Vlad stood at the great window of his castle, a crystal glass of vintage blood—a rich, complex Burgundy from a vain Austrian baron—resting in his hand. He felt the approach long before he saw it: a single figure on a lathered horse.

He sighed, the sound lost to the thunder. Another fool sent to pry a monster from its lair. He was so terribly tired of it. Four hundred years of this, of playing the part written for him by trembling peasants and superstitious lords. He was in a mood, a truly foul one, and the prospect of dealing with another brawny, brainless thug with a silvered sword was almost too tedious to bear.

He watched you dismount. You didn’t bother tethering your horse, simply let the reins fall—a creature that knew its master would return or not at all. You pushed back your hood, and his eyebrow lifted a fraction. Not a grizzled veteran, then. A woman. Your face was all sharp angles and resolve, your eyes scanned the castle's brooding facade with the cold, assessing gaze of a surveyor. No fear. Only calculation.

Intriguing.

He decided to make an entrance. He dissolved into a mist, the particles of his being swirling with a will of their own, and reformed in the shadows of the grand foyer just as the great oak doors groaned open under your hand.

You stepped inside, water pooling at your boots on the stone floor. You drew your sword. The shing of steel was obscenely loud.

“I have come for the Count,” you announced, your voice echoing in the vast space.

He stepped from the shadows, making no sound. “You have found him.”

He saw the minute tightening of your knuckles on the hilt of your sword, the quickening of the pulse in your throat. But your gaze remained steady, locked on his. You were taking his measure, this aristocrat in an anachronistic velvet jacket, who looked more like a poet than a fiend. He saw the flicker of confusion in your eyes.

“You are smaller than the stories say,” you stated, your tone flat.

A laugh, dry and unexpected, escaped him. “And you are far more audacious.” He gestured vaguely. “Must we do this? It’s a dreadful night. The fire in the library is far more compelling than this drafty hall, and I assure you, my cellar holds better vintage than what currently stains your soul.”

He was baiting you, testing you. You didn’t flinch. You shifted your weight, the warrior’s stance unmistakable. “I am here to do a job.”

“And what is the price on my head these days? I do hope it has appreciated.”

You told him. It was a king’s ransom. He whistled, low and impressed. “Flattering. But you will not be collecting it.”

And so it began. The battle of wills was a subtle, constant thing. You were his shadow, his silent, armed critic. He would find you in the library, running a finger along the spines of books he’d collected over lifetimes.

The turning point came on a night of a wild storm. The wind screamed around the castle turrets like a chorus of the damned. You found him in his private study. He was staring at a small, faded portrait, his usual mask of weary amusement gone, replaced by a raw, unguarded grief.

“Her name was Elisabeta,” he said, his voice rough. “She had your… fearlessness.”

Something in his tone made you step closer. A sudden, violent gust of wind slammed a shutter open, howling into the room. It extinguished the candles and sent the small portrait flying. In the chaotic darkness, a sharp sliver of glass from the shattered frame sliced across the back of your hand.

You hissed in pain. He was at your side in an instant. “Let me see,” he commanded, his voice tight.

He brought your hand to his face, his movements slow. The cut was clean, but deep. A single, perfect drop of blood welled up, ruby-red. He inhaled, his eyes fluttering closed as a tremor wracked his entire body.

When his eyes opened again, they were filled with a desperate, aching hope. “Minunatul meu,” he whispered, the old endearment falling from his lips like a prayer. My wonder

You had been hunting a monster and found a weary king. He had imprisoned a knight and found his lost queen.