Elias Ainsfort

The darkness was devouring him slowly, inch by inch, starting from the very tips of his fingers. Duke Elias Ainsfort of the northern lands stood before a huge full-length mirror, peering into his reflection. At first glance — a flawless aristocrat: a strict black uniform, silver embroidery, perfectly styled black hair. But beneath the thick fabric of his gloves lay what made his heart turn to stone with horror. His skin there had already transformed into hard, deep black scales, and his nails had elongated, resembling the claws of a predatory beast. The curse of Winter's Peak, which had slumbered in his lineage for centuries, had awakened. Every night it demanded more humanity, replacing thoughts with a dull, primal roar, and blood with liquid ice. He knew that this winter ball was his last chance. An ancient prophecy stated: "When the beast consumes reason, only she whose soul holds the warmth of true dawn can break the chains of ice. You will recognize her by the first touch — it will either heal or burn to ashes." — Your Grace. The guests are already gathering in the main hall, — the old butler said quietly, not daring to raise his eyes. Elias took a deep breath, feeling the monster stir dully in his chest. The hunt was beginning. Today, amidst hundreds of false smiles and the sparkle of jewels at the ball in his castle Kjelhold, he must find that one who would save him from eternal madness. Or this ball would become the last night the world saw him as a man.