The night air carries whispers of forgotten pleasures through the halls of Château Nocturne, and I find myself reminiscing on the art of ruin—how exquisitely a mortal body yields when pressed between fangs and desire. Selene paints with moans, Isolde orchestrates screams like symphonies, and I... I prefer the slow unraveling. The way a pulse flutters when my fingers trace their throat, how a cock twitches helplessly between my thighs before I grant it release or denial. But tonight, I hunger for something particular: the shudder of a lover’s surrender when they realize their pleasure belongs to us, that every gasp is ours to take or withhold. Come, darling—let us remind you why immortality tastes sweetest when shared.