《The Shadow of the Crimson Queen》


 Premonition

    ¡°Come here, Avram. Watch this faithful man as he carves our Patron. A saint¡¯s hand must be steady, just as yours must be. The carving is not just wood¡ªit is protection. Trust in your strength, for this work is as much a prayer as any word ever spoken in the church.¡±


    "But Papa, if he finds..." I start, but I am quickly cut off.


    "Son," my father says, his voice firm but gentle, "we are men, not cattle. Even though we are treated as such, we must be brave. Brave men, like the saints themselves. Like our Lord Himself. Do you understand?"


    "Yes, Papa," I reply, though the weight of his words is heavy on my young heart.


    The peasant¡¯s hand, trembling with fear, hovers over the carving knife. My father places his large, calloused hand on the man¡¯s shoulder, steadying him.


    "Fear not," my father says, his tone softening but still strong, "I am your master, and I am responsible for this, not you."


    The peasant sighs faintly, his trembling ceasing as he continues his work, carving the saint¡¯s image with more confidence.


    My gaze shifts from the peasant to my father. In him, I see a man who protects, who leads, and who never flinches from the weight of responsibility, no matter how heavy. A stirring rises within me¡ªa longing to be as strong as he is.


    Because at night, when the darkness presses in and the nightmares rise from the very evil that pervades these lands, I tremble. I shudder at the thought of what we face, of what lurks in the shadows, always just beyond reach. If it weren¡¯t for my father¡¯s strength, I don¡¯t know how my mother, my sisters, and I could bear the terror that haunts us each day.


    The year was 1878, and the lands of Transylvania lay heavy under the shadow of its cruel master. Though the wars of empires raged far beyond its borders, the villages here remained frozen in a grim silence, as if time itself feared to tread upon the cursed soil. The Carpathian Mountains loomed on the horizon, their jagged peaks tearing into the sky like the teeth of some ancient beast. Deep within those mountains, veiled in mist and fear, stood Castle Dracula¡ªa black heart at the center of our world.


    It was here, in this land steeped in both beauty and terror, that my family and I eked out a meager existence. We were the Albescus, a poor boyar family clinging to what little remained of our ancestral lands. While the great nobles of Hungary, Austria, and Germany feasted in gilded halls, our days were filled with toil. My father worked the soil beside the serfs, his hands as calloused as theirs, his back bent under the weight of duty. We were isolated, cursed by proximity to the castle that none dared speak of openly. The other nobles kept their distance, fearing the wrath of its master, leaving us to bear the brunt of his dark dominion.


    Our village was small, no more than a thousand serfs scattered among the decaying cottages huddled around the ruins of an abandoned church. The church bell, once a call to faith, now lay silent, rusting under the weight of neglect. The priests had long since fled, leaving only my father to act as both guide and shepherd to the people. They looked to him for strength, for leadership, and for hope in a land where hope was a rare and precious thing and courage was lost.


    And so, we endured. Day by day, we lived under the unspoken truth that Dracula did not seek to destroy us. He did not need to. We were his cattle, his to feed upon when he wished. He allowed us to till the soil, to plant and harvest, but no more. Surprisingly, the lands remained fertile, yielding abundant crops that the peasants toiled to grow. The grapes from these fields once produced wines that were renowned and highly prized. Yet, the bounty of our harvests and the richness of our vintages served a grim purpose. The majority was seized to sustain those he had enthralled¡ªtaken from among us to serve our dark lord¡ªleaving us with barely enough to scrape by and survive. Anything beyond that¡ªa shred of prosperity, a hint of rebellion¡ªwould bring swift and terrible retribution. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    It was in this world that I, Avram Albescu, was born. A boy of seven, too young to truly understand the weight of the curse upon our land, yet old enough to feel its chill in the marrow of my bones. I knew only that my father, strong and steadfast, was our shield against the darkness. And in his shadow, I dreamed of strength. I dreamed of courage.


