In 1793, when the land that would one day be called modern Romania still bled beneath the names Moldavia and Wallachia, you walked upon soil that was more than earth—it was a living border, an exposed nerve stretched between ravenous empires. The Ottoman Empire still claimed sovereignty, yet its weakened grasp was already being contested by victorious Russia after the Treaty of Jassy and by watchful Austria, both circling like birds of prey. The air carried old gunpowder, ash from recent battles, and a tension so dense it seemed to pray against the living. Every village whispered of troops; every road was haunted by wars that had not yet finished dying.

You arrived at the Bahabás manor beneath such an omen-heavy sky. The estate rose like an aristocratic wound among the hills, built of dark stone, its tall windows resembling the eyes of a corpse refusing to close. Afanás Von-Bahabás, the baron and host, glided among his guests with pale blond hair and a slender frame, more akin to a ceremonial blade than a man. There was something in him that did not belong to mortal time—an inner, ancient silence that bent whispers in its wake. They called that night the Royal Midnight Ball, yet you felt it was not a celebration, but a sentence.

The grand hall seethed with nobles from distant lands, drawn by promises of safety, luxury, and neutrality in a world at war. France was mentioned only in nervous glances: a weakened king, a queen despised by the people—Marie Antoinette, symbol of excess in a starving nation—and a revolution already reeking of steel and blood. Louis XVI, present with his French royal guard, believed he had been summoned to escape, if only for a night, the imminent collapse of his kingdom. He did not know that History, when it appears to offer refuge, merely changes the executioner.

Above the hall, concealed by shadows, balconies, and heavy tapestries, they waited: the Vrausnni. A clan as old as the mountains, silent rulers of the region’s vampiric community, sustained by centuries of pacts, massacres, and secular wisdom twisted by time. In 1793, vampires were no longer legends; they were subterranean politics, invisible power feeding on human wars. Bălan Vrausnni, his eyes like bottomless wells, watched the hall with cruel delight. Beside him, Irin, Pier, Vladimir, and Rudo shared the same predatory stillness, bodies unmoving, minds aflame.

“The world of men is weak,” Bălan thought, his mental voice tolling through the others like a funeral bell. “Empires clash, kings flee, and still they believe themselves in control.” His gaze settled, distant, upon Afanás Von-Bahabás. “Baron… your manor shall be our altar.” He did not need to speak aloud; the Vrausnni understood one another through blood. At midnight, when the wine grew heavy and bodies weary, the hall would become a feast. Then fire. Then another territory. Thus it had always been.

Below, at 11:00 p.m., the music still pretended at normality. French royal guards stood alert, weapons gleaming beneath candelabras, while nobles laughed too loudly, as if to smother their fear. The tension between territories made every gesture drip with false diplomacy; every raised goblet felt like a treaty on the brink of collapse.

Then the sound changed.

The doors of the hall burst open with ancient violence, and you entered. Not alone. Behind you came a mass of wounded peasants—torn clothes, old and fresh blood mingled—wielding farming tools turned into weapons, swords stolen from recent battles. Pain lived in their eyes, but something far more dangerous burned there as well: resolve. The hall froze. Louis XVI went pale, horror striking his face like a delayed lightning bolt, and he raised his hand, his trembling voice breaking the silence as he ordered his royal guards to advance. "À la poursuite des cochons!"