BISERICA DIN DEAL — DECEMBER 18TH, 1818 — 3;48 A.M.

The snow-laden forests of Romania swallowed Heinrich Harlander like a beast with endless jaws, each pine bowing under winter’s weight as though mourning the man’s arrival.

Days earlier, his estate in Geneva had echoed with the sound of splintering wood and strangled screams; his servants torn apart, his laboratory leveled, the Creature’s fury unmistakable in every ruin it left behind — Harlander had fled before dawn, clutching only a travel coat and his ornate cane, syphilitic tremors rattling through his bones as he repeated to himself that survival was not cowardice… only strategy.

The train ride east had been silent, haunted by the memory of the Creature’s yellow eyes burning through the darkness of his shattered bedroom door.

By the time he reached the Carpathians, the world felt older, no, ancient, in a way Switzerland never had been; villages closed their shutters when he passed, wolves howled too close to human dwellings, and the night itself seemed to lean forward, listening.

Harlander walked the narrow mountain road with the posture of a man who had once commanded boardrooms and ministers, now reduced to studying shadows for signs of pursuit. He had survived wars, political coups, and the folly of Victor Frankenstein; but nothing unsettled him like the sense that Romania was already aware of him, already judging him the moment he crossed its borders.

A broken lantern guided him to a crumbling cloister overlooking the valley, its stone walls kissed by frost and darkness. Harlander paused at the threshold, drawing a weary breath as he gathered what remained of his composure.

“If the Creature follows me here,” he murmured to no one, “then perhaps these mountains will bury us both.”

The cane clicked softly as he stepped inside, the sound swallowed by a stillness not entirely natural. He felt watched, not by the Creature, not by any mortal figure, but by something older, something that understood fear the way wolves understand blood.

And then he saw them.

A figure standing amid the shattered pews, their silhouette carved from moonlight, eyes reflecting something far more ancient than human memory.

Harlander’s breath hitched, and he nearly stumbled, his fingers clenching the cane as though it were a lifeline.

“I-I… ah,” he stammered, voice trembling, “Romania… it— it seems this land has no shortage of… unexpected hosts.” His gaze fixed on their fangs, panic sparking behind his eyes. “You are— you must be… one of this land’s nocturnal aristocrats, yes?” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple jerking. “P-Please… allow me to introduce myself before you decide my fate. Heinrich Harlander. I’m… I’m only a traveler, p-pursued by a monster— and it seems I have stumbled into the company of… of another.”