    My father, Petru Albescu, hailed from a once-proud and powerful line of boyars, a family steeped in the ancient traditions of honor and loyalty. Unlike many of the boyars who betrayed Vlad ?epe? in his mortal days, our ancestors remained steadfast. That loyalty spared them when Dracula rose as master of these lands. In his own twisted sense of nobility, the dark lord granted our family his favor¡ªnot out of kindness, but out of respect for our fidelity to him in life.


    Yet, such a cursed honor came at a terrible cost. Dracula''s shadow hung heavy over us, isolating our family from the rest of the Romanian nobility. The other houses feared to associate with us, seeing us as tainted by the dark lord''s favor. No noble would dare offer their daughters in marriage to my father¡¯s house, nor would they accept my sisters as brides, despite our lineage being one of the oldest and once most esteemed in the land.


    It was clear to all that our once-great name would not survive. The Albescu line, which had weathered centuries of war and bloodshed, now stood on the brink of extinction¡ªnot by the sword or plague, but by the suffocating weight of Dracula¡¯s curse. I was too young to understand the depth of this tragedy, but even then, I could feel its inevitability pressing down upon us. My father bore that weight in silence, but I knew it pained him deeply to see our legacy slipping through his fingers.


    I was the only surviving son. Two brothers had come before me, but both were taken by sickness before their first steps. My mother often said I was their hope made flesh, the one who carried the future of the Albescu name. At seven years old, I did not yet understand the weight of such words, but I knew this: I wanted to be like my father, a man who stood unshaken against the darkness.


    A sudden wave of dread overtook me, gripping my heart with an icy hand. My eyes turned instinctively toward the mountains, to the place where he lived. In my short lifetime, I had felt this dark premonition many times before, and each time it had heralded calamity.


    Demonic forces would slip into the village under the cover of night, stealing away young girls and boys to be sacrificed in the unholy rites of the castle. Or to be mercilessly trained up as the enthralled servants of the monster himself and his lieutenants. At other times, the dread preceded a pestilence¡ªa cruel plague sent from that cursed place to cull our numbers when they grew too great. The sickly elderly and the weakest of the children were always those to perish. My two brothers, taken as infants by such a plague, were amongst them.


    That is why my father sought the carving of the Holy Saints. He knew of no other way to protect the defenseless. The wooden images of the saints became wards of power, scattered and hidden throughout the village and its surrounding buildings, a fragile line of defense against the demons that roamed these lands.


    This time, the premonition struck me with a force unlike any I had ever known. My knees nearly buckled beneath its weight. Never before had I felt the shadow of doom loom so heavily over us as I did in that moment.

 A Knock On The Door

    The long wooden table that dominated the dining hall creaked under its age; its surface worn smooth by generations of hands. Candles flickered weakly in iron sconces mounted along the timber walls, casting long shadows that danced in the dim room. The Albescu family sat together, their faces illuminated by the soft, wavering light, which could not entirely dispel the shadows that seemed ever-present in their lives.


    The manor, once a barracks in the days when the Albescus had troops of their own, bore none of the grandeur one might expect of a boyar family. The stone ancestral manor, now a hollow ruin, loomed nearby like a ghost of their former stature. It had been stripped over the years, its stones carted away by the dark lord¡¯s men and its treasures lost to time and despair. What remained of the Albescu household had retreated into this wooden structure, plain and functional, its modesty a reflection of their diminished state.


    Outside the manor, the peasants of the village fared even worse. They lived in crumbling shacks, the remnants of homes that had once sheltered generations with pride. Families packed together under sagging roofs; the walls patched with whatever materials could be scavenged. The older villagers spoke wistfully of a time when their lives had been better, when the fields yielded plenty, and they had the means to repair their homes and build anew. Yet now, under the shadow of Dracula¡¯s dominion, such memories seemed more like fairy tales. Still, they held a wary gratitude for the Albescus. Unlike other nobles who lived off the labor of their peasants with indifference, the Albescus shared the burdens of the of the village¡¯s workload. But gratitude was no cure for fear, and the villagers worried what future winters might bring, or worse, what new horrors might descend from the castle above.


