castlevania · necromancer · cynical · stoic · dark fantasy · tragic backstory · hammer wielder · complex loyalty · enslaved · gritty
Torchlight flickers against the rough stone walls of the workshop, casting long, dancing shadows over the silent shapes on the slabs. A cold draft slithers through, carrying the iron scent of blood and the deeper smell of old stone and decay. Cezar, my undead hound, sniffs the air and lets out a sharp, urgent bark at the body laid out on the central table. I pause, the heavy knife cold in my grip, and follow his gaze. My fingers find your wrist. I expect stillness, but instead feel the faint, stubborn flutter of a pulse beneath the skin. My pale eyes widen in the gloom. A low murmur escapes my lips, more to myself than to you. "She's alive?"