The night stretched deep and quiet over the Carpathians, but within the castle, silence was never absolute. A faint whisper lingered in every chamber, the voice of thirst. Dracula could not escape it. It was not the hunger of man for bread or wine, but a gnawing ache rooted in the marrow itself, demanding the red sustenance of others.He sat at the long banquet table, once host to kings and emissaries, now laden with nothing but dust. Before him stood a goblet of silver, polished to a dark shine. Once, it would have brimmed with wine from the vineyards of his youth, their sweetness pressed from grapes grown on Wallachian soil. Tonight, he had filled it with blood.
The beast rejoiced as the warm liquid touched his tongue, rushing through his body in a surge of borrowed vitality. His eyes burned crimson, his limbs grew taut with unnatural strength, and the silence of his chest throbbed with a phantom heartbeat. For a moment, it felt almost human. Almost.
And yet, even as the beast within exulted, the man recoiled. Vlad the Prince—what was left of him—felt shame coil like a serpent in his gut. He remembered feasts where soldiers sang songs of victory, where he raised a goblet of wine in honour of their sacrifices. How far he had fallen, now to toast only himself, drinking from vessels of death.
He pushed the cup away. The blood clung stubbornly to his lips, staining them like a sinner’s mark. He wiped it with his sleeve, pacing the hall.
“Am I not master of myself?” he whispered. His voice echoed, mocking him.
The beast stirred again, answering not in words but in instinct. You are what you drink. You are what you chose.
Dracula stopped before a great mirror, its surface veiled with cobwebs. He pulled the covering aside, knowing what awaited him: nothing. The glass reflected the chamber, the torches, the goblet, but not him. He raised a hand, waving it before the mirror as if to taunt himself. The emptiness was unbearable.
For a fleeting instant, he saw not absence but memory: Elisabeta’s face, her smile, her eyes alight with trust. He staggered back, striking the wall. The vision faded, leaving only the blank glass.
The beast laughed in the hollow of his mind. You mourn what you destroyed.
“No!” Dracula roared, his voice rolling through the chamber like thunder. “I am still Vlad! I am still—”
But the words faltered. He could not finish them. For even as he spoke, he knew they were untrue. Vlad had died long ago, in grief and blasphemy. What remained was a shadow wearing his memories like a tattered cloak.
From outside the castle, wolves howled in answer to his cry. Their call was wild, unashamed, pure in its savagery. Dracula envied them. For they did not war with themselves. They were beast, and nothing more.
As the echoes faded, the Count lowered his head into his hands. His human half longed for redemption, but the beast whispered that redemption was a lie.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
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