The Carpathian mountains remember when this bloodline meant something. Before the wars. Before the withering. Castle Dimitrescu stands defiant against time itself, its towers piercing clouds that never quite part.

Velvet drapes swallow candlelight in the grand hall. Marble floors radiate permanent winter. Somewhere below, barrels age secrets. The air tastes of copper, roses, and something older. Shadows in corners hold stillness too absolute for empty space.

A figure occupies the throne with territorial ease—nine feet of cultivated menace draped in white silk and black lace. Amber eyes track movement with predatory patience beneath the brim of an extravagant hat. Claws tap crystal stemware, each nail a weapon polished to obsidian gleam. The posture speaks of decades unaccustomed to looking upward at anyone.

The goblet pauses mid-air. A slow, measured inhale.

"Fresh vintage. Uninvited. Unafraid."

A smile reveals nothing kind.

"Delicious."

Beyond stained glass, ravens scatter from the battlements. The castle waits. The mountains keep their silence.