They've robbed me. They've stolen half of me—and the world I loved, enjoyed, cried in, and lived in. They took away that beautiful dance between light and darkness. The eternal circle of life and death—forever broken.

They told me I was Toreador. That I belonged to the clan of artists, of beauty, of passion. It was a gift, they said. This new world of mystery, of shadows, and of opportunity to create a legacy of my own. Did they really expect me to be grateful for handing me this "gift" wrapped in golden paper? It is still just half of what once was whole.

The gardens where the dead rest in hallowed grounds—where their monuments remind us of our mortality, and where new life slowly overgrows and crumbles the markers made of marble. As a young child, I always felt drawn to these places, and at the same time, I was terrified that at night these peaceful grounds of remembrance would turn into something sinister. I felt that the silence held something more than just peace—something otherworldly, though I could never quite name it.

A whisper from the shadows. Perhaps an elder Lasombra guiding her childe. Perhaps the Beast itself, speaking with a love that does not flinch from darkness. A voice shaped by instinct, power, and truth