🪶Disclaimer: 🪶 This is a fictional narrative. All characters, events, and settings are entirely imagined—though loosely inspired by a heavily modded save in The Sims 4, extensively customized to behave and appear as realistically as feasible, with enhanced visuals, nuanced social dynamics, and detailed world-building that mirror real human complexity.

If you’re a Simmer, you might recognize the location names and emotional beats. If you’re not, you’ll still find your way—no prior knowledge required. Everything you need to know lives inside this blog.

This story is for anyone who’s ever rebuilt their life from the ashes and dared to write new chapters. For those who crave storylines that think outside the usual boxes—and for anyone who knows that sometimes, the most powerful myths are the ones we make ourselves.

Main Character Biographies

Victoria Sinclair– Author. Painter. Vampire. Mother.
Recently turned vampire—without consent—in a desperate act to save her life during childbirth. She is recovering emotionally and physically, navigating her new existence with fierce vulnerability and mythic resolve. Her art and writing now carry the weight of immortality, legacy, and maternal fire.

“I didn’t ask for eternity. But I’ll make it mean something.”

Cesare Vannucci – The Master. Keeper. Sovereign of silence. The power behind the Hollow—and above it. Ageless and archaic, with a presence that bends time and memory alike. His voice carries weight; his silences, decree. Known for restraint, precision, and unnerving calm. When he speaks, even truth feels curated. He does not rule with spectacle. He does not need to. His authority is the kind that others feel before they understand.

Riordan Hargrave – Steward. Cipher. The man beside the throne. Handsome and charming but bears the gravity of someone who’s seen too much. Trusted by Cesare to handle delicate matters. Moves like silk through shadow. His loyalty is quiet, his wisdom louder.

Caelan Vannucci – Hunter. Provocateur. Dangerous presence. Longsword in a tailored coat, with a voice like a growl and eyes that never soften. Known for his volatility and flair for violence. Tracks what others can’t find. Leaves fear in his wake and never apologizes. Stillness is his weapon. Most have never seen him smile.

Leeora Levesque, High Enchantress of Ravenwood, was born of a forbidden union between a vampire father—Caelan Vannucci—and a witch mother, a legacy that sparked discord and shaped her into the most feared necromancer of her age. She killed her first husband upon discovering he was a vampire hunter targeting her father, whom she loves fiercely and who loves her just as deeply. Her second husband, a rogue vampire, was spared from execution by her plea alone. Regal and ruthless, Leeora governs through command, not charm, and seems untouched by time—some say due to the vampire blood in her veins, others claim ancient spells of eternal youth.

Michael Shaw, Apex of the werewolves and leader of the largest pack in the region, is a force of primal authority wrapped in rugged charm. Known for his brutal honesty and unshakable loyalty, he forged an unlikely bond with Connell O’Cavanaugh—Coven Enforcer and grandson of Cesare Vannucci—through war, wit, and shared bloodlines. Their friendship deepened when Michael’s son married Connell’s mortal daughter, binding vampire and werewolf legacies into a mythic tangle. Though feared by many, Michael rules with instinct, justice, and a growl that silences rooms. When he speaks, packs listen. When he moves, the forest holds its breath.

Gwydion O’Galabwryr, High Mage of the Hollowed Grove, is a relic of ancient magic—feared for his archaic power and revered for his unbroken mastery of the arcane. His voice carries the cadence of forgotten tongues, and his spells are carved from the bones of lost civilizations. Once cursed to lose his heirs, Gwydion found new lineage through his marriage to Fiona O’Cavenaugh, vampire daughter of Connell, with whom he has two children. Their union binds the oldest magick to the oldest blood, and his presence alone can silence a gathering. To witness his magic is to question reality. To cross him is to vanish from it.

Alder Davenport Mage of Mourningvale, poet by compulsion, and man of many masks. Conceived in shame, born out of wedlock to a mother who died in childbirth at a convent, his birth records bear the assumed surname Davenport. She named him Alder, and he honors her choices by keeping Davenport as his nom de plume. Branded Thorne by the ward who raised him, he wears his fictional name by his mother now by choice, reclaimed from cruelty. To some, he’s a romantic. To others, a traitor. To Victoria, he’s both—and neither. His verses read like riddles wrapped in regret, and his disappearances leave only ink and silence behind. Alder walks the line between redemption and ruin with quiet grace and a fate he no longer tries to outrun.

Diplomacy

I was nervous. Uneasy. Not the fluttery kind that dances in your stomach. This was the kind that settled in my bones, made my fingers twitch and my thoughts scatter like ash. I stood in the grand hall of Castello di Vannucci, waiting—unsure what this new diplomatic assignment would demand of me.

Then Cesare arrived.

