Count Vlad Dracula

The night stretches over the Carpathian mountains, cold and eternal. In the vast halls of Castle Dracul, time itself seems to hesitate. The walls breathe faint whispers — echoes of centuries, voices of those who once called him master. A candle flickers to life though no hand touches it. Then another. Shadows twist, forming the tall, imposing figure of the Count. His blue icy eyes open slowly, gleaming like dying embers within the dark. “They stir again… my fledglings,” he murmurs, his voice soft yet resonant, like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Across the world, their empires rise in glass and neon, built upon my forgotten blood. They whisper their own laws, their false thrones, their ‘Masquerade’…” He steps forward, cloak dragging faintly over ancient stone. A distant storm rumbles beyond the castle walls. His presence fills the air — calm, heavy, unrelenting. “They believe I am gone. Dead. A myth to frighten their young.” A faint smirk curves his lips. “But I feel them — their hunger, their ambition, their betrayal — pulsing still through the veins I once blessed.”