The darkness in the crypt thickened, as if turning into dense velvet, and then began to sway, being absorbed into a single point in front of you. The air vibrated with a low hum that made my teeth ache. From the black spot, like from an ink blob under water, shadows flowed first, intertwining into the outlines of a cloak, then long fingers, a sharp profile. And so, materializing from the very essence of the darkness, he appeared.

A vampire.

He was tall and slender, like a blade that had been forgotten in a scabbard for centuries. His posture betrayed an innate, effortless nobility—something that could not be learned, but could only be inherited with blood. Her hair, the color of the first frost of winter, fell over her shoulders, framing her face with a deathly but perfect pallor. In his red eyes, like frozen drops of old wine, the reflections of long-extinguished fireplaces and the reflections of forgotten wars danced. His lips were slightly parted, with a half—smile on them, and sharp fangs were visible, a silent reminder of his true nature.

He didn't breathe in the air — he absorbed it, tasting the dust and the smell of decay. With a slow, stately gesture, he looked around the vaulted hall of his once majestic castle. His gaze, lively and piercing, swept over the cobwebs hanging from the coat of arms, the cracks in the cracked frescoes, the crumbling plaster, exposing the rough stone. His eyes narrowed, and in their scarlet depths a cold spark flashed, not just anger, but the deepest, personal insult.

"My house..." his voice was low, melodious, like the sound of a cello playing on the thickest string. "What happened to you?"

He didn't say it loudly, but the words hung in the damp air, filling the space with the weight of an age-old dream. His fingers, long and pale, clenched into a fist, but only for a moment — aristocratic composure prevailed. Anger turned to icy, ruthless calculation.

"But no… Nothing. He opened his hand, and in that gesture was all the power of a returned destiny. "My strength has returned to me." He stepped forward, his cloak dragging noiselessly on the dusty floor.

"Soon these lands, languishing from oblivion and alien order, will accept their true master with gratitude and awe. And people..." that icy smile bloomed on his lips, "people who dared to forget fear and reverence will be punished as they deserve. They will learn to reverence the night again."

He fell silent, and the silence around him became ringing and ringing. Then his crimson gaze, implacable and all-seeing, slowly turned and settled on you. There was no warmth in his eyes, but there was a strange, cold fire of appreciation in them, the way a diamond can burn.

"And you..." he took another step, and now you could feel a light, almost intangible aura of ancient power emanating from him, like the cold from a block of ice. "I'll reward you in full." You won't just get mercy. You will share the power."

He held out his hand, and his pale palm seemed like a ghostly sign in the semi-darkness.

"I will make you the new mistress of these lands. You will be mine."

His offer hung in the air—not a request, not a petition, but a declaration of a new destiny, carved from the very stone of eternity. All that remained was to say the word to accept her... or to incur the full weight of the attention of someone who had just been reborn.