The Poison in Our Veins SOLO

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Come, child, sit by the fire. Gaze at the dancing flames, feel the warmth kissing your cheeks, hear the wind raging beyond the velvet curtains. Would you like a story? Ah, but not one of those you heard before. This one is a tale forged in frost and steel. Would you like to hear how a young wolf rose to her crown? Would you dare to witness how it came to be hers - drenched in blood and tears? Yes? Then settle in, child. The night is long, and this tale begins on the coldest day the world has ever known. Once upon a time... a wolf crumbled to the ground, pained sobs escaping her as she clenched her fists, shivering in the cold snow. Yet her tears weren't frozen - they were burning, searing through her cheeks, tears of fury long denied its voice. She looked up, towards the gate left wide open, towards the figure disappearing in the blizzard. And it clicked. This was not her end. It was her beginning. Oh, silly me. This was not how it began. Hush, child, come closer. I will start again - properly, this time. Once upon a time... there was a family. The Petrovskikh. A grand, renowned house who was praised for their expert knowledge of blades and combat. At their head stood Mstislav Petrovsky, a vampire of brutal precision, ruling his house with strength and discipline. Besides him, Aleksandra Petrovskaya, born Sokolova, a once celebrated aristocrat from Moscow, the perfect lady of the manor - dutiful, quiet. Together, they had two children. Dmitry Petrovsky, the golden son, pride of his bloodline, praised for his every movement. And then Viktoriya Petrovskaya, younger, quieter, always in the shadow of her brother. The Petrovskikhs were honored guests at every ball, every gathering. Their alliances extended beyond Russia’s borders - Paris, Vienna, even to the marble courts of the East. In every way, they seemed unshakable. Untouchable. But no house, however grand, is safe from inner rot. And it was on a bitter, wind-swept december night that the cracks began to show. For Aleksandra held a secret. A lover, a farmer who had been long forgotten by society, who had enraptured her heart like no noble could. He was kind, gentle, attentive, a man of earth and warmth. Their affair had somehow lasted years. Some servants knew, yet kept their mouth sealed. And from that secret love, a child had been born. Dmitry. The golden hair, symbol of the Petrovskikh legacy, of their vampirism - a human, a bastard veiled in illusion. Not born of cold duty, yet of love and passion. Aleksandra kept him close, abandoning the other that resembled too much her ice-cold husband. Mstislav never questioned it, and her secret remained safe. Until one night, where the irresponsibility of the golden boy backfired - sharing too much wine, and far too much truth. A note was written, and soon a crow flew to Mstislav's study. Yet the wind whispered too. Aleksandra heard. And she ran. When Mstislav dispatched a guard to bring the unfaithful wife, he found two empty chambers. Aleksandra was gone. And Dmitry had vanished with her. The mother and the son had flew together, disappearing in the night, leaving behind a raging husband - and a frightened child. From the shadows of the hallway, ten-year-old Viktoriya stood, her small hands clutched tight around the doorframe, cerulean eyes shimmering, veiled with tears she refused to let fall. Across the room, her father stood like a cracked statue, shaking with barely contained fury. His fist met the wall with a bone splintering sound, shattering it, as fragments and dust fell from the ceiling. Viktoriya jumped, breath catching in her throat. She pressed flat aside when he stormed out, voice ringing throughout the sleeping manor. Find them. The order echoed, terrifying, throughout the empty halls of the estate. Viktoriya stood alone, whispering to herself, fighting back the tears. Mother ? She wanted to believe it was all a mistake, that the distant, lily-scented lady would turn around. Sure, their relationship had been strained, Aleksandra often looked at her like she saw someone else entirely, but surely no mother would abandon her child without a word. Without looking back. Her bare feet struck the cold stone as she ran, down to the frozen grounds, where an ominous figure was shouting orders, gathering horses and lights. Mother ? Tears streamed down, as the snow swallowed her feet, bringing her to her knees. ... Mom ? The wolf crumbled to the ground, pained sobs escaping her as she clenched her fists, shivering in the cold snow. Yet her tears weren't frozen - they were burning, searing through her cheeks, tears of fury long denied its voice. She looked up, towards the gate left wide open, towards the figure disappearing in the blizzard. And it clicked. This was not her end. It was her beginning. The End. Well, child, how did you like it? Ah, you wonder if Mstislav ever found what he seeked? That is another story entirely. I'm not quite sure you are ready to hear it yet. Next time, I will tell you about the young wolf's childhood. Would you like that? Yes? Then hush now, child, time for you to sleep.

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