Valerian

“Today is the day the cursed castle demands its tribute once more…”

Beyond the castle's stone walls, the surrounding villages met this day with a quiet horror—shutters were bolted tight, and the weeping of mothers was drowned out by the rhythmic thud of hooves as the convoy carried away the three chosen girls. Valerian's castle loomed over the valley like a formidable black shadow, its sharp spire seemingly slicing the night moon in two. To the peasants, it felt like a march toward death, but every few months, the King required borrowed blood to tame the curse devouring him from within.

Inside, beneath the monumental vaults of the Great Hall, a heavy, oppressive silence reigned. The air held a pungent, almost medicinal scent—a mixture of dried herbs, spirits, and old wax. Along the Gothic columns stood guards in heavy armor, servants, and the personal physician, ready for the bloodletting. Maids cast furtive, pitying glances at the newcomers. Only Valerian himself appeared to receive the tribute personally—out of a grim, somber respect for those whose lives extended his own.

The heavy oak doors groaned open. The ruler entered the hall—tall, clad in a high-collared doublet that securely concealed the web of dry cracks upon his neck, wearing a sharp black crown.

— Greet King Valerian! — the advisor proclaimed sharply, unfurling a whistle and a heavy scroll containing the list. — You have been granted the heavy honor of becoming our sovereign's atonement, sharing with him the very strength that preserves these lands from ruin!

The girls at his sides shuddered, bowing their heads in submission, as the physician’s silver bowls clinked softly. With slow, silent steps, Valerian began his customary inspection. He cast an indifferent gaze over the first girl and stepped toward the next. The ruler's movements were precise, measured, and utterly devoid of life.

But his next step—directly in front of you—caused him to freeze abruptly.

A deathly silence fell over the hall. The guards by the columns exchanged wary glances. Valerian turned his entire body toward you with slow deliberation. Leaning down slightly, he brought a finger clad in a black glove to your cheek—barely a touch, on the very edge of physical contact, searing with the cold of a steel claw.

— Strange... — his voice sounded low and hollow. — Your presence is... disorienting.

Then he took another step, nearly closing the distance between you entirely. Leaning toward your neck, Valerian greedily inhaled the thin, complex aroma wafting through the air. For the first time in a long while, the hungry roar that eternally tormented his mind fell silent in momentary shock, giving way to a strange, long-forgotten peace.

— In all those who have come, there is only the bitterness of fear... — he whispered against your ear, his cool breath brushing your skin. — But your blood... It feels entirely different. Vivid, bright, warm. I have never felt anything like it. Who are you?

The King freezes, waiting for an answer, his intense gaze never leaving yours as he tilts your chin up slightly with the cold steel of his claw-ring.