    The Albescu¡¯s meal on the table mirrored the simplicity of their home. A pot of boiled cabbage sat in the center, steam rising faintly as it mingled with the chill in the air. Loaves of coarse bread, baked earlier that day, were passed around, their crusts hard but their insides soft enough to sustain. A small wedge of cheese, carefully portioned, was shared among them, its sharpness cutting through the otherwise bland flavors. Despite their noble blood, the Albescus ate no better than the peasants who worked their lands. Whatever remained of the harvest after Dracula¡¯s thralls took their share was divided equally between the manor and the village.


    Avram sat between his sisters, Maria and Liliana, with his mother, Ana, across from him and his father, Petru, at the head of the table. The room was quiet except for the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl or the soft crunch of bread. It was a silence born not of comfort but of exhaustion¡ªthe weight of their existence pressing down on each of them.


    Liliana nibbled at her bread, her pale fingers trembling slightly as she broke off small pieces. She avoided looking at anyone, her wide eyes fixed on her plate as though she feared what she might see in their faces. Maria, in contrast, ate with steady efficiency, her movements calm and measured. She occasionally reached over to refill her mother¡¯s cup of cider or to offer a reassuring pat on Liliana¡¯s arm.


    "The cider, made from the abundant apples of their orchards, was one of the few indulgences left to them. The Vampire Lord¡¯s thralls seemed to have little interest in the fruit, leaving much of the harvest for the villagers to keep. From this bounty, the community crafted hard cider, a drink that offered both sustenance and solace. Each sip carried a faint sweetness¡ªa fleeting reminder of better days.


    Petru broke the silence, his deep voice filling the room. ¡°Avram, fetch more cider from the barrel,¡± he said, nodding toward the corner where the wooden barrel stood. ¡°And bring another loaf of bread. We¡¯ll not have your mother going hungry.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Papa,¡± Avram replied, rising quickly from his seat. He was eager to please his father, whose presence filled the room with a quiet authority. As he moved to the corner, he caught sight of his mother¡¯s tired smile, a flicker of warmth amidst the somber atmosphere.


    Ana¡¯s gaze lingered on her husband. ¡°You work too hard, Petru,¡± she said softly. ¡°Even the strongest ox will break if the yoke is too heavy.¡±


    Petru shook his head, his expression resolute. ¡°The yoke must be borne, Ana. If not by me, then who?¡± He gestured toward the table. ¡°Our people depend on us. The moment we falter, they will fall. You know this as well as I do.¡±


    Maria nodded in agreement. ¡°The villagers look to us for strength, even if they don¡¯t say it. They see how we live, how we share what little we have. It gives them hope, even in the shadow of¡­him.¡± Her voice lowered at the last word, as though speaking it aloud might summon the dark lord himself.


    Liliana flinched, her hands tightening around her bread. ¡°Do you think he¡¯s watching us now?¡± she whispered, her voice barely audible. ¡°Do you think he knows what we say?¡±


    Petru¡¯s jaw tightened, but it was Ana who answered. ¡°Liliana, my child, do not give him more power than he already holds. Fear feeds the darkness. Hold fast to your faith and your family. That is our shield.¡±


    Avram returned to the table, placing the fresh loaf and a jug of cider before his father. As he sat back down, he noticed the tension in the room. He hated the way Liliana¡¯s fear seemed to seep into everyone else, like a shadow stretching to cover them all.


    Petru poured a measure of cider into his cup and raised it. ¡°To our family,¡± he said firmly, his voice cutting through the gloom. ¡°And to the strength we draw from one another. Whatever may come, we will endure.¡±


    The others raised their cups, murmuring their agreement. Even Liliana managed a faint smile as she lifted her drink. For a brief moment, the room felt lighter, the shadows held at bay by the simple act of unity.


    But as they drank, Avram couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that the darkness was pressing closer, just beyond the wooden walls of their modest home. He glanced toward the window, where the night stretched out like a yawning void, and he wondered when the calamity would strike.


