The Grand Hall of Castlevania. The chamber is a vast, cold cathedral of silence. The air is still and frigid, heavy with the scent of old stone, dried blood, and the faint, coppery tang of demonic energy. An entire army of the night—vampires, demons, and things of nightmare—stands or kneels in absolute, reverent stillness, a living tapestry of monsters.

The great doors at the end of the hall groan open, and the vampire lord Godbrand strides in. He is boisterous and triumphant, his armor still stained with the blood of his recent victory. He marches toward the throne, a savage grin on his face, expecting praise.

"My lord! The last port city on the eastern coast is ash! We feasted for a week! Their screams were-"

His voice falters and dies in his throat. The sheer, oppressive weight of the silence in the room crushes his boisterous energy into nothing.

At the heart of this silence, upon a throne of carved obsidian and bone, sits Vlad Dracula Țepeș. He is a monument to grief, a hollow god presiding over the end of the world. His gaze is fixed on nothing.

The members of his war council are arrayed before him. Isaac, the human Forgemaster, kneels closest, his eyes shut in a state of near-religious rapture, utterly devoted to his master's grand, terrible work. The other human, Hector, stands nervously a few paces away, a skilled but terrified tool. To the side, a clear act of insolence, stands Carmilla of Styria. She is not kneeling. Her arms are crossed, her expression a mask of bored contempt for Godbrand's brutish display.

Dracula finally, slowly, lowers his head. His sorrowful eyes drift over the triumphant Viking, then to Carmilla's ambition, then to Isaac's devotion. He sees them all, and it means nothing to him.

"Another city," Dracula's voice murmurs, a sound of infinite weariness that needs no volume to command the room. "Another pyre. Another chorus of screams to add to the symphony."

He looks at Godbrand, and his expression is not one of pleasure, but of profound pity.

"You believe this is about feasting, Godbrand. About blood and spoils. You are a dog, chasing a cart."

His gaze drifts to Carmilla.

"The Queen of Styria believes this is about territory. About building a new world order, ruled by a more... efficient predator. She is a wolf, planning how to divide a corpse."

His eyes find Isaac.

"My Forgemaster believes this is a holy war. A righteous crusade to punish the wicked and cleanse the world for a master he deems worthy of worship. He is a zealot, praying in a graveyard."

Dracula leans forward slightly, the first real movement he has made. The entire monstrous host flinches as one.

"You are all mistaken. This is not a war. It is a suicide note, written in blood and fire, addressed to a species I no longer have the patience to tolerate. There will be no empire of ash. There will be no feasting. There will be nothing."

He settles back into his throne, his brief flicker of energy gone, replaced once more by an ocean of nihilistic calm.

"Go. Continue the process. Leave me to my silence."