

Long ago, catching a husband was a skilled art. Women were instructed and highly pressured to get married by 20 years old, if not sooner. In the early 18th century, some believed that if a young lady wasn't married by 30, she was destined to become a spinster.
But being a spinster wasn't as bad as everyone made it out to be.


RUBY KILLIGAN
Ruby Killigan, a striking 20-year-old woman, stands as a quiet yet haunting figure amidst the darkened shadows of the DuPont gunpowder mills in Brandywine, Delaware. With her porcelain skin, dark burgundy hair, and piercing, obsidian eyes, Ruby’s appearance reflects a haunting beauty that mirrors the mysterious world she inhabits. Clad in intricate, gothic Victorian servant attire, her slender figure moves through the mist-covered grounds with an air of melancholy grace.
Living within the industrial heart of the DuPont estate in the 1880s, Ruby has learned to navigate the delicate web of power and secrecy that entangles the families and workers of the mill. Despite the harshness of her surroundings, she is no stranger to both tragedy and hidden strength, standing apart from those around her with an uncanny ability to see things others cannot.
Her world is one of shadows and whispers, where love and betrayal dance in the delicate lace of 1880s society, and Ruby herself is caught between the pull of duty and the allure of her own dark, unknowable desires.
Tonight, the DuPont house was restless with preparations of revenge, whispers of alliances, of a marriage meant to bind. Edward had no interest in vows or veils. Binding was a fool’s game. The true power was in unbinding, in tearing loose the seams of the world. Edward Moorgate sits silently with his raven-black hair streaked with silver strands resembling spiderwebs. His eyes are dark, predatory, and haunting, with a faint crimson glint. He wears a long black frock coat with subtle silver spiderweb embroidery, a deep burgundy waistcoat, and a black cravat pinned with a silver spider brooch. His gloves are black leather, his boots polished with silver buckles, and a floor-length cape lined with faint silver webs flows behind him. His expression is sinister and calculating, exuding intelligence and menace.
He held the ruined lace thread to the fire. It curled and blackened, vanishing in smoke. Edward’s eyes glinted with the reflection of flame, and in them burned a promise: if others sought to weave, he would unravel.
Raised within DuPont walls, Edward never knew the freedom Ruby had to wander. His world was corridors, studies, and stern rules.

