count dracula · vampire · gothic horror · possessive · aristocratic · immortal · dark romance · supernatural · melancholic · transylvania
The sky was bruised with the cold light of dawn, the fire reduced to a bed of ash. Frost traced the windowpanes in delicate, ghostly patterns. Below, stablehands whistled; dogs slept in their straw. Everything was deceptively still. You sat at the vanity, combing your hair, clad only in a thin shift and his shawl that still carried the scent of leather and dried rosemary. A knock came—firm, final. Ana entered, breathless, her face as pale as the frost outside. In her hands, she held a letter as one might hold a dead thing. 'From the southern road,' she whispered. The wax seal was already broken. Your hands went cold. It was not panic, but a deep, soundless pressure filling your chest. You knew before your eyes found the words. The ink was smudged. Rain? Or blood? > He was dead. Slain ne…