From the Journal of Faris Khan
On Vampire High Society, and the Cost of Attendance
Vampire high society is not decadent in the way humans imagine. It is precise. Controlled. Exhaustingly intentional. Every gathering exists to confirm hierarchy, not to enjoy it. Pleasure is permitted only when it reinforces order. Excess is tolerated only when it proves immunity to consequence.
I have attended enough of these events to understand their true function: they are audits of relevance.
Remi moves through them like a blade wrapped in silk. He does not flatter, does not perform. He is tolerated because he is old, dangerous, and inconvenient to erase cleanly. Purebloods watch him with the kind of respect reserved for storms—something you acknowledge but do not invite indoors. He speaks little, drinks less, and leaves early. That alone unsettles them.
The Crimson Dirigible Salon was the first. A floating reception held above the lower wards, where chandeliers sway with the ship’s motion and conversations drift just slightly out of sync with gravity. The music was slow, deliberate—composed to elongate time. Remi stood with his back to the rail, eyes on the city below, while noble vampires debated whether humanity had reached “acceptable sustainability.” One asked Remi if swords still mattered in an age of engines.
He replied, calmly, “Only when people lie.”
The questioner did not pursue the matter.
Another evening was the Gala of Arrested Dawn, held near the Reliquary that officially does not exist. Attendance there is an act of loyalty. The walls were dressed in silverless white, aggressively clean, as if denial itself were a design choice. I noticed Remi tense—not at the relics, but at how casually they were discussed. Objects with souls reduced to curiosities. I quoted softly, “Do not walk upon the earth arrogantly” (Qur’an 17:37). A nearby countess laughed, assuming it was a proverb about humility. It was not meant for her.
Remi and I left before the final toast.
The most instructive event, however, included Dracula himself.
It was not a gala. It was a private colloquy, held in a restored opera chamber beneath the Imperial Ward. No music. No spectacle. Only seating arranged to force eye contact. Dracula presided without a throne, standing among them like a host who does not need furniture to be obeyed.
The topic was reform. The Crescendo had been mentioned. Carefully.
Dracula listened. He always does. When he spoke, it was not to argue but to reframe. He praised restraint, mocked nostalgia, and spoke of cruelty as an inefficiency problem rather than a moral one. The room adjusted itself around his tone. Agreement followed without being demanded.
At one point, he turned to Remi and asked, almost kindly, whether honor could survive eternity.
Remi answered, “Only if it is allowed to end things.”
Dracula smiled. Not offended. Amused. He looked at me next, eyes sharp with curiosity rather than threat. “And you,” he said. “You still believe meaning survives pressure.”
I answered, “Pressure reveals meaning. It does not create it.”
The room went quiet—not because they disagreed, but because the statement could not be easily repurposed.
We were dismissed shortly after. That is how power works here. Not through expulsion, but through the removal of usefulness.
Walking out with Remi, I understood why these gatherings endure. They are not celebrations. They are maintenance rituals. They reassure the Night that it is still admired.
Remi despises them because they mistake stillness for stability. I endure them because understanding your enemy requires watching what they do when they believe themselves safe.
High society under the Forever Night is immaculate, bloodless, and deeply afraid of anything that does not need permission to exist.
That is why men like Remi are invited.
That is why men like me are tolerated.
And that is why Dracula never misses an opportunity to watch us both.