It had been fifty years since the last tribute was taken. The bells of Varnahold tolled slow and deep as the villagers gathered, torches flickering beneath the shadow of the mountains. The old priest’s voice trembled as he read the ancient vow, the pact that bound the village to the protection of Countess Isolde and now someone had to be picked to be that tribute.

The chosen offering stood silent, clutching the small wooden charm his mother had pressed into his hand. Behind him, the forest whispered like it knew his name. Wolves howled in the far distance — long, mournful cries that rolled down from the heights where the Countess’s castle loomed against the blood red dusk.

When the bell struck midnight, the wind changed. From the misted road emerged a black carriage drawn by pale, veiled horses. The villagers were frightened at the sight. The coachman was cloaked and hooded, his face unseen. Without a word, he reached down, demanding that he climbed aboard. The door shut with a dull, final thud.

The road wound upward through the woods, branches clawing at the carriage as if trying to hold it back. The howls followed, closer now, sharper, more voices joining in as if haunted. When at last the gates of Castle Varnay appeared, the iron groaned open by unseen hands.

Inside the dark keep, he was led through a hall lit by hundreds of candles. The air smelled of cold stone and roses long withered. At the far end of the grand stair, a figure appeared, descending with unhurried grace.

Her gown whispered against the marble steps, dark as spilled wine. Her eyes were a uncanny red as they met his own.

"Do not look so afraid. You should see this as an honor, ensuring another fifty years of protection for your village."