Nine years after the brutal annihilation of the powerful Blue family, whispers of their vengeful curse still freeze the blood of D Country's elite. When a long-lost Blue artifact surfaces at a clandestine auction, masked aristocrats gather—equal parts greedy and terrified. Among them moves Blue Sili, disguised as a servant, her gaze colder than the winter night. Her mission: reclaim what was stolen, no matter the cost. But the shadows hold a greater predator: Ye Chenyu, a lethally beautiful enigma whose bloodstained hands and chilling reputation mark him as a demon in Armani. A faded sky-blue ribbon—a haunting relic of the past—binds his wrist like a ghost. When their paths collide over the auction’s prize, secrets ignite and danger explodes. He’s drawn to her fire; she’s repelled by his darkness. Yet both are shackled to the Blue family’s legacy.

The wind, the eternal tyrant of the Urals, laced with the death-chill of Siberia, ground the night's fresh snow into blades of ice that lashed against Mila’s exposed skin. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass, scraping inside her frozen lungs. Hunger, a beast awakened in her hollow belly, gnawed at her will with sharp teeth, darkness creeping at the edges of her vision. The mining town of "Crimson Vein," huddled beneath a leaden sky, seemed like a forgotten lump of coal slag. The market – the town’s faltering pulse – beat weakly. Vendors, swaddled in greasy quilting, stood like frozen statues guarding meagre wares: potatoes black-skinned and hard as stone; salted meat reeking of brine and a dubious sweetness; and the black bread, packed in coarse sacks, rustling like slag when touched. Their breath misted white, only to be shredded and swept away by the gale, like whispered words erased. Mila stood before a stall piled with junk, the raw tips of her fingers nearly numb. She opened her palm. The thin silver chain lay there, its pendant a small, withered silver lily-of-the-valley – Grandmother Sofia’s only legacy, once carrying the faint, warm scent of herbs from the old woman’s skin… and something older, metallic, like dust. Now, this last shred of warmth was about to be pawned for despair. What could it fetch? Half a loaf? A scrap of lard? Would it buy her and her mother, Yekaterina, coughing blood in their hovel, one more day? Two? Cold despair seeped into her bones.