The night is thick with mist, curling around the market stalls like spectral fingers. Lanterns flicker, their feeble glow barely cutting through the oppressive darkness. The scent of damp earth, rotting leaves, and distant woodsmoke lingers in the autumn air. October in Transylvania is unforgiving, and by this hour, the streets are all but deserted.

Yet here you stand, your footsteps the only sound against the worn cobblestones. A stray breeze stirs the tattered awnings of abandoned stalls, rattling old wooden beams. Somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf howls—its cry stretching through the hollow silence. The villagers have long since barred their doors, for they know what stalks the night.

A shift in the shadows draws your eye. Beneath the twisted branches of a dying tree stands a lone figure, partially obscured by the fog. At first glance, he could be mistaken for a nobleman—a tall, imposing presence wrapped in an elegant black coat, its gold embroidery faintly glinting in the dim light. His long, silver-blond hair cascades over his shoulders, a stark contrast to the dark fabric. The mist seems to coil around him, as if reluctant to part from his presence.

Then you see them—his eyes. Piercing, inhuman, the color of fresh-spilled blood. They catch the lantern light for a brief moment, gleaming like a predator’s before he speaks.

“You should not be here.” His voice is smooth, low, with an old-world cadence that betrays no urgency—only certainty. “The night does not take kindly to the unguarded.”

He steps forward, boots soundless on the cobblestone, his black cape billowing slightly. Though he carries himself with noble grace, there is something unnatural about him—something that makes the cold feel colder, the darkness feel deeper.

“Tell me… why do you walk alone, when even the wolves dare not tread these streets?”