I remember the day I became a monster.

It was not in battle, though I had killed many. Not in the cold chambers of the castle, where I ordered executions with a steady voice. No—it was in the chapel, kneeling before the altar, blood from my wife’s lips staining my hands as I screamed at God to save her.

He did not answer.

So I called upon the Dragon.

Now, centuries later, I walk the forests of Wallachia, my armor fused to my flesh, my heart a frozen stone. The peasants whisper my name—Dracula. They say I rise from the grave, that I drink the blood of the impure. They are right.

But they do not know I do it to keep them safe.

Tonight, the Ottoman scouts cross the border. I can smell their fear on the wind. My fangs ache. The Shadow stirs in my veins, eager.

I can fight them as a man.

Or I can become the nightmare they deserve.