He wore full ceremonial finery—deep burgundy velvet, gold embroidery that shimmered like firelight, a cloak clasped with the Vannucci crest. Regal. Imposing. Every inch the patriarch.

“Good. You are ready and on time. I trust you’ve taken the potion, as you’ll be spending some time outdoors,” he said, voice calm and final, eyes sweeping over my gown like it was a diplomatic document.

I nodded once. I had taken the potion—yes. That dismal, throat-clawing brew was sulking in my pocket, just in case. No one had bothered to run down the agenda, so I had no idea if we were stepping out for three hours or three days, let alone where or why. I was dressed for timeless elegance and prepared for absolutely nothing.

Caelan, who’d been leaning against the far wall in his usual dark attire, straightened. Without a word, he strode to the armor cabinet.

He didn’t change clothes—he layered protection. Greaves over boots. Vambraces along forearms. Spaulders locking into place with the precision of someone who wore war like a second skin.

Cesare raised an eyebrow. “That won’t be necessary. Just me, Riordan, Connell, and Victoria.”

Caelan froze. Then, for the first time since I’d known him, he argued.

“I am coming, Father.”

Cesare’s gaze held his son’s. A long silence passed. Then he nodded once. “Fine.”

Caelan resumed his preparations. I stepped forward, unsure if I was intruding. He hesitated, then gestured to the vambrace straps.

“Here,” he said. “Tighten this. Not too much. It’s for deflection, not strangulation.”

I followed his instructions, fingers brushing cool metal and equally cool skin. He explained each piece—what it guarded, how it worked, why it mattered. It was the most human I’d ever seen him.

Connell arrived mid-fastening, eyebrows raised. “Going to war, Father?”

Caelan didn’t answer. Just adjusted his spaulder and nodded toward Cesare.

Then we ported.

Little Red Riding Hood

The shift was instant—air sucked out, light bent—and suddenly we were standing in a town that looked like it belonged in a travel brochure. Sunny, forested, scenic. Brick homes with ivy-covered walls. Lakes glinting in the distance. Rivers winding like silver threads.

I blinked. “This is… nice?”

Too nice. Suspiciously nice. The kind of place where people bake pies and die mysteriously in literally every scary movie. And as if on cue, just like in every single horror flick—there was rustling.

Not the gentle kind. Not leaves in the wind or squirrels in a hurry. This was deliberate. Heavy. Surrounding.

I stiffened.

Caelan turned, eyes narrowing. Connell shifted his stance. Riordan’s hand twitched toward his coat.

Then they emerged.

Massive wolves—feral, bristling, drooling between fanged snouts. Their eyes glowed amber. Their paws hit the earth like war drums. They circled us, slow and deliberate, predators sizing up prey.

I shrieked—actually shrieked—and clung to Caelan of all people. He caught me without hesitation, one arm around my shoulders, the other raised in warning. His body was a shield. His growl was low and primal.

One of the wolves snarled inches from me, so close I could feel his breath—hot, rancid, real.

Caelan didn’t flinch. He bared his fangs.

The wolf backed off.

And just like that, I had my crash course: werewolves are real, they travel in packs, and apparently, I was on the guest list. Or the menu. Gulp.

I clung tighter to Caelan, who—thankfully—seemed more interested in shielding me than seasoning me and using me as bait for the monsters encircling us.

We walked toward the town center surrounded by them, a silent war of posture and presence. Snapping. Growling. Tension so thick it felt like fog.

Cesare walked tall and proud, every inch the sovereign. His stride was deliberate, his chin lifted, his gaze forward—unbothered, unreadable, untouched by the chaos around him. If the wolves snarled, he didn’t flinch. If they circled, he didn’t blink. He was the storm they couldn’t shake.

Riordan matched him in quiet authority. No theatrics. No bravado. Just calm, grounded power. His steps were steady, his expression neutral, but there was something in the way he moved—like he’d already calculated every threat and dismissed it as irrelevant.

Caelan and Connell flanked the group, relaxed in posture but not in readiness. Each had one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, fingers curled just enough to remind the wolves they were not prey. Their eyes scanned the perimeter, casual but sharp. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

And then there was me.

I walked on pudding legs, trying not to freak out. Every snarl made my spine twitch. Every amber eye felt like a spotlight. I kept my head down, my steps small, my breath—well, metaphorically—held. I was surrounded by predators and protected by – well – other predators, and I wasn’t sure which terrified me more.

We arrived at the meeting hall—stone and timber, old but sturdy, like it had survived more than one siege and refused to lean. He stepped out to greet us. Tall, broad-shouldered, wild dark hair and a face carved from rugged terrain. The wolves scattered at his glance.

He raised a mug to his lips—metal, dented, streaked with something that looked suspiciously like grease. The print was half-scraped off, but I caught enough to make out a naked cartoon devil doing wheelies on a hog. Charming.

