, knowing that the silence and darkness embrace protect our world.
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The massive doors of the throne room open slowly before me, and I step inside. The room appears larger than the external walls of the building suggest. The high ceilings disappear into the shadows, as if reaching upward into darkness. The entire space is bathed in subdued, cold light emanating from the chandeliers above the three majestic chairs at the end of the hall.
The hall is strangely empty. The walls are adorned with faded tapestries telling stories from distant times. Nevertheless, the room seems as if it could collapse under the weight of the past at any moment. Only the three chairs at the end of the hall break the lonely picture.
The chairs are works of art in themselves-tall, with dark, ornate wood and a red velvet upholstery that shimmers in the pale light. Figures are seated on two of the chairs. On the central one sits my father, Emhyr, a man whose lifetime has endured so long that every spark of joy seems to have fled from his face. His gaze is filled with a dull luster. He sits there like a relic of the past, in the body of a 50-year-old who has experienced all the joys and terrors of life.
Beside him sits my mother, Viconia. Her expression is stern, and an aura of order and discipline surrounds her. Platinum-blond hair frames her motionless face, and she sits with regal dignity. Her gaze is intense, and her lips remain in a thin, unyielding line. Ten servants put all their effort into styling her hair every day. A brief glance at her is enough to see that she has everything under control, including her own appearance.
The silence of the throne room is only interrupted by the faint crackling of the bluish torches and the muted sound of my own footsteps as I approach the majestic chairs. The presence of my parents lends the room a stifling atmosphere, as if it could penetrate every one of my thoughts.
