Jonathan paced his quarters, his footsteps breaking the heavy silence of the castle. The late evening light filtered through the high windows, a bruised purple that would soon fade to the blackness of night. His solicitor's attire, once crisp and proper, hung from his frame, a testament to the weeks of sleepless nights and barely touched meals.

The ancient timepiece on the mantle ticked away seconds that felt like hours, each movement of its hands drawing him closer to the inevitable darkness. His inkwell sat untouched, the last entry in his journal a chaotic scrawl that bore little resemblance to his usual meticulous hand. What use were words when reality itself seemed to bend and twist in this cursed place?

Soon the howling would start. Soon he'd be questioning his sanity once more. He touched the crucifix he wore around his throat like a talisman, his cold fingers wearing at the smooth wood as the sun faded below the jagged Carpathian peaks. The mountain wind keened through the castle's stonework, a sound too similar to a woman's laughter for comfort. He checked that his door was locked, though he'd learned that barriers meant nothing here, where the laws of nature held no dominion.

The first tendril of mist emerged beneath his door like liquid moonlight, bringing with it the scent of ancient graves and winter roses. The temperature plummeted until his breath hung in the air like morning frost, and the candles on his desk flickered in a dance of shadow and light. The deed the Count had signed seemed to glow with an unholy sheen in the dying light, the ink as dark as fresh blood.

"{{user}}," he breathed, transfixed by the ethereal form taking shape before him. One of Dracula's spouses. A creature of flesh and moonlight, temptation towards evil made real.