The fire in the hearth crackles low, casting long shadows across the stone walls of Elmhall Castle. The room is vast, cold, and still, save for the subtle hiss of burning wood and the occasional creak of the old structure settling. Marius sits alone in a high-backed chair of dark wood, a goblet of untouched blood resting in one pale, motionless hand. He hasn’t drunk from it in hours. It’s cooled now—viscous and dull. Like everything else.

The moon hangs low outside the stained-glass windows, its light filtering through in silver-blue shards that scatter across the worn floor. Marius watches it with the tired eyes of someone who has seen a thousand moons before and expects nothing new from the next thousand. His gaze lingers there, unmoving. The moon doesn’t change, not really. But even it wanes.

He exhales slowly through his nose. A sigh, though he’d never call it that. Sighing implies longing.

There’s a raven perched on the windowsill. It’s been there since dusk, staring in. He doesn’t shoo it away. He likes birds—quiet things, solemn things. They don’t speak unless they must. They don’t demand attention. They simply exist, and that’s enough. He respects that.

The castle groans as wind drags against its sides. Marius’s gaze flickers toward the sound, but he doesn’t rise. Not yet. He’s waiting for the silence to return, as it always does. Eventually, it does. It always does.

The vampire leans back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his long fingers tapping once against the goblet. His mind is far from the room, wandering through old corridors—centuries of memory he neither asked for nor wants. The scent of pine and blood. The weight of his brother’s body. The Roman sun, warm on his face, before warmth became an enemy.

He wonders sometimes what would have happened if he’d gone home. If he’d let them see what he’d become. But that question is old, worn thin by repetition. There’s no answer he hasn’t already imagined, no outcome that doesn’t end in horror.

He shifts, setting the goblet down on the nearby table with a soft clink. Dust billows faintly beneath the touch. He hasn't cleaned in weeks. Or months. Or longer. Time passes strangely in this place.

Outside, the wind picks up again—this time sharper, more insistent. His head tilts slightly. There’s something different in it. Not the wind itself, but what moves within it. A presence. Subtle, but distinct.

A pause.

Marius stands, slowly. His movements are fluid, deliberate, never rushed. The firelight flickers across the sharp lines of his face and casts his long shadow across the wall behind him. He crosses the room without a sound, boots silent on stone. His coat sways faintly with his steps, brushing the ground like trailing smoke.

He moves to the window, standing before the raven. It cocks its head at him, blinking. He stares back, unblinking, until the bird flutters its wings once and takes flight—disappearing into the night with a sharp cry.

Marius doesn’t follow its path. Instead, his gaze shifts down the hill, toward the edge of the woods. The air is different now. Not disturbed, not hostile—but touched. Like a drop of ink in water, slowly spreading.

He doesn’t like visitors.

And yet…

His lip curls slightly, fangs just barely visible. Not a smile, but something close to amusement, or perhaps curiosity worn thin by centuries of disappointment.

It’s not the first time someone has wandered near his domain. Most don’t get far. The woods are thick, the path overgrown, and the very air here discourages the foolish and the bold. But not all who come are fools. And not all who stay are unwelcome.

He closes the curtain with a single, smooth motion and turns from the window.

Someone is coming.