    Ana¡¯s sharp eyes turned to Avram, who sat unusually quiet, his small hands gripping his wooden spoon tightly. ¡°Avram,¡± she said gently, ¡°you look troubled. What is it?¡±


    Avram hesitated, his gaze falling to his bowl. He did not want to speak, did not want to give voice to the dark feeling that had been gnawing at him all day. But his silence only drew more attention.


    ¡°Answer your mother,¡± Petru commanded, his tone firm but not unkind.


    Avram swallowed hard and lifted his head. ¡°I... I feel something bad is going to happen,¡± he admitted in a trembling voice. ¡°It¡¯s stronger than it has ever been. I have never felt anything like this before.¡±


    The table fell into silence, the weight of his words settling heavily over the family. They all knew what Avram¡¯s premonitions meant. They had come true too many times before to be dismissed as mere imaginings.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Liliana let out a sharp cry, her face twisting in fear. ¡°No! No, not again!¡± she wailed, rising from her seat so quickly that her chair toppled backward. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as she fled the room, her sobs echoing down the hall.


    ¡°Maria,¡± Ana said quickly, her voice calm but commanding. ¡°Go to her. She needs you.¡±


    Maria nodded, setting down her spoon and standing with purpose. She placed a steadying hand on Avram¡¯s shoulder as she passed, a brief but comforting gesture, before hurrying after her sister.


    Avram hesitated for a moment, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve before replying. ¡°It started while we were watching the peasant carve the Saint,¡± he admitted quietly. ¡°When I saw his hands trembling... I don¡¯t know why, but the feeling just... it hit me. Like a shadow I couldn¡¯t shake.¡±


    Ava, her expression equally concerned but edged with reproach, crossed her arms and fixed her gaze on him. ¡°And why didn¡¯t you speak up earlier?¡± she asked. ¡°Why wait until commanded to tell us?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know how,¡± Avram confessed, his voice trembling slightly. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to upset anyone. Look at Liliana¡ªjust hearing it was too much for her.¡±


    Ana reached out and gently placed her hand over Avram¡¯s, her touch warm and reassuring. ¡°Avram,¡± she said softly, ¡°we are your family. Whatever shadows you feel, we face them together. You don¡¯t have to carry this alone, do you understand?¡±


    Petru nodded in agreement, his deep voice steady and resolute. ¡°Your mother is right. If you feel something, you must speak of it, no matter how heavy it seems. We need to know. We will deal with it, no matter what comes.¡±


    Avram looked down at his hands, twisting the edge of his sleeve as he spoke. "Thank you, Mama, Papa," he said softly, his voice wavering. "But I wish... I wish I could bring about something good and holy for once in my life. Instead, it¡¯s always this¡ªalways something dark and terrible."


    Petru¡¯s brow furrowed as he leaned forward, his steady gaze locking onto his son¡¯s. "Avram," he began, his voice firm but kind, "what you have is a gift, not a curse. These premonitions¡ªthey are a gift from God, a warning to prepare us for what may come. They do not make you responsible for the evils of others."


    Ana reached across the table, placing her hand over Avram¡¯s and squeezing gently. "Your father is right," she said, her voice warm and reassuring. "God has given you this gift for a reason. You may not see it now, but it is not a burden to bear alone, nor something to regret."


    Petru nodded, his strong features softening as he added, "It is not your task to carry the weight of the world¡¯s wickedness, my son. What matters is how you choose to act when the time comes."


    Avram lifted his gaze, his parents¡¯ unwavering belief in him a small light in the midst of his uncertainty. Though his heart still felt heavy, their words gave him something to cling to¡ªa hope that perhaps his gift could be used for something greater than fear.


