Page 1 of Dracula: Bound in Blood

Prologue

Year 1893

The ancient Carpathian Mountains loomed like sentinels against the blood-red sky, their jagged peaks piercing the heavens as if in defiance of God himself. Standing proudly on the highest and most perilous of these peaks was Castle Dracula, a sprawling and menacing fortress seemingly chiseled out of the very earth. Its imposing towers cast long, ominous shadows across the rugged landscape, their silhouettes stark against the dying sun.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the castle’s windows blazed to life, one by one, like the eyes of some great beastawakening from its slumber. The warm glow within starkly contrasted the cold, unforgiving stone exterior, hinting at the otherworldly forces that dwelled within its ancient walls.

The land surrounding the castle was a desolate wasteland, devoid of life, a place where hope came to die. Gnarled, leafless trees dotted the barren landscape, their twisted branches reaching skyward like the grasping hands of the damned. A thick blanket of mist crept along the ground, obscuring the treacherous paths that led to the castle’s gates and lending an air of ethereal mystery to the already foreboding scene.

In the distance, a lone wolf’s howl echoed through the valleys, a mournful sound that seemed to embody the essence of loneliness and despair permeating this forsaken corner of the world. It was a fitting anthem for the castle’s master, a being as ancient and unyielding as the mountains themselves.

Count Dracula paced restlessly among the towering shelves of leather-bound tomes within the castle’s vast library. Stretching three stories high, the room embodied centuries of accumulated knowledge and power.

Towering oak bookshelves lined the walls, their wood darkened with age and polished to a soft sheen by countless hands over the centuries. These shelves groaned under the weight of thousands of leather-bound tomes, their spines a kaleidoscope of faded golds, deep reds, and rich browns. Many of the books were ancient beyond measure, their pages yellowed and fragile, filled with forgotten lore and forbidden knowledge.

Ornate spiral wrought iron staircases connected the different levels, their intricate designs reminiscent of twisting vines and thorny roses. At each level, narrow walkways with elaborately carved railings allowed access to the higher shelves.

Massive arched windows punctuated the walls between the bookshelves, their leaded glass distorting the view of the rugged Carpathian landscape beyond. Heavy velvet curtains in deep crimson hung at each window, ready to be drawn against the harsh light of day.

An enormous circular table of polished ebony dominated the center of the room. Its surface was inlaid with an intricate gold map of the known world. Surrounding it were high-backed chairs upholstered in rich, blood-red leather, their wooden frames carved with grotesque figures and arcane symbols.

Scattered throughout the room were reading nooks furnished with plush divans and wingback chairs, each accompanied by a small table supporting a delicate oil lamp—these created islands of warm, inviting light in the otherwise shadowy expanse of the library.

The vaulted ceiling was a masterpiece of gothic architecture, with ribbed arches converging at bosses carved to resemble snarling gargoyles. From these hung enormous black iron and crystal chandeliers, each holding dozens of candles that cast a flickering, otherworldly light across the room.

In one corner stood a massive globe, easily six feet in diameter, its surface a detailed depiction of the world as it was known centuries ago. Nearby, glass-fronted cabinets housed acollection of curious artifacts: ancient scrolls, mysterious relics, and arcane instruments whose purposes were long forgotten.

The air in the library was heavy with the scent of old leather, parchment, and beeswax, underlaid with a faint metallic tang that hinted at darker secrets.

His pale skin gleamed like polished marble in the flickering candlelight, starkly contrasting his flowing mane of raven-black hair. His widow’s peak accentuated his high forehead, lending him an air of aristocratic refinement, while his thick, expressive brows framed eyes that held the wisdom and weariness of his long-lived centuries.

Dracula’s clean-shaven face was a mask of controlled emotion, his sharp features etched with the weight of countless years. He moved with an otherworldly grace, his long fingers trailing along the spines of ancient books as he wandered through the library, lost in thought.

The creak of the heavy oak door broke the oppressive silence, and Dracula turned to see his faithful servant, Vigo, enter the room. The man’s weathered face was a roadmap of loyalty and devotion, his eyes downcast in deference to his master.

“My lord,” Vigo began, his voice barely above a whisper, “I bring news from across the sea.”

Dracula’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of interest crossing his otherwise impassive features. “Speak, Vigo. What whispers have reached our secluded realm?”

Vigo hesitated; his words needed to be spoken carefully. “Your love has been seen, my lord. In a faraway place called London.”

A sardonic smile played at the corners of Dracula’s mouth. “Love, Vigo? Such a quaint notion for one such as I.” His voice was rich and cultured, tinged with the elegance of a bygone era and the weariness of one who had seen too much. “But pray, do continue. What else do your sources reveal?”

“But isn’t this the one you have sent your children to find, Master? He fits the description of your precious one. Dark in hair and blue in eyes, he matches the painting perfectly…..”

As Vigo relayed the details of his report, Dracula’s mind wandered to a time long past when he had been a different man—an ordinary man.

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as he had been centuries ago: Vlad Dracula, the warrior prince, devoted…in name only…husband to Elisabeta. He had not truly loved her, but he had tried to balance his responsibilities as a ruler with his duty to her and to the appearance of a virile leader who loved the company of women.

Dracula remembered the countless nights spent away from the castle, leading his armies into battle while Elisabeta waited, alone and increasingly bitter. He had given her freedoms that other men of the time would never have allowed their wives, a small compensation for the loveless nature of their union. But it had not been enough. Elisabeta fell in love, so their friendship crumbled with that love.

The memory of their last encounter before a pivotal battle surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome.

The Year 1461

“Must you go, my prince?” Elisabeta had asked, her voice tight with resentment. “Always, it is a war that calls you from our bed…among other pursuits.”

Dracula sighed, fastening his ornate breastplate with practiced ease. They never had a bed other than the one used to do his duty and sire an heir. Other than that, they slept in different rooms. “You know my duty, Elisabeta. Mere wishes and longing will not hold back the Turks.”

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