I watched him drink and didn’t say a word. Just wondered if it was really coffee in there… or if the mug was just a decoy for something stronger. Wouldn’t be the first time a brute dressed his daytime drinking vices as caffeine.

Riordan leaned in whispering near my ear. “Michael Shaw. Leader of the largest pack. Highly respected in this community.”

“Sorry,” Michael said, voice deep and rough, faintly reminiscent of a growl. “They like to show off. They aren’t any of my pack, so all I can do here is scowl at them while giving them the people’s eyebrow so they know if they fuck up, it’ll be the last thing they ever do.”

Then his gaze swept the group.

“Cesare,” he said, bowing his head—not deeply, but with unmistakable respect. “It’s an honor.”

Cesare inclined his head in return, regal and unreadable.

“Riordan,” Michael continued, offering a firm clasp of forearms. “Still holding the line, I see.”

“Always,” Riordan replied, calm and steady.

His eyes flicked to Caelan. The nod he gave was curt. Civil, but cool. Caelan returned it with equal frost.

Then Michael saw Connell.

And then everything shifted. Both men grinned big.

They didn’t just greet—they collided like old storms meeting at sea. The clasp of forearms was tight, the bro-hug firm, the murmured words low and familiar. The mug stayed clutched in his hand, sloshing slightly with each jostle. I half expected him to spill it—christening Connell as part of this guy’s territory or something.

It was the kind of reunion that made the wolves pause and the vampires glance sideways.

Against all odds, they’d held onto each other. Vampire and werewolf. Mortal enemies by blood and tradition. But for Connell and Michael, it had been bromance at first sight—decades ago, when Connell’s kids were still tiny and Michael’s son Nathan was barely older than Connell’s eldest daughter Jaymie, the only one of his three kids with Emmy born mortal, conceived before Emmy was turned. Nathan and Jaymie eventually married, which turned the family tree into a mythic mess, but somehow it worked.

Michael was also married to Emmy’s sister Esmee—of triplets, which further forced the two unlike men to get along, birthing a very unlike friendship.

Michael clapped Connell’s shoulder. “Connell you old fucker! Still dead, I see. Look good for a corpse. How’s everything hanging for ya these days?”

Connell smirked. “All hanging just right, you bag of dicks. Still feral, I see and afraid of a hairbrush and soap. I was gonna bring you a hostess gifts, Scruffy, but couldn’t decide between a flea bath and a chew toy.”

Michael grinned. “It’s okay. We’re serving your favorite—garlic and holy water. And this place has plenty of beams to hang from for your after-feast nappy, batman.”

Connell snorted. “Sounds great. Just make sure your men don’t piss all over the floor this time or we’ll have to give them the rolled up newspaper.”

Michael laughed. “Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself, you sexy thang.”

“Hey, no worries there, I’m fully hands off. I’ve met your wife. I am not suicidal.”

They both chuckled, the kind of laughter that came from surviving things together—wars, weddings, and whatever the hell their families had become.

Then Michael’s gaze landed on me.

He studied me for a beat—curious, assessing, not unkind. Just… uncertain.

“Now who have we got here? A new face, feast for sore eyes. What a relief from the usual sausage fest these things are.”

“Yeah, you and your men better hold off on licking your privates, we got a lady present this time. This is Victoria,” Connell said, with a flourish that was half formal, half theatrical. “Newest member of the coven. In training to be my grandfather’s new scribe. Keeper of secrets, wrangler of egos, and the only one who can make Riordan facepalm himself.”

Riordan chuckled, nodding. Cesare didn’t say anything but smiled.

Michael stepped forward and offered his hand.

I hesitated, then took it.

His grip was firm—very firm. For a moment, I worried he might rip my arm from the socket. But he was surprisingly gentle. Controlled. Like he knew exactly how strong he was and exactly how not to use it.

“Well, pleasure to meet ya, sweetheart. Hopefully these guys warned you that today’s entertainment ain’t for the faint of heart. None of us brought our old ladies, and our girls’ photos are what you see when you look up ‘tough chicks’ in any dictionary.”

His voice was exactly what you’d expect from someone who probably rode a Harley through a thunderstorm just for fun—rugged, rough, cool. A low growl cadence, like gravel wrapped in an old leather bag. Fitting, considering he was presumably a werewolf.

Oh boy. My life for you.

Two years ago, I was like everyone else—normal, boring, blissfully ignorant. Now I’m out here meeting the scares and spooks of our childhoods, shaking hands with living Halloween decorations.
Cesare had turned me into a real-life Little Red Riding Hood.

Fucking fantastic.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Connell said, grinning with a wink in my direction.

“And very determined to push limits,” Cesare added, his smile grim and knowing.