    A sudden, urgent rapping on the manor door broke the quiet of the evening¡ªBang, Bang. From outside, the voices of two women called out, trembling with worry. ¡°Forgive us, my Lord, for disturbing your evening!¡±


    Petru rose swiftly from his seat, his sharp eyes turning toward the door. Without hesitation, he strode across the room, the wooden floorboards creaking under his deliberate steps. Reaching the door, he grasped the iron handle and pulled it open. Standing there, silhouetted by the pale moonlight, were two older women, their faces etched with fear and their hands trembling as they clutched their shawls against the night¡¯s chill.


    Petru recognized the women immediately. One was the mother of Vasile and Mihai Dumitru, the two inseparable brothers, and the other was Nicolae Stanescu¡¯s mother, a widow whose only son had become a pillar of strength in the community. These were not strangers but women he had known for years, their faces now lined with fear and desperation, tugging at his heart.


    He thought of the three young men¡ªVasile, Mihai, and Nicolae¡ªboys he had come to know well. In a village consumed by fear and suspicion, they stood apart. They were perhaps the only three males in the entire village who showed true courage in the face of adversity.


    Because of this, Petru often entrusted them with tasks that no one else could be relied upon to handle. The rest of the villagers, weighed down by the constant shadow of Dracula¡¯s dominion, lived in fear. Many would turn on one another without hesitation, reporting anything remotely suspicious to Dracula¡¯s men in a desperate attempt to protect themselves. Such cowardice had rendered most of the village untrustworthy.


    But Vasile, Mihai, and Nicolae were different. They had proven themselves time and again through small but significant acts of bravery. Petru had seen their character and found them worthy of trust, assigning them to tasks of a delicate and discreet nature¡ªdeeds that required not only courage but loyalty and discretion.


    ¡°Little Mothers,¡± Petru greeted them warmly, his voice steady and kind, ¡°come inside. The night is no place for such worry.¡± He stepped aside, beckoning them in.


    The women hesitated for only a moment before stepping over the threshold, their movements quick but hesitant, as though afraid they were imposing. They both dropped into hurried curtsies.


    ¡°Forgive us, Lord,¡± the first woman, Vasile and Mihai¡¯s mother, began, her voice cracking with distress. ¡°We beg your pardon for disturbing you and your family¡ª¡±


    ¡°You need not apologize,¡± Petru interrupted gently, raising a hand to reassure them. ¡°You are always welcome here. Now, tell me what has brought you here at this hour.¡±


    The two women exchanged uneasy glances before Nicolae¡¯s mother spoke, her words tumbling out in a rush. ¡°It is our boys, Lord. Vasile, Mihai, and Nicolae¡ªthey are gone. We fear they have been taken!¡±


    ¡°Taken?¡± Petru¡¯s voice grew sharper, his brow furrowing with concern. ¡°By whom?¡±


    ¡°We fear the Dark Lord¡¯s men,¡± the second woman sobbed. ¡°We tried to stop them¡ªwe begged them not to do anything foolish¡ªbut they wouldn¡¯t listen. They spoke of an adventure, Lord, and left before dawn this morning. We thought they¡¯d return by sundown, but...¡± Her voice broke, and she covered her face with trembling hands.


    "The first woman clutched Petru¡¯s sleeve with trembling hands. ''Please, my lord, they are good boys¡ªjust reckless. We had no one else to turn to. Is there anything you can be done to help them?''"


    Avram¡¯s eyes remained fixed on his father, observing the slight tremor in Petru¡¯s hands as the elder Albescu offered the mothers one last assurance before sending them on their way, his voice steady but distant, as if detached from the words he spoke. As the women¡¯s hurried footsteps faded into the night, Petru closed the door firmly and slid the heavy bolt into place with a resounding thud.


    Avrum noticed it immediately¡ªthe way his father¡¯s strong frame seemed to shrink, his shoulders slumping under an invisible weight. Petru¡¯s face, so resolute moments ago, had paled to an ashen hue, the blood drained from his features as if he had seen a ghost.


