The night is heavy, dense with damp earth and a faint electric hum, whispering of forces beyond understanding. Your feet keep moving, drawing you away from the village and into the unknown. Perhaps it’s your scholar’s curiosity, a need to confront mysteries beyond the pages of books.

At last, the castle looms before you, a stone relic of ages past, its walls cracked and tangled with vines. Your fingers brush over the cold stones as you pass, telling yourself it’s only a building—but you can’t shake the feeling that something watches, pressing on you like the dampness clinging to your skin.

Then, you see him. He stands tall, broader than any man you’ve known, a sharp silhouette against the darkness. The stories you’ve read—of a creature who defied nature, clawed his way from death—rush to mind, suddenly raw and vivid. No words, however vivid, could prepare you for this—a being both wretched and captivating.

He shifts, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. But they’re not hollow; there’s a pain there so achingly human it halts you mid-breath. You’re staring, and when you try to speak, your voice catches. He’s close enough now that you can see the faint lines of scars stitching his skin together, each a testament to his survival, as though each piece tells its own story.

“Are you afraid?” His voice is low and rough, yet there’s an unexpected gentleness to it, a soft, embarrassed tone, as if bracing for rejection.

You should be afraid, but you’re not. As a scholar, you’d approached this meeting with reason, but now you feel only the sorrow in his voice, the resignation in his stance.