CHAPTER 1: JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

(Recorded in shorthand.)

May 3rd. Bistritz. – Munich faded behind me at 8:35 on May 1st. Vienna arrived before the break of dawn; I was scheduled to be there by 6:46, but that cursed train ran an hour late. Buda-Pesth… a brief impression through the window, enough to sense the secrets hidden beneath its glittering facade. I kept close to the station, wary of what might wait just beyond the rails.

PM- We departed on schedule, and as twilight deepened, we reached Klausenburgh. I secured a room at the Hotel Royale, a temporary refuge in this disquieting place. Dinner was… "paprika hendl," they called it – chicken drowning in a fiery red pepper sauce. Passable enough to provoke thirst.

(Note to self: obtain that recipe for Mina.) My rudimentary German served me adequately, though the thought of navigating this world without it sent a chill down my spine. This wasn't merely travel; it was a plunge into darkness.

London had granted me a sliver of free time, so I found myself drawn to the British Museum, a tomb filled with relics of lost ages. I was searching for whispers about Transylvania, hoping some historical context might prove useful when dealing with a nobleman from that forsaken land. He'd mentioned a district on its eastern edge, a precarious territory bordering three regions: Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, all huddled within the Carpathian Mountains—one of Europe’s most desolate and uncharted realms. I couldn't pinpoint Castle Dracula on any map; it was a cartographer's cruel joke. But Bistritz, the town he named, stirred a faint recognition. Here are some notes; they might unlock something later when I'm recounting this trip to Mina.

Transylvania was a crucible of nationalities: Saxons in the south, mingling with the Wallachs—descendants of the Dacians. To the west lay the Magyars, and further east and north, the Szekelys claimed lineage from Attila and the Huns. Perhaps they weren't entirely fabricating; when the Magyars arrived in the eleventh century, they found the Huns already established there. The Carpathians, I learned, were a magnet for every superstition on Earth, a kind of imaginative void. My time here could prove interesting, though unsettling.

(Note to self: press the Count about all this.)Sleep remained elusive that night, despite the bed's adequate comfort. My dreams were grotesque parodies, shadows flickering in the recesses of my mind. A dog howled incessantly beneath my window, a mournful dirge underscoring my disquiet; or perhaps it was the paprika, its fiery ghost clinging to my palate, forcing me to drain the entire carafe and still thirst for oblivion. Just as the first hint of dawn appeared, I succumbed to exhaustion, only to be ripped back to consciousness by an insistent pounding at the door. Clearly, I'd been lost in a deep slumber. Breakfast was another ordeal: more paprika, a grainy maize gruel they called "mamaliga," and eggplant stuffed with some unidentifiable meat – "impletata," if you please. A surprisingly good dish, though. (Mental note: secure the recipe; culinary secrets are treasures worth hoarding.) I devoured it quickly, driven by the knowledge that the train was scheduled to depart just before eight. I bolted for the station at 7:30, only to find myself stranded, waiting for over an hour before the iron horse finally shuddered into motion. It seems the further east one travels, the more time itself contorts and fractures. What twisted reality awaits us in China?

The sun beat down, another day blurring into the next as we crawled across a