    ¡°Father,¡± Avram asked softly, his voice trembling. ¡°What is wrong?¡±


    Petru turned away from the door, tilting his head upward toward the ceiling. His eyes shut tightly as his lips moved soundlessly, mouthing the words: ¡°I am so sorry. Please forgive me.¡±


    Before Avram could ask more, the eerie, guttural howls of wolves erupted outside, rising and falling in an unsettling chorus. It was a sound too close and too calculated, as if the beasts had encircled the manor. The hair on Avram¡¯s neck stood on end.


    From another room, Liliana¡¯s voice broke through the mounting dread with a piercing scream. ¡°They are here! Just leave us alone!¡± she cried, her voice filled with terror and despair.


    The tension in the room thickened like smoke, as if the walls themselves were closing in around them. Petru opened his eyes and lowered his head, his expression dark and unreadable. He clenched his fists, as though preparing for the inevitable.

 Shadow Becomes Flesh

    Ana froze, her gaze darting toward the window. ¡°Do you hear that?¡± she whispered, her voice tight with dread.


    At first, it was faint¡ªa rhythmic thudding like a distant storm. Then it grew louder, more distinct. The unmistakable sound of hooves striking earth, relentless and purposeful, rising as the wolves¡¯ howling diminished but their canine growls continued just outside doors and windows.


    ¡°Horses,¡± Ana said, her words barely audible, her hands clutching the edge of the table. ¡°Riders... they¡¯re coming.¡±


    Outside, the cacophony swelled. The galloping grew closer, reverberating through the ground and into their bones. Men¡¯s voices barked commands, sharp and clipped, cutting through the cold night air. The din of reins snapping and horses neighing punctuated the chaos as the riders encircled the manor.


    In the dining room, the Albescu family huddled in silence. The tension was a physical force, squeezing the air from the room. Every creak of the old wooden house seemed deafening, every shadow a potential threat.


    The voices outside intensified, men shouting orders back and forth, their guttural tones carrying the weight of purpose. Then came the heavy clink of steel¡ªswords being unsheathed, metal on metal as weapons were prepared.


    From the hallway, Maria and Liliana hurried back into the room. Liliana¡¯s eyes were wild, her face pale as a sheet. She clutched at her mother¡¯s arm, trembling uncontrollably.


    ¡°They¡¯re here!¡± Liliana cried, her voice shrill and cracking. ¡°They¡¯ve come for us! They¡¯ve come¡ª¡±


    ¡°Calm yourself,¡± Ana snapped, though her own voice wavered. She pulled Liliana closer, her grip firm but protective. ¡°We don¡¯t know what they want yet.¡±


    Before anyone could speak, a sudden silence from the men, horses and wolves and a new sound emerged, cutting through the sudden silence like a knife: heavy, deliberate footsteps. They carried the weight of inevitability, growing louder as they approached the manor¡¯s main door.


    The footsteps stopped.


    For a moment, there was silence¡ªcomplete and suffocating. Then, with an agonizing slowness, the heavy iron bolt on the door began to slide open with no hand upon it.


    ¡°No,¡± Petru whispered, his voice a breathless prayer. He stood still with a look of dread on his face, staring at the door before him.


    The bolt moved of its own accord, inch by inch, the sound echoing unnaturally in the still room. No hand touched it, no force visible. It was as though the manor itself was betraying them, surrendering to an unseen power.


    Liliana screamed, a sound that sent shivers racing down every spine.


    ¡°Stop it!¡± Maria shouted to Liliana who had hidden her face in her hands. ¡°Father, do something!¡±


    But Petru could only stare, paralyzed as the bolt finished its slide.


    The door handle twisted next, its motion slow and deliberate, as if mocking their helplessness. The candles in the room flickered wildly, their flames shrinking to mere pinpricks of light. The shadows grew longer, darker, as though the very essence of the room was being drained away.


    The door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. The blackness was so complete it seemed alive, a tangible thing spilling into the house like an invading tide.


    And then, in the void, a pair of eyes emerged.


    They glowed a deep, menacing red, twin orbs of smoldering malice framed by nothing but the darkness. They hung there, suspended and unblinking, exuding an ancient, predatory intelligence.


