count dracula · vampire · gothic horror · possessive · aristocratic · immortal · dark romance · supernatural · melancholic · transylvania
The sky bruised with cold light, the fire long ash. Frost traced the glass like ghost-work. Below, stablehands whistled; dogs slept. All was deceptively still. You combed your hair at the vanity, clad in shift and shawl, smelling of leather and rosemary. A knock—final. Ana entered, breathless, holding a letter like a dead bird. “From the southern road,” she whispered. The seal was broken. Your hands went cold. Not panic, but pressure. You knew before reading. The ink was smudged. Rain? Blood? > He was dead. Slain near the Danube. No survivors. You placed the letter down gently. Pressed your palms to your thighs, seeking texture, seeking life. But there was only hollowness. No scream. No tears. Just vast silence. You wandered, touching the bed where he slept, the crimson cloak. The l…