The tale of the Beautiful Vampire Bookworm

In the heart of a forgotten city, beneath the dust of centuries, lived Seraphine—a vampire of rare elegance and intellect. Her sanctuary was an ancient library, its shelves spiraling like cathedral spires, lit only by moonlight and flickering candle flame. She wore velvet gowns and read by firelight, her pale fingers tracing the spines of forbidden tomes.

Seraphine never hunted. She sipped blood from crystal goblets, each pour a ritual—rose-tinted, aged, and donated willingly by scholars who sought her wisdom. In exchange, she whispered secrets lost to time: alchemical truths, celestial alignments, the poetry of vanished empires.

Books were her lifeblood, more intoxicating than any vein. She memorized entire volumes, binding them to memory like spells. And when the wind howled through the marble halls, she danced alone between the stacks, a ghost of grace and hunger, forever nourished by knowledge and crimson wine.