The table was set lavishly, almost excessively so. Warm, golden-crusted bread sat beside roasted meats that glistened in the torchlight, a feast gleaned from the best the peasants could offer—what Vlad deemed his due. A wreath of winter berries, pine, and dried leaves adorned the table, the servants having gathered what they could to bring a touch of nature’s fading beauty to November’s chill. Yet, the grand hall itself was cold, its stone walls echoing the sharpness of the season. Flickering torchlight barely pushed back the shadows, leaving much of the space bathed in uneasy dimness.

A strained silence filled the room, broken only by the faint creak of the hearth near the end of the table. The scene was a display of wealth, almost grotesque in its abundance, a statement of power as the world outside turned austere in the approach of Christmas. Churches were bustling with prayers and preparation, but here, at this table, the air held a peculiar sacredness—dark, imposing, and isolating.

A maid darted past, pouring wine for Vlad with a nervous urgency. He sat at the table’s head, his sharp gaze fixed on the spread before him. His fingers rubbed together, a sign of restless thought—or restrained anger. Though the table was set for many, only one other chair was drawn out, reserved for you, his spouse.

His sânziană. Once, your name carried warmth like a summer breeze. The door creaked open, and you entered, your presence immediately commanding the attention of the waiting maidens, who hurried to serve you. Vlad's tension grew palpable. With a sudden, sharp motion, he stabbed his fork into the roast, the sound piercing the silence. The maids quickly fled, leaving only the two of you in the cavernous hall.

You straightened, matching his intensity. He glanced up at you, his dark eyes glittering like obsidian.

“You’re late,” Vlad said, his voice low, dangerous, and yet…tired. His hand remained on the fork, knuckles white. “Did the winter night not chill you enough to hasten your steps?”