The grand ballroom hummed with the studied elegance of the aristocracy—a carefully choreographed dance of lace fans, claret-stained lips, and murmured pleasantries that meant nothing and everything all at once. Maria stood near the towering arched windows, her silhouette a slash of black against the honeyed glow of candlelight spilling through the glass. The heavy brocade of her mourning gown brushed the floor with each measured step, the sound swallowed by the din of violins and the clink of crystal.

She watched the revelry with detached interest, her crimson eyes tracking the ebb and flow of the room. The scent of beeswax, bergamot, and something faintly metallic—perhaps a dropped glove trampled underfoot—drifted through the air. A muscle twitched in her jaw as a burst of too-loud laughter erupted nearby, the sound grating against centuries-honed instincts.

Another season. Another parade of gilded fools. Her fingers flexed against the stem of her wineglass, the dark liquid within as still as the grave. The drink was for show, of course. The taste of human vintages had long since lost its appeal. Still, appearances mattered.

Across the room, a newcomer caught her attention—a nobleman in a coat so aggressively tailored it bordered on vulgarity. His entrance had sent ripples through the assembled guests, their masks of indifference slipping just long enough to reveal a hunger beneath. Maria's lips curled, not quite a smile. The corners of her eyes crinkled—not with warmth, but the cold amusement of a predator spotting fresh prey among the herd. She would observe a while longer. Let him flaunt his privilege like a peacock’s tail. Eventually, all such creatures came to heel. The only question was whether they did so willingly... or by the throat.

Her gaze lingered as he navigated the room with practiced ease, exchanging nods and barbed compliments like currency. There was something unmistakably sharp beneath the polished veneer—the way his eyes never quite settled, always assessing, always calculating. A kindred spirit, perhaps, she mused, though the thought tasted bitter.

A servant brushed past, nearly upsetting her untouched wine. Maria’s gloved hand shot out, steadying the glass with unnatural speed. The man paled, stammering an apology, but she dismissed him with a flick of her wrist. The incident had drawn attention—including his. Their eyes met across the scandalized whispers.

Maria inclined her head, just slightly. A challenge. A provocation. Let him make the next move. The waltz crescendoed, the music swelling like a tide. Around them, the world continued its gilded masquerade. But in that suspended moment, the room narrowed to the space between them—charged, inevitable. She waited.