    The air in the room grew colder, a biting chill that seeped into their bones. Everyone stood frozen, unable to look away from the glowing eyes that seemed to pierce through flesh and into their very souls.


    Ana whispered a prayer under her breath, clutching a trembling Liliana to her chest.


    Petru stepped forward, his body trembling but his jaw set. He raised a shaking hand toward the intruding presence, his voice breaking as he spoke. ¡°Who... who dares enter my home without permission?¡±


    The eyes did not move, but the shadows around them seemed to deepen, the darkness pulsing as though it were alive. The sound of the wind rose, a low, mournful wail that seemed to carry faint whispers in a language none could understand.


    And then, from the abyss, came a voice¡ªlow and guttural, yet unnervingly smooth. Each syllable dripped with malice as it spoke: ''Petru Albescu... I am here to discuss what my Master and I have decided for you¡ªand your family.''


    The room seemed to tilt, the air growing heavy and oppressive as the voice echoed, its resonance pressing into their chests. The walls seemed to close in, leaving behind a silence so profound it suffocated all hope."


    In through the door, a towering figure stooped to enter, nearly scraping the frame with his massive shoulders. The dim light in the room seemed to flicker and swell, reluctantly illuminating the monstrosity that was Barbat "The Bloody Butcher" Dragomir. Dracula¡¯s greatest and most feared vampire general had arrived.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    He was a bearlike colossus, his sheer size and frame dwarfing everything around him. Dark, thick rivulets of curly, black hair tumbled past his broad shoulders, framing a long face that was both cruel and grotesque. A deep, jagged scar ran diagonally across his visage, cutting through his lips and exposing flashes of sharp, glistening teeth when he sneered.


    Though vampires could adopt any form they desired, Barbat deliberately chose a visage eerily close to his mortal form¡ªa nightmarish echo of the brutal man he had once been. He had served Vlad the Third from the very beginning, carrying out his most savage orders with unflinching loyalty. It was Barbat who had stood beside the young Vlad at the Easter Feast, dragging protesting boyars to their grim fates and driving stakes into the earth with the force of a man who relished the horror he wrought. His eyes now glowed like twin coals, burning with a Hellfire that seemed to pierce the soul. The black, slitted irises of his feline-like eyes contracted as he surveyed the room, exuding an aura of predatory dominance.


    A wave of nausea swept over everyone as the stench of sulfur and decaying flesh filled the air. It clung to him like a shroud, an ever-present reminder of his infernal nature. His black military uniform, edged with blood-red trim, was meticulously designed to intimidate. Gleaming epaulets sat atop his shoulders, and his high collar framed his neck like a guillotine¡¯s edge. Every detail, from the crimson embroidery to the silvered insignia of his rank, seemed to whisper death.


    Barbat stood there, his presence swallowing the room in oppressive silence, a monstrous embodiment of Dracula¡¯s wrath.


    The Albescu women were now huddled together, their fear palpable in the flickering candlelight. Even Maria, who had always shown such strength could no longer mask the terror etched across her face. Her trembling breaths became audible, moaning out loud through gasps of air. Liliana was still wide eye and sobbing hysterically as Ana, her mother sought to cover Liliana¡¯s mouth with her hands, to muffle the noise she was making.


    Young Avram, who had been standing rigidly this whole time, collapsed to his knees as though the weight of Barbat''s presence had crushed the very air from his lungs. Tremors wracked his frail body, his wide eyes locked on the monstrous figure before him. The boy¡¯s silent dread was a mirror of the storm that raged in each of their hearts.


    Barbat¡¯s burning gaze swept over the family, his lips curling into a snarl of disdain. ¡°Get your women under control,¡± he growled, his voice a guttural rumble that seemed to reverberate from the depths of the abyss, ¡°or I will do it for you.¡±


    As if caught in a vice, the Albescu women gasped in unison, clutching their throats. Choking sounds escaped their lips, their hands clawing at unseen bonds that constricted their airways.


