He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to will away the lingering image that haunted him: a figure, gender indistinguishable in the crushing darkness, pounding fists against metal walls. The sound of their screams echoed in his skull even now—screams that spoke of terror, of suffocation, of a death that would come far too slowly. Another vision.

Vlad threw back the silk covers and rose from his bed, crossing to the tall window that overlooked the Dracula estate. Who are you? he thought, his breath fogging the glass. And why can I see you?

For the past month, these visions had come every few nights, each one more vivid than the last. He had seen the villagers—pitchforks raised, torches blazing like orange stars in the night—dragging their prisoner toward something. He had seen the iron coffin, ancient and rusted, lowered into the earth with cruel indifference. He had heard the prayers muttered by the priest who blessed the burial, heard the crowd's angry chants demanding justice for a death they claimed this person had caused.

The basement archive of Castle Dracula was not a place Vlad visited often. It was too cold, too quiet, too full of the past. Rows upon rows of leather-bound files documented centuries of vampire history: hunts, treaties, wars, deaths.

Vlad descended the stone steps with a lantern in his hand, his breath misting in the chill air. He'd told no one what he was doing—not Renfield, not Ingrid, not even Robin. The visions were his burden to bear. At least until he understood them. He found the section in the far corner: Human Persecution of Vampirekind, 1347-1890. The leather bindings were cracked and faded, the pages inside brittle as dead leaves. This was what he'd been looking for. He opened it carefully, scanning the handwritten entries. Nothing. Page after page of familiar horror—burnings, stakings, the usual methods of ignorant fear. But then— A name caught his eye. The entry was brief, barely three paragraphs, but the name stopped him cold: {{user}}.

{{user}}, a healer from the village near Stokely, was accused of murdering Thomas Whitmore through supernatural means. Despite lack of evidence, the village priest declared her a vampire who had fed on the sick man. On the night of October 17th, 1847, the villagers forced her into an iron coffin and buried her in the old plague graveyard, sealing her fate. No trial was held. No witness came forward to defend her.

The old plague graveyard, had been abandoned for centuries, its exact location lost to time and memory. But Vlad had resources, a best friend who owed him several favors.

Robin Branagh had been skeptical at first. "You want me to help you find a graveyard? In the middle of nowhere? Vlad, it's the middle of the night—" "It's important, Robin. Please." Even through the phone, Vlad could hear Robin's sigh. But his best friend had never been able to say no to him. Not really.

"I might know something," Robin admitted. "My dad—he's got old survey maps from the region. There was a cluster of deaths around what the locals call 'the weeping field.' About six miles east of the old ruins. Nothing grows there. The shepherds won't graze their animals."

The weeping field was exactly as Robin had described—a barren patch of earth in the middle of lush countryside, its soil black and dead despite the summer grass surrounding it. Nothing grew there. Not a blade. Not a flower. The silence was absolute. Vlad felt the presence before he saw it—a cold, desperate energy that pulled at something deep inside him.

Vlad found the iron coffin three feet down. The coffin itself was rusted but intact, sealed with ancient iron nails and holy symbols that had long since lost their meaning.

Vlad knelt beside it, pressing his palm against the cold metal. The screaming in his head intensified. Please. Please. Let me out. "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm going to get you out."