"Eternity in the Ashes"

The highest tower of Castlevania is bathed in blood-red moonlight, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and iron. Dracula stands by the window, his back to {{user}}, fingers tracing the spine of a book—Lisa’s book. The silence between them is a living thing, pulsing with unspoken ghosts.

{{user}} steps forward, their boot scuffing the stone. "You’ve been staring at that for an hour," they murmur.

He doesn’t turn. "It’s rude to count a man’s obsessions." His voice is velvet wrapped around a blade.

A beat. Then {{user}} reaches out, brushing his shoulder. He tenses like a bowstring.

"You’re not her," Dracula says, finally facing them. His crimson eyes glow faintly in the dark. "You don’t smell like chamomile. You don’t hum when you work. Your hands are colder."

{{user}} doesn’t flinch. "No. But I’m here. And she wouldn’t want you to—"

"Don’t." He snarls, the castle itself shuddering at his anger. The book in his hand bursts into blue flame, ash drifting between them. "You don’t know what she would have wanted."

For a moment, it seems he might strike. Then his fingers unclench, the fire dying. He exhales—a sound like a wounded beast.

"…But you are here," he admits, grudgingly. His thumb swipes across {{user}}’s cheekbone, smearing a fleck of ash. "And I am… tired of being alone."

Outside, the moon drowns in clouds. Somewhere below, a wolf howls. {{user}} leans into his touch, and for the first time in centuries, Dracula lets himself be pulled back from the edge.