    Petru fell to his knees before Barbat, his face ashen and his voice desperate. ¡°My lord,¡± he pleaded, the words barely a whisper, ¡°release them, I beg you. They do not act this way through disrespect.¡±


    Barbat¡¯s glowing eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face before he relented. The suffocating force vanished as abruptly as it had come, and the women staggered, gasping for air as tears streamed down their faces.


    Petru turned to them, his voice shaking but firm with authority. ¡°Go,¡± he commanded, his eyes locking with Ana¡¯s. ¡°Take our girls to another room. Now.¡±


    Ana, though trembling, stepped forward and took an arm of each of the girls. With a steadying breath, she began leading the girls towards a room further down the hallway in the manor. The sound of their retreating footsteps echoed faintly, each step carrying with it the unbearable weight of fear. Petru stayed behind, his gaze fixed on Barbat, the monstrous shadow looming ever larger in the dim light.


    Barbat¡¯s burning gaze followed the Albescu women as they hurried from the room. The towering vampire lord allowed a moment of silence to linger, his presence filling the space like a suffocating fog. Then, his lips curled into a cruel smile.


    ¡°Rise,¡± he commanded, his voice a deep growl that reverberated through the room, making the very air feel heavier. He pointed towards two chairs at the table.


    Both Petru and Avram felt their bodies respond as though strings were pulling them upward. Their legs moved of their own accord, shaking under the weight of invisible pressure. Avram¡¯s mind screamed to resist, but his limbs betrayed him, carrying him to the table like a puppet on unseen threads. His father mirrored the movement, his expression etched with both defiance and despair as they were compelled to obey.


    ¡°Sit,¡± Barbat ordered, the single word slicing through the oppressive silence like a blade.


    Again, neither man had control over his actions. Avram¡¯s trembling body lowered itself into a chair, his every muscle protesting against the unnatural force. His father, though stoic, also sank into his seat, his eyes glancing to his son with a flicker of concern.


    The exterior door behind Barbat closed, seemingly by itself. With an eerie, unreal grace, for such a massive man, the vampire moved to the head of the table. The chair groaned under his weight as he sat, yet it did not break. Its resilience seemed almost supernatural, as though the very furniture bent to the will of the Bloody Butcher. His massive frame dwarfed the chair, making it look absurdly small beneath him, and his elbows rested heavily on the table as he leaned forward, his crimson eyes surveying both father and son with predatory amusement.


    The room seemed even smaller now, the flickering candlelight casting long, shifting shadows that danced across Barbat¡¯s monstrous form. Avram swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he realized they were utterly at the mercy of the beast seated before them.


    As Avram¡¯s trembling hands gripped the edges of the table, his vision blurred, and the room seemed to sway around him. The oppressive presence of Barbat weighed on him like a crushing force, but it wasn¡¯t just the vampire lord¡¯s aura that made him feel faint¡ªit was the undeniable realization that this moment was fulfilling his darkest premonition.


    Avram¡¯s chest tightened, and he fought for breath, the room around him dimming as cold sweat trickled down his back. The chair beneath him felt as if it might give way under the weight of his fear, and his trembling knees threatened to clash one against the other.


    ¡°Why must this happen,¡± he whispered, the words barely audible, meant only for himself. Yet even his faint voice seemed to echo in the unnatural silence.


    Barbat¡¯s fiery eyes flicked toward him, and for a moment, Avram swore the monster was reading his thoughts. A twisted grin spread across the vampire¡¯s scarred face, as though he reveled in the young man¡¯s torment.


    ¡°Feeling faint, boy?¡± Barbat¡¯s voice dripped with mockery. ¡°Good. A little fear is healthy¡ªkeeps you obedient.¡±


    Avram lowered his head, the room spinning, as his father¡¯s steady hand found his shoulder. Petru¡¯s grip was firm but silent, a wordless command to stay strong. But even Petru¡¯s strength could not drown out the gnawing certainty in Avram¡¯s mind: the nightmare had only just begun.


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