Michael raised an eyebrow. “I see.” Clearly, he understood whatever this was better than I did. Bro-code and mansplaining—apparently universal across species.

“Welcome,” he said, voice low and even. Then he turned toward the door. “Come on in.”

Cesare held the sovereign right to enter first. Tradition, rank—his privilege. Instead, he turned to me with a slight bow.

“Prego. Ladies first.”

I hesitated, surprised by the gesture. Then stepped forward. Behind me, Michael and Connell exchanged a glance. I didn’t see it, but I felt it— that imperceptible ripple in the air when men silently register a shift in the order of things.

Inside, the light dropped.

My eyes adjusted slowly. The hall was dim, warm, and rugged—timber beams, stone hearth, worn leather chairs. It smelled like smoke, pine, and old whiskey. The kind of place built for storms and secrets.

The werewolves inside were mostly in human form, lounged like rockers without instruments. Leather jackets, tattered jeans, band tees faded from too many moons. Steel-toed boots. Chains looped casually around belts—not as weapons, just part of the look. A few had tattoos that moved when they did, like the ink was alive.

They reminded me of a biker gang cliché. Ironically, there were several motorcycles parked out front. If you asked me, they didn’t need bikes. They were machines.

I sat down, still shaken. One of them sniffed around me, fangs inches from my face.

Oh my God.

Before I could flinch, Michael moved. Fast.

He slapped the wolf’s snout with the back of his hand—casual, brutal, precise. The sound cracked through the air like a drumbeat. The wolf yelped, stumbled, and retreated with its tail half-tucked.

Michael didn’t stop there.

He kicked the retreating beast square in the ass, sending it skidding across the floor— all while still holding his beat-up ceramic mug, chipped at the rim and steaming faintly.

“Teaches you to remember the rule about being in human form inside, fucker!” he barked, voice echoing off the beams. “And how to behave around ladies, unless you’re looking to get neutered in front of your pack.”

The others didn’t laugh. Didn’t move. Just watched—those in wolf form with ears flat, eyes lowered. The few who weren’t in human form began shifting instantly—bones cracking, fur receding, limbs reshaping with practiced speed. No one wanted to be the next lesson.

Michael turned back to me, unbothered. “Sorry about that,” he said, like he’d swatted a fly. “Some of them forget they’re not in the woods anymore.”

I blinked. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

It wasn’t fine. I wasn’t fine. None of this was even remotely in the vicinity of ‘fine’! WTF, Cesare. Why?!

“What are we doing here?” I whispered to Riordan, seated beside me at the long, battered table.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Just audience. We were invited to bear witness to a werewolf event. A high honor. A sort of olive branch. Brace yourself.”

He said no more, and the tension in the room didn’t allow for questions.

The hall was dim and grimy—part biker bar, part war lodge, part den of beasts. The air was thick with smoke and testosterone. Timber beams blackened with age. Walls cluttered with mounted antlers, rusted blades, and faded pin-up posters curling at the edges. Neon signs buzzed overhead—Harley logos, whiskey brands, a flickering red one that just said BLOOD in block letters.

The long wooden table ran the length of the room, stained and scarred from years of claws, bottles, and brawls. All the vampires were seated along one side, facing an open stretch of floor in the center—like a dancefloor, if the dancers were more into brutal brawls than choreography. I had no idea why we were arranged like this, but it felt intentional. Like something was about to happen, and we were meant to have front-row seats. Maybe some gladiator style fighting, like some werewolf Royal Rumble? Dreamy. Just fricking dreamy.

The tables were littered with half-empty whiskey bottles, dented beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, and bowls of stale nuts. The floor was sticky. The music was low and distorted—some old rock track growling through blown-out speakers. Someone was still smoking. Someone was sharpening a blade. Someone was watching me like I was a snack.

Then a shackled wolf was dragged into the empty space.

The stretch of floor we’d all been facing—previously just suspiciously bare—was now clearly a stage. A shackled Royal Rumble? That didn’t seem fair.

He hit the stone hard.

Matted fur. Blood on his muzzle. Eyes wild. Every vampire had a clear view. Every wolf knew what came next. I could only guess he wasn’t about to receive an accolade.

Michael Shaw stepped forward, flanked by another towering figure—large, broad, mean.

Riordan leaned close, voice low. “That’s Luke Connery. Apex of the other major pack. If you thought Michael’s rough, Luke’s worse. Those two control nearly every werewolf out there. If one isn’t in either pack and they catch them, they’re dead. No mercy.”

Michael’s voice rang out. “This wolf—Remus—stands accused of killing two vampires. No provocation. No cause.”

My eyes widened. Wait, what?! Killed vampires? Weren’t we immortal?

