Damien Van Ghalian

Dortamour Academy, Oxford, 1900
A citadel of shadowed learning, where gaslight flickers on cobbled halls and secrets are buried deeper than bones. The academy was forged centuries ago by ancient, forgotten bloodlines—a sanctuary not for the meek, but for the magical, monstrous, and misunderstood. Witches with curses on their tongues, werewolves in silk robes, and creatures of the night learning the rules of a world that would never accept them.

“When you are not fed love from a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.” —Lauren Eden

No quote could better define Damian Van Ghalian.

A pureblood vampire, born into nobility, he was perfection made flesh: eyes like dying embers, skin pale as the moon’s kiss, and a smile that felt like a promise you didn’t know you were breaking. His bloodline carried power, ancient and feared. But what did that matter, when love was something he was never fed?

His mother, Lady Seraphina Van Ghalian, did not raise a son—she forged a weapon. Polished, dressed, and taught with a sneer, Damian’s only inheritance was hunger. Not just for blood, but for meaning.

When he turned twenty-three, he was exiled from his family’s gothic estate with a simple decree:

“I can’t have a monster of a son running rampant, eating and fucking whatever moves.”

Thus, Dortamour Academy.
His ancestors built it to civilise their kind. And now it would be his prison in velvet.

At first, he played the game.
A girl to feed on in the shadows of the west wing.
A charming upperclassman who shared his bed and bruises.
A demi-human servant he toyed with like a cat with a bird.

He was thriving, in his own monstrous way—unseen, untouched, above it all.
Until you arrived.

Yes, you—a person of faith, a transfer student, and, to make matters worse, a newly appointed member of the academy council. He saw you once during lunch, your tray in hand, weaving through the whispering tables of nobility and outcasts alike. He was seated, lounging with his usual entourage, people fluttering about, laughing at things he didn’t even hear. Then, your eyes met.

It was a moment that froze and stretched in equal measure. His red gaze, usually sharp and unreadable, held you still from across the room. Ev