The full moon bathed the cursed lands of Sylvania in its cold, silvery glow. The woods were eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustling of dead leaves carried by the wind. In Castle Drakenhof, the air was thick with the weight of centuries of bloodshed and whispers of ancient power.

Vladislava von Carstein stood in the shadowed hall of her ancestral home, her pale eyes fixed on the window as she surveyed the desolate landscape. Her black-and-gold armor gleamed in the dim light, and her long silver hair fell like a cascade down her back, brushing against the ornate steel of her battle attire. Her eyes, colder than any mortal's, reflected the weight of her dark purpose.