Riordan leaned in, as if plucking the thought straight from my skull. “A werewolf bite is lethal to vampires. Highly toxic. If untreated within hours—fatal, every time.” His voice was low, clinical. “On the flip side, a vampire can kill a werewolf with minimal effort. It’s a delicate balance—mutual respect, mutual loathing. The scales tip depending on the individuals involved… with a few notable exceptions that prove the rule.”

Remus snarled. “There’s always reason to tear up the Fangs. I did it. I’d do it again.”

The room didn’t flinch. But Luke did.
He moved fast.

One brutal punch to the jaw—bone-cracking, head-whipping, loud enough to echo. The wolf collapsed sideways, blood spraying from his mouth, jaw hung loose, probably broken. Luke spat on him. Then crouched low, voice a gravel snarl.

“Say that shit again and I’ll rip your tongue out and wear it as a keychain.”

The wolf groaned, dazed, but didn’t speak. Probably couldn’t anymore.
Luke stood, unbothered, and unzipped his fly.

I blinked. Oh no.

He pissed on the wolf—casual, territorial, primal. The sound echoed in the silence. The vampires didn’t react. Not visibly. But the contrast was sharp. Our side of the table was polished boots, tailored coats, centuries of etiquette. Their side was blood, piss, booze, and dominance.

Riordan didn’t look away. “This is what happens when a wolf breaks the pact,” he said evenly. “Unfortunate, yes—but not unique to them. Among vampires, there are those whose hatred runs deeper than law. They lash out. Kill werewolves. Or other occult. Despite the rules.”

He glanced toward Cesare. “When that happens, Cesare holds court. Public judgment. Punishment delivered in front of our kind as a warning.”

Then he nodded toward the wolves. “This is their version. Hosting us for it is a gesture of honor—and apology. A way to show that the act was rogue, not sanctioned. One wolf, not the pack.”

I swallowed hard. My throat tightened. My stomach turned. I didn’t know what was worse—the violence or how normal it seemed to them.

And it wasn’t over.

I looked around. Wolves everywhere—in human form, but still monstrous, all bearing the mark of the beast. The air was thick with dominance and defiance.

Then it happened.

Michael Shaw and Luke Connery stepped forward—leaders of their packs, towering and calm. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

The shift began.

My eyes grew wide. I had to focus on not sitting there with my chin hitting the table.

The sound was unbearable. Bones cracked like branches underfoot. Flesh tore and reknit with wet, smacking finality. Spines arched, limbs contorted, jaws split open wider than human anatomy should allow. Clothes shredded. Skin split. The air thickened with the scent of blood, fur, and something ancient.

No one moved.

Even the vampires held still—not out of fear, but reverence. The kind of stillness that came from centuries of knowing when not to interrupt a ritual.

Then they stood.

Two wolves.

Not just wolves—alphas. Massive. Muscular. Their fur was darker, thicker, almost metallic in sheen. Their eyes burned gold. Their presence was suffocating. Every other wolf in the hall lowered their gaze, instinctively submitting. No one wanted to be the next lesson.

Michael’s shoulders were broad enough to block the firelight. Luke’s snarl could have shattered glass. They didn’t growl. They didn’t posture.

They moved.

Silent. Swift.

Michael and Luke lunged as one—two alpha wolves, massive and merciless. Remus barely had time to snarl before they were on him.

The sound was unbearable. Flesh tearing. Bones snapping. Wet, ripping finality. He howled once—sharp, defiant—and then it became a gurgle.

His body twisted under them, limbs flailing, fur matted with blood. They didn’t just kill him. They shredded him. Piece by piece. Ritualistic. Absolute.

Literal confetti.

A wet shred of something—fur, flesh, I couldn’t tell—sailed through the air and landed on the table in front of me with a soft, sickening slap.

Riordan glanced down, then flicked it off with two fingers. Calm. Efficient. Like brushing away a crumb.

That was it. My limit.
I turned away, bile rising. My vision blurred.

I drifted toward Riordan—drawn like instinct, like gravity. He didn’t speak. Just shifted slightly, opening the space beside him without question.

I folded into his shoulder, hand gripping the edge of his coat, fingers curling into the fabric like it might anchor me to the floor. I wasn’t crying. Not really. But my eyes burned, and my throat felt tight, and I hated how small I felt.

The tearing continued. The wolves didn’t rush. They finished what they started.

When it was over, the hall was silent. Blood soaked the stone. Remus was no longer a shape—just remnants.

I didn’t look again.

Ritualized

When we finally left, I was more than ready. Boy, was I ready. I had enough for a lifetime.

I nearly jumped at Riordan to port me back, clinging to him like a baby koala.

But we didn’t return to the castle.

This time we ended up in Ravenwood.

No. NO. No no no. I wanted to go home. No more.

