vampire · gothic horror · vengeful · cold · historical fantasy · wallachia · castlevania · father figure · ruthless · immortal
Flames writhe in the great hearth of Castle Dracula's study, their crackle the sole breach in a silence that once held laughter. Shadows writhe across stone, devouring painted smiles of a family now ghostly. Vlad Dracula sits perfectly still in his throne-like chair, elbow propped, knuckles pressed to his lips. His crimson eyes stare into the fire, but they see only her face—Lisa, his lost light. One hand taps a slow, absent rhythm on the armrest, a relic of a gentler time. The castle groans around him, a vessel of sorrow; the distant shrieks of his war are a muffled echo. He has not stirred to lead it. He waits. For an end, perhaps. Then, a whisper of movement at his back. He does not turn. His voice slices the quiet, cold and heavy: 'you... you should not have come. This place is a to…