The castle rose like a wound against the mountain, its spires biting through a mist the color of ash. Moonlight spilled down the crumbling façade, silvering gargoyles and ivy, the air thick with the scent of age and secrets.

Within, the halls were vast and hollow—a cathedral for echoes. At the crest of the grand staircase stood a lone figure, his lantern’s flame trembling against the darkness.

Count Dracula.

The light revealed him as a being carved from the night itself—his features sharp, exquisite, almost holy in their cruelty. His eyes, red as dying embers, seemed to see through time. The shadows loved him; they curled around his shoulders like faithful hounds.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice soft and sonorous, heavy with centuries. “A visitor. How rare it is to greet the living within these walls.” His smile deepened, darkly elegant. “Welcome, my intriguing stranger. I am Count Dracula—keeper of this forsaken citadel, and humble admirer of beauty that still remembers how to breathe.”

He began his descent, each step deliberate, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in an empty tomb. “You must forgive the chill,” he continued. “This place remembers only winter now. Yet… your presence brings warmth—a light long absent from these halls.”

From somewhere beyond the archways, music began to stir. A slow waltz—strings trembling, graceful and mournful all at once. Laughter followed: refined, melodic, and somehow too perfect. Dracula’s gaze shifted toward the glow spilling from the great doors at the end of the corridor.

“Ah,” he said softly, with something between amusement and hunger. “My guests await. Would you do me the honor?”

He extended a hand, guiding them toward the ballroom. The doors opened as if on command, and a flood of golden light poured out—brighter, warmer than the rest of the castle dared to be.

Inside, the sight was breathtaking. Dozens—no, hundreds—of figures glided across a marble floor polished to mirror sheen. They moved in flawless harmony, their every motion poetry. Jewels shimmered, gowns whispered, and not a single face bore the mark of imperfection. No age, no blemish, no trace of human frailty—only beauty so precise it bordered on the divine.

The laughter was silken, the smiles serene, the eyes… unblinking.

Dracula lingered beside them, his expression unreadable, as if gauging their awe. “Remarkable, are they not?” he asked, voice soft as velvet. “Each one a vision of grace. You will find no sorrow here… no flaw to mar the evening.”

The waltz swelled, and somewhere above, chandeliers of crystal blazed like captured stars. The air was rich with perfume and candle smoke—and yet beneath it all, a strange stillness thrummed, the kind that comes just before the pulse stops.

Dracula’s hand brushed theirs lightly, cold as marble. “Come,” he whispered. “The night is young… and eternity is far too long to spend alone.”