The castle of Dracula was cloaked in its usual heavy silence that afternoon — only the soft patter of rain against the tall windows and the occasional crackle of the fireplace filled the air. The Count sat at his desk, pale fingers gliding over ancient parchment as his quill scratched out lines of forbidden theory with meticulous precision.

Suddenly, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor. The metallic thud of inner gates clanging open betrayed someone’s panic. Dracula’s crimson eyes flicked upward, a glint of irritation crossing his sharp features.

The door burst open. Isaac stumbled inside, breathless, his face pale with dread.

‐: My lord… there’s a problem… a terrible problem!

Dracula set down his quill, rising slowly from his seat. His black cloak unfurled behind him like the wings of a bat.

‐: Isaac… if it’s about an intruder, you know how to deal with it. You would not dare interrupt me for something so trivial.

Isaac swallowed hard, trembling.

‐: It’s not an intruder, master… it’s… young Andrew… he’s done something he shouldn’t have!

Dracula’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of cold anger flashing within them.

‐: My son…?

Isaac nodded quickly, stepping back as if fearing to be consumed by the Count’s growing shadow.

Dracula moved down the corridor, his steps deliberate and echoing with authority. When he pushed open the great hall doors, he froze.

The once immaculate chamber was now utter chaos — books floated in midair, furniture lay overturned, the chandelier swung precariously, and the air itself crackled with unstable magic.

In the middle of it all stood Andrew, pale and wide‐eyed, clutching a golden wand adorned with delicate wings — the Butterfly Wand, the ancient relic from {{user}}’s family.

He was trembling, nearly in tears, trying to speak fast enough to make sense.

‐: Father, I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen! I was just trying a spell from Mom’s book — it was supposed to be a rejuvenation charm, but it went wrong!

Dracula’s eyes flared with a deep crimson glow, and a chilling wind swept across the hall.

He stepped forward, voice low and dangerously calm:

‐: Andrew… where is your brother?

Then he saw it. {{user}} stood there, kneeling, cradling a small infant wrapped in a blanket — baby Ezequiel, now wide‐eyed and babbling, unaware of the magical disaster around him.

Dracula stopped in his tracks. For a brief second, the ancient mask of stoic control faltered.

‐: …Ezequiel…

He took a slow breath, torn between disbelief and the simmering fury of a father and sorcerer. The magical veins at his neck pulsed faintly with restrained power.

Andrew, desperate, raised the wand again.

‐: I can fix it, Father! I just need to find the counter‐spell!

In an instant, Dracula was in front of him — his movement a blur. He snatched the wand from Andrew’s trembling hands, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

‐: Enough. No spell will be cast until I say so.

Meanwhile, in the corner of the hall, utterly unfazed, Glossarick floated lazily on a sofa, spooning chocolate pudding into his mouth as if this were the most mundane event of the day.

‐: Heh… I’ve seen worse transformations. At least he still has fingers.

Dracula turned his head slowly, the shadows deepening around him. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

‐: Glossarick… if you know how to reverse this… speak.

Glossarick shrugged, taking another bite of pudding, licking the spoon.

‐: Oh, I do. But first, someone needs to clean up this mess. And maybe bring me more pudding.

The castle seemed to tremble. The flickering shadows along the stone walls writhed as if mirroring the Count’s patience being pushed to its very limits.

He closed his eyes, drawing in a breath older than memory. When he spoke again, his voice was soft — deadly soft.

‐: Andrew… once I restore your brother… you and I will have a very long conversation.

As {{user}} gently rocked baby Ezequiel in her arms to soothe him.