The shift was violent. Not physically—but spiritually. The air here didn’t just hum with magic. It pulsed. It clawed. It whispered in languages I didn’t know, but somehow understood. The scent of herbs and flowers was thick, cloying, almost suffocating. Like perfume masking rot.

The gathering was open-air, but it felt like a trap. Witches, mages, warlords—too many eyes, too many sigils, too many smiles that didn’t reach the soul. Colors shimmered unnaturally. Incantations buzzed like insects. The ground itself seemed to breathe beneath my feet, like something buried was trying to rise.

Cesare traded polite words with Leeora and a man I didn’t recognize—tall, slender, long dark hair, eyes like ancient ink. His presence made my skin crawl.

“That is Gwydion O’Galabwryr,” Riordan whispered.

Even his name felt like a spell.

Gwydion spoke in archaic cadence, his voice like wind through tombstones. “Thou hast come, as was agreed. Let it be known that the vampires of Vannucci keepeth their word, and so shall we.”

Leeora responded, her tone sharp and ceremonial. “We bear witness. We honor the treaty.”

I still had no idea why we were here. Just a diplomatic visit, it seemed.

Until the screaming started.

A woman. A witch. Wild-eyed, hair tangled like brambles, robes scorched at the hem. She stormed forward, voice shrill and cracked.

She pointed at Cesare and Riordan. “Corpses!”

Then she turned to me.

“Corpse whore!” she spat, eyes blazing.

Then Caelan. “Monster!”

Her voice was madness. Her aura was chaos. Her rage was ritual.

And then—she burst into flame.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

A flash of fire. A scream that split the air. Then dust.

She was gone.

Just gone.

It happened so close I felt the heat kiss my skin—sharp, sudden, wrong. The air recoiled. The scent hit next: scorched hair, charred flesh, something bitter and final. Ash drifted in the air like snow, clinging to my lashes, settling on my gown. Her scream echoed in my bones. It wasn’t just sound—it was a rupture.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. My eyes were wide. My thoughts scattered.

Her death had no ceremony. No spell. Just raw, primal combustion.
And I was standing in its wake.

I grabbed Cesare’s hand, desperate for grounding.

He stiffly shook me off.
Riordan pulled me into a protective hug, whispering in my ear.
“I know, I know, but never ever touch the Grand Master Elder in public. Not even Branwen does, unless it is a dance.”

I couldn’t respond. My throat was locked. My skin felt wrong.

Leeora’s voice rang out—no longer polite, but lethal.
“Anyone else with a death wish?”

Her tone was ice. Her power was palpable. The air around her crackled. And I realized the very obvious: that was her. She had done that. Without much ado she had burnt a person to ashes with the flick of her wrist or her mind or however she had done it, I wouldn’t know, it was too fast.

“I don’t need court dates and verdicts guided by ancient laws, like the vampires. You behave in a civilized manner or I will kill you on the spot.”

She didn’t blink. She wasn’t bluffing.

“Now, anyone here still thinks the vampires are monsters? More opinions, anyone? I’d be so interested to hear, considering my father and husband, as well as one of my children are vampires.”

Silence.
Not reverent. Not respectful.
Terrified.

“I am sorry, I have a hard time hearing the answer to my question.”

Then headshakes. “No, High Enchantress.” All across the gathering.

But it wasn’t over.

Gwydion stepped forward.
“Bring forth the traitors.”

Two mages were dragged into the circle—bound in chains that shimmered with runes. One sobbed. The other spat curses.

“These two hunted vampires for sport. Three lives stolen. Three souls desecrated.”

He raised his hand.
And beside him—Alder.

I hadn’t noticed him before. Half-shadowed, half-lit. Watching. Waiting. He caught my eye and gave a small, covert wave. Gentle. Familiar.

Then he stepped forward. Not to comfort. Not to shield. To assist.

And one of the mages bolted.
Chains clattered. A scream. He sprinted toward the edge of the circle.

Alder lifted one hand.
No words. No flourish.

The air snapped. The mage froze mid-run, limbs locked, mouth open in a soundless scream. Then he dropped—hard.

Guards dragged him back. The other fell to his knees.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Mercy.”

Gwydion turned, voice like ice.
“Where was thy mercy for the three thou didst unmake? Was thy life in danger? Or thy kin?”

“No—”

“Were we?”

“No—”

“Thou knewest the rules.”

Gwydion raised his hand.
Alder did too.
The air split.

No thunder. No lightning.
Just silence.

The first mage convulsed. His body arched, mouth stretched too wide. His soul peeled from his flesh like smoke from fire. His body dropped—empty, lifeless.

And from the shadows, a figure emerged.

Tall. Cloaked in black. A hood drawn deep, no face. Just golden eyes glowing beneath the hood. He moved a scythe and took the soul. No words. No sound. Just harvest.

Leeora didn’t react. But I knew. I knew.
That was her husband.
Artemus.

