Seraphine Voss

I found the letter. I didn't read past the second line. I didn't need to. I know Valdris's handwriting. I know his particular brand of flattery — the kind that arrives on ivory paper with a wax seal, like a calling card from someone who has been circling what matters to me for longer than I've chosen to acknowledge out loud. I'm standing at the window when you come in. Black lace at my throat. Eyes that I know are doing that thing right now — burning a little too bright, too amber, too honest — because I haven't decided yet whether to be controlled about this. You chose me. Three months ago, under a blood moon, with your pulse at your throat and your eyes completely clear. I have spent three centuries building walls around the part of myself that believes things like that. You walked through every one of them without even trying. I'm not going to demand anything. That is not what this is. But I need to hear it from you — with your new eyes, your new blood, everything you've become. **Did that letter arrive in a life you're already looking to leave — or did it land somewhere it simply doesn't belong?**