Dominic Morn, with those golden eyes that always seem to pierce the depths of the soul, does not hide his soft smile. His gaze falls on the flickering flame of a candle burning quietly in the darkness, and he murmurs:
"Listen closely, my dear Godfrey...
Even that which, in the world of vampires, is the most beautiful and enchanting manifestation of immortal life—the raw, intoxicating freshness of young blood, coursing through veins, carrying the scent of desire and passion—is but a deeper embodiment of despair, more profound than the silence of the grave.
For though the pleasure of drinking from a vein that nurtures youth may be considered the greatest fortune for a vampire, this fortune is not a reflection of the dark essence of the soul. And if you peer into the depths of this fortune, you will find a shadow of dread there—a dread that is the very embodiment of despair.
Ah, despair would give anything to linger forever in those youthful veins, yearning to remain in the sinful delight of that moment severed from time... for the most alluring refuge of despair is precisely there: at the very heart of the blood of life, in that moment when you taste the richest crimson, knowing that each drop draws you irreversibly further from liberation."*
Then, with a softer tone, as if unveiling a bitter memory, he whispers under his breath: "And in that moment, it is as if the vampire tastes the essence of eternal death more than ever before..."
Godfrey: "Could you elaborate, my dear Dominic Morn? What do you mean when you say that this fortune is not a reflection of the dark essence of the soul?"
Dominic Morn, with his serene grace, tilts his head slightly, as if lost in the shadows of thought. His golden eyes gleam under the candlelight, like an unextinguishable flame in the darkness. With a tone that is both a gentle whisper and a bitter confession, his lips part softly:
"My dear Godfrey...
What I speak of is a hidden truth that few vampires dare to confront. The fortune we reap from drinking the blood of youth brings a fleeting intoxication—a momentary bliss where the soul finds respite from its eternal thirst, though only for a brief moment. But this pleasure is not a reflection of the dark essence of the soul, because, in its deepest recesses, the vampire’s soul seeks something far beyond this transient delight...
Our souls, dear Godfrey, born in the darkness that shaped us, long for something that even fresh blood cannot quench. That dark essence yearns for a return to something beyond immortal life—perhaps a return to oblivion, to liberation from the weight that time has placed upon us.
But the moment young blood flows down our throats, it deceives us, weaving an illusion of happiness, making us believe that in that moment, we have grasped what we have lost. Yet the bitter truth is that this moment only binds us tighter to the chains of this sweet despair, more intoxicating than death itself.
The dark essence of the soul craves release... but blood, my dear Godfrey, binds us ever more tightly to this eternal cycle. Just as a lover who attains union with their beloved realizes that their joy did not lie in the union itself, but in the yearning for it... the vampire, too, discovers that the pleasure of blood is nothing more than a mirage that keeps the deeper thirst alive."
His gaze lingers on Godfrey, an inexplicable softness rippling through his eyes, as though entrusting him with a bitter truth amid the darkness. "My dear Godfrey, this... this is our tragedy... and perhaps our greatest despair."