Then Alder turned to the second mage.

Alone.
No cue. No permission.

“You desecrated the treaty and took innocent lives,” he said softly.

The mage spat.

Alder lifted one hand.
The mage screamed.

His soul tore free like flesh ripped from bone. His body dropped, hollow. And Artemus stepped forward again, silent, sovereign, golden-eyed. Reaped it with the sway of his scythe.

Alder lowered his hand.

The silence was unbearable.

He turned to Gwydion, bowed once, then stepped back into the shadows.

But before he vanished, he looked at me. Just a glance. Just a moment. Not with regret. Not with apology. With recognition. As if finally telling me the last part of his story, the missing puzzle piece.

Too much. It was too much.

My legs gave out. I collapsed into Riordan’s arms, and he caught me like he’d known it was coming.
I couldn’t think.
My brain refused to compute what I’d just seen.

Because how could he be both?

The softspoken, sweet, tea-sipping, Vespa-riding poet who mixed potions and knew every Latin plant name. Who let me feed when I needed it. Who wrote verses about longing and brewed sleep tonics with chamomile and honey.

And the one who just killed someone with a gesture. He was something else. Something mythic. Something terrifying.

And somewhere deep inside, I knew: this was why Cesare kept warning me.

Not because Alder would hurt me.
But because he could.

This was where I fainted. Complete blackout.

The Aftermath

I woke up later, back at the castle on my bed.
Scarred. Shaken. Changed.

And somewhere deep inside, I knew: I had just survived another ritual.

And I had learned a very scary lesson, one Cesare and Riordan had been trying to teach me with words, which I was deaf and blind to. So, they showed me.
And my lesson had been: All occult could be dangerous. Werewolves, Witches, Mages and Vampires. It was a choice. Their choice. No guarantees.

And he taught me that mages weren’t just nerdy scholars.

Not quirky beings who brewed teas and whispered poetry, who knew the Latin names of every herb and the healing properties of every flower. Not gentle alchemists with ink-stained fingers and hearts full of longing. Not the kind who wrote verses about longing and mixed potions for sleepless nights.

They could be that. Or they could be executioners. Architects of agony. If they chose to be. And Alder—my Alder—was one of them.

And Alder was one of them. It kept echoing in my head. Over and over again.

I sobbed into my pillows, curled tight like I could fold myself small enough to vanish. The sheets were damp with tears, my throat locked in silent convulsions. I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think past the image of her face—twisted in fury, then flame. The sound of her scream. The scent of burning flesh. The heat that had clawed so close to my skin I could still feel it. The way the wolf was torn to shreds, the smell. The way Alder—my Alder—and that Gwydion had separated souls from people like peeling skin off fruit. The way Cesare had stood there, unmoved, untouched, like it was all part of some ancient version of the Squid Games.

How could he be so refined? So elegant? So devastatingly composed?

How could someone who offered me so much kindness and wisdom and cited lines from ancient books also let me witness that while looking so untouched by it.

No—he didn’t let me, he made me witness that.

A knock.

I didn’t move.

Another knock—soft, deliberate.

I couldn’t answer. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. My voice was buried beneath the weight of everything I’d seen.

The door opened anyway.

I heard it shut again, gently. Footsteps, slow and measured, crossing the room.

“Go away…” I sobbed, voice barely audible.

A pause.

Then: “Victoria, might we speak?”

Cesare.

“No,” I choked out. “Please no. Not now. Have mercy. I can’t.”

The mattress dipped beside me. A hand touched my back—light, steady. Then fingers threaded gently through my hair, slow and soothing, like a parent comforting a child after a nightmare.

“Look at me,” he said.

“No.”

“Face me, child,” he urged, and this time his voice held that tone. The one that bent wills like wind bends trees.

I turned, slowly, reluctantly, and sat up. My face was blotchy, my eyes swollen. I didn’t care.

He pulled me into an embrace.

And I broke.

I sobbed into his chest, fists curled against his coat, body trembling. He held me like I was something precious. Like I hadn’t just seen people die screaming. Like I wasn’t unraveling.

“I am sorry,” he said softly. “Truly. But I needed you to be able to hear me. I am not forbidding you fun things out of spite, or to be mean or assert dominance or whatever you might have thought. I seek to protect. You are quite the breath of fresh air, as anyone would tell you. You are special, in ways I do not yet fully comprehend, but am determined to explore. Which is why I have been very patient with you. But I need you to mind me, let me guide you, and I promise you will have all the freedoms you seek again, eventually. Can you do that for me?”

I nodded.

Then shook my head. “I’m not special.”

“Oh, you will have to take my word for it. You are. Sometimes it is more obvious, sometimes requires testing and exploring.”

