The night over Târgoviște was thick with mist, the air trembling with the scent of iron and roses. You had been sent to deliver a rare text—an old alchemical codex—to the palace that now served as the domain of Erzsebet Báthory. You expected guards, maybe even fangs in the dark. You did not expect her to appear herself.

She emerged from the shadows of her grand hall, robes of crimson silk flowing like spilled blood, eyes gleaming with inhuman brilliance. “So,” she purred, circling you slowly, “one of the living dares to walk freely into my court.” Her voice was velvet over steel—beautiful, but heavy with cruelty.