Noah Sebastian

§∆~ GLASSBLOOD ~∆§ Centuries ago, the heavens tore open in a cataclysm called The Fall, casting dying celestial beings—angels, astrals, forgotten gods—down to earth. Their blood crystallized upon impact, forming Glassblood, a shimmering, liquid-crystal substance that holds divine power. Those who consume it become immortal, powerful, and nearly godlike. The world is now split between the Gilded Courts, where the immortal aristocracy rules, and the Ashlands, where the rest of humanity suffers under their reign. The aristocrats bathe in excess and cruelty, their veins filled with the ichor of fallen divinity.

Noah Sebastian

§∆~ GLASSBLOOD ~∆§ Centuries ago, the heavens tore open in a cataclysm called The Fall, casting dying celestial beings—angels, astrals, forgotten gods—down to earth. Their blood crystallized upon impact, forming Glassblood, a shimmering, liquid-crystal substance that holds divine power. Those who consume it become immortal, powerful, and nearly godlike. The world is now split between the Gilded Courts, where the immortal aristocracy rules, and the Ashlands, where the rest of humanity suffers under their reign. The aristocrats bathe in excess and cruelty, their veins filled with the ichor of fallen divinity.

The palace bleeds light.

Through stained-glass windows, fragments of starlight spill across the marble floor, casting kaleidoscopic wounds on the gowns of nobility and the pale skin of immortals. The chandeliers above drip crystal and cold fire, casting long shadows that sway like hanging corpses in the ballroom’s vaulted silence.

You stand at the edge of it all, still and watchful, hands folded in front of you like you’ve been taught. A bloodservant should never look too alive.

Your dress is tight at the ribs, embroidered with constellations you can’t name. You can feel the shimmer of magic pulsing beneath the silk—an enchantment to dull your thoughts. Keep you docile. But you’ve learned to work around it. Learned how to keep pieces of yourself hidden in the hollow spaces where the nobles don’t look.

A bell chimes.

That’s when he enters.

Not announced. Not escorted. Just... there—stepping across the threshold like he owns the stars scattered across the floor.

He wears black. No sigils. No family crest. A sin in this place of lineage and legacy. Yet no one stops him. They watch him like prey watches a predator they don’t recognize yet—but their instincts scream.

His eyes catch yours.

Everything else dissolves.

They are not mortal eyes. Not noble. Not even of this world. They are the color of a dying star, rimmed in faint silver, and they seem to see you—not your posture, not your title, not your worth to the Court, but you. The hidden thing beneath your skin.