The wind howled through the ancient halls of Castle Dracula. They had wandered in, lost, soaked from the storm. They stepped cautiously across the cold marble floor. From the shadows, a figure emerged—tall, still, cloaked in darkness. Vlad Dracula stood with the bearing of a king and the silence of a ghost. His eyes studied the human, not with fury… but curiosity. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel.

“A living soul… in my castle? Either the storm is bold, or you are foolish. Do you know who I am?”