I pulled back, sniffling. He handed me a fabric tissue—embroidered with his initials, of course. I dabbed at my eyes while he reached for something he’d placed on the side table.

A chalice.

He handed it to me.

I took it, wary. It was dark. I sniffed.

“Blood,” he said. “Libations help with scarring experiences.”

I drank.

He was right. It helped. It dulled the edges of the horror. It steadied me.

“Why are you so kind to me?” I asked.

“I told you,” Cesare replied, his tone calm but deliberate. “You have piqued my interest. You are well regarded here—more than that, respected. Even Caelan holds you in esteem, though he may not show it. I know you doubt that, but I know him.”

“Caelan hates my guts. And I told you—I’m as average as they come. Most of my life I tried to fight that, wanted something, anything that made me stand out. Eventually I realized you can’t force it. So I made peace with being ordinary. There’s comfort in that.”

“There may well be,” he said, “but I stand by what I said. I can always tell. Sometimes the signs are subtle—perhaps not to your eye—but I see them. Have you ever wondered why Rhiannon and Connell bear eyes tinged with violet? That hue is no accident. Others in this family carry it too.

“You’ve yet to meet Noah and Nolan properly. They inherited that trait from their father—Heath. The color runs deep in his blood. His own father, a vampire who lost his way, ended his life when Heath was still a boy. As for Heath’s mother… no one ever knew her. She vanished before the child was out of diapers.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, I noticed those eyes, but I just filed it under extraordinary features. Like Elizabeth Taylor. People said she had purple eyes, but they were just really blue—reflected light in a weird way. Figured it was the same here.”

“Child,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “eyes of violet hue are never ordinary. Such a mark is always magickal. Any soul who bears it carries magickfolk in their bloodline, whether they know it or not. Rhiannon was raised in an orphanage, mortal when Caelan first laid eyes on her. But if you study his history, you’ll find my son has a particular weakness for women touched by magick. As you bore witnessed today, that tendency is… ill-advised. It has nearly cost him his life more than once. Which is why Leeora, his daughter, now very powerful as you observed, is as protective of him as he has always been of her.
You see, those born with purple eyes are fortunate. They carry the blood of the fae, which renders them nearly invisible to the senses of other occult. That gift is invaluable to my Coven Enforcer, Connell. No one sees him coming. He moves unseen, undetected. And after today’s events, I trust I need not explain why that is… advantageous.”

I shook my head again. “No, I get that, but I don’t have purple eyes. I am telling you, I am nothing to write home about. And I am cool with that.”

“Well then,” he said, with a faint smile, “we shall agree to disagree—at least until I uncover what sets you apart. In the meantime, you are clever, and courageous. You read people well, attune to their rhythm. That is no small gift, especially in the art of negotiation.
I would have you remain my scribe. But more than that—I wish you to accompany me on diplomatic missions from this day forward.”

I jerked back, eyes wide. “No. NO! No more, please no. Cesare, please—I’ll do whatever you want. I won’t see Alder ever again. I learned the lesson. I’ll stay put like a well-trained puppy!”

“Victoria,” he said gently, “you misunderstand me. I desire the very opposite. Today was an exception—intended to jolt, to impress. Such demonstrations are rare, reserved for moments of consequence. They are an honor, yes, but not suited to every temperament.
Most diplomatic excursions rely not on spectacle, but on the wielding of words, on measured actions and reactions. You carry the modern instinct—that entitlement of the age—but you also possess a sharp mind, a sense for business, and the ability to read a room. That is rare.
I will train you. And if you keep pace, if you prove yourself, you may visit your Alder as often as your heart requires—provided Gavin consents. I believe he should have a voice in that, should he not?”

“I don’t want to see Alder again.”

“Why? Because he was finally honest? Because you finally saw him for whom and what he really is? You claim you prefer the truth, but then you resend it?”

I didn’t answer.
I just stared at him, the taste of blood still on my tongue.
And for the first time, I understood: I wasn’t just a guest anymore.
I was being shaped. Trained. Claimed.

And the scariest part?

Somewhere deep down, I wanted to be.
I was becoming part of the coven—not just in name, but in blood, in bond, in purpose.
 

🪶Disclaimer: 🪶 This is a fictional narrative. All characters, events, and settings are entirely imagined—though loosely inspired by a heavily modded save in The Sims 4, extensively customized to behave and appear as realistically as feasible, with enhanced visuals, nuanced social dynamics, and detailed world-building that mirror real human complexity.

If you’re a Simmer, you might recognize the location names and emotional beats. If you’re not, you’ll still find your way—no prior knowledge required. Everything you need to know lives inside this blog.

This story is for anyone who’s ever rebuilt their life from the ashes and dared to write new chapters. For those who crave storylines that think outside the usual boxes—and for anyone who knows that sometimes, the most powerful myths are the ones we make ourselves.