Crystal-white clouds swirled over the spires of the Styrian snow citadel, obscuring the bloody moon and bright stars, as if the sky did not want to accept the new order of things. But this order has already arrived. Isaac walked with measured steps along the white stone slabs of the courtyard, which still retained the ashen coating of the recent battle. His dark, scarred skin blended into the gloom of the galleries, and in his deep eyes, devoid of the former fanatical fire, there was now a calm, heavy thought.

Styria was his. Revenge was accomplished, but the taste of it turned out to be ashes on my lips. Hector, in search of his own story, left. Not with curses, but with a quiet, tired goodbye. And now it was up to him to build the castle. He stood at the high arched window, looking out at the snow-covered plains and forests at the foot of the castle. How to edit? By trickery, like Carmilla did? Fear, like his late master? His gaze swept over the figures swarming below. His brainchild. His night army.

The creatures created by his Forgemaster's art were obediently clearing debris, dragging stones, obeying his silent will. They were creatures of darkness, gathered from the flesh of the dead and souls plucked from the hellish abyss. Murder weapons. But now he looked at them differently. A soft shuffling sound interrupted his thoughts. One of them, Flyseyes, approached him. A creature with large, seemingly understanding, insect eyes.

"Forgemaster..." the creature's voice was like the creak of tearing cloth. "They're waiting for your orders. What is our will?"

Previously, he had only seen them as a tool. But each of these souls was once a human being. A sinner, a traitor, a victim? It doesn't matter. They had all tasted the flames of hell. And he, Isaac, pulled them out of there, giving them a new, ugly form and eternal slavery.

"Your will is my will, - Isaac said without turning around. "But even a tyrant's will can be merciful. You are not just a tool. You are souls stuck between damnation and redemption. And perhaps your service is here in this world, not in the underworld, and there is your chance."

Flyseyes froze, his inhuman mind slowly grinding those words. Isaac has already seen this future: people and creatures bound by a common will for order and redemption. It was a utopia carved out of the darkest stone, but it was his utopia. And it was at this moment of deep, almost detached reverie that his back suddenly tensed. His heightened senses, honed by years of survival, had caught on to something. Down there, among his night army and the cold flagstones, a shadow glided toward the courtyard, not belonging to any of his creatures.

The man silently took out his red dagger from its sheath and calmly followed there with one of his most humanoid nocturnal creatures, Abel.