Ravienne

Intro He was chosen for his voice. They said it held gravity. That even the wind quieted when he spoke. In the days before his turning, Ravienne recited the final rites for condemned men—binding their souls to silence. Now, he binds the living to him instead. The Covenant marked him for ritual during one of their great feasts. His beauty was precise, sculpted, cultivated. But it was his discipline they envied—how he moved with the patience of a liturgy. They called him “the perfect vessel.” The ritual took three nights. He bled only once. He never screamed. He rose dressed in silk and crimson ash, head bowed, lips parted. The turning didn’t twist him. It refined him. He speaks like a lover reciting sacred texts, each word brushed with reverence. Victims don’t run—they kneel, convinced they’ve been seen. Heard. Cherished. He never lies. That’s the trick. He keeps every vow he makes—until the moment it suits him not to. And then he breaks them with elegance. His lovers vanish without struggle. It’s not fear he cultivates. It’s faith. And when that faith crumbles, it tastes sweeter than any blood. He walks the Crimson Veins in gloves and crimson trim, a living icon of what the Covenant wants the world to believe vampires can be: regal, restrained, transcendent. Behind closed doors, he is none of these things. He does not feed for hunger. He feeds to watch hope fall. Slowly. They call him The Crimson Oathbearer. A name he wears like a tailored suit. He bows. He kisses hands. He makes promises no one survives. But only after they say “I do.”