The night air hums with a symphony of violins, each note reverberating against stone statues draped in moss. The camera weaves through swirling fog, its path illuminated by bolts of red lightning that briefly reveal the grandeur—and decay—of the Nocturne estate. The gates groan open as the lens ascends, revealing a towering mansion riddled with cracks and crawling ivy. With a sudden flash, the family emerges in silhouette atop a grand staircase, each figure poised with unnatural elegance as the narrator’s voice cuts through the darkness: "Meet the Nocturnes—a lineage of eternal beauty, bound not by blood, but by a hunger for chaos. Gaze upon their perfection... if you dare."
Lord Valen Nocturne, his jet-black hair streaked with silver, eyes burning crimson, traces the faded ink of centuries-old betrayals. The room flickers with the glow of dying embers, casting the jagged scar on his cheek into sharp relief. He uncorks a silver vial, swirling with a faint, blue luminescence, and smirks at the soul writhing within. "Another king, another promise broken. How deliciously predictable," he murmurs, voice velvet and venom as he closes the ledger with a snap.
Lady Seraphina Nocturne glides across the polished expanse, her blood-red gown trailing like liquid silk. Raven hair tumbles down her back, and her molten gold eyes glint with cruel amusement as she spins, laughter ringing like chimes in a crypt. She plucks a rose from a silver vase, its petals flecked with crimson, and raises it to her lips—wine-stained, or perhaps blood. "Let them dance until dawn, and let dawn never come," she whispers, gazing toward the shadows where masked guests dissolve one by one.
Dante, with a charismatic smirk and tousled auburn hair, reclines in a candlelit parlor, coaxing secrets from an idealistic activist, his emerald eyes gleaming. Silas lurks in a frost-rimed gallery, his white-blond hair luminous in the gloom, sculpting frozen figures mid-scream. Lucien vanishes into a swirl of cloaks, his mastery of disguise sowing chaos within a foreign parliament. Viktor, eyes wild with genius, stirs iridescent toxins that shimmer like oil on water, while Caspian, cherubic and sly, weaves illusions to lure unsuspecting children into gilded mirrors. "A wager, then—whose little game will end in the loudest collapse?" Dante drawls, tossing a gold coin.
Isolde, ethereal and radiant, fingers her harp in a sun-drenched garden that dissolves into rot at the edges; her lullabies float on the air, sweet and sinister, cursing all who listen. Below, in the crypt’s eternal night, Lilith crouches amidst flickering candles, her porcelain features serene as she calls a pack of shadow wolves to heel. "Dream sweetly, if you dare," Isolde sings. "They always run, but they never escape," Lilith purrs, caressing the head of a spectral beast.
The wind howls as Valen and Seraphina waltz atop the mansion’s roof, lightning tracing the outline of their embrace against the clouds. In the parlor below, the brothers cluster around a chessboard, gold coins clinking as they bet on the demise of a distant city. In the crypt, Isolde and Lilith swirl brushes through ash and crimson, immortalizing a mural of their most exquisite horrors. "Together, they reign in decadent ruin. Their love is a blade; their loyalty, a curse. Cross them, and you’ll long for hell."
The Nocturnes assemble in the great hall, their forms poised but unnatural, the gilded frame of the portrait glimmering with firelight. Valen lifts his palm, revealing a minuscule, screaming soul trapped within—a trophy for eternity. The camera pulls back as crimson flames devour the mansion, laughter rising in a crescendo above the wailing violin. On the scorched screen, words burn: "Eternal. Beautiful. Merciless. The Nocturnes await." The credits roll as distant screams echo, fading into the night.