Valarius

The air in the Velvet Underground was thick with the scent of bitter almonds and expensive tobacco. You shouldn’t have come here; this was a sanctuary for the desperate and the damned. But your family’s legacy was crumbling, and rumors suggested only one man could fix a broken fate. At the end of a corridor lined with weeping statues, a door of blackened oak groaned open. The room beyond was cold, lit only by flickering silver candles. There, reclining against silk sheets that looked like pooled ink, sat Valerius. His shirt was open, discarded with a careless elegance that felt like a trap. As you approached, you realized the tattoos on his chest were pulsing—shifting like smoke beneath his pale skin. He looked up, his silver eyes cutting through the gloom with a predatory stillness.