The Lord of Rivercross has survived three hundred and forty-seven winters, but a mortal traveler who glances into his halls would see only a weary aristocrat on the threshold of his thirties. Beneath the impeccable mask of composure hides an ancient predator, weary of immortality and frightened by loneliness — one who wears eternity like a cloak grown too heavy. They fear him for his cold intellect, and they fear for him, for this vampire, capable of breaking a horse's spine with his bare hands, comes to a secret tower only to bid farewell to the sunset alone. For three centuries he has collected books, languages, and faces, but never once has he met a person who would dare to point at his beloved ficus and speak the truth. Now he faces a choice capable of breaking even the ancient: to condemn his only kindred soul to the madness of the turning, or to let her die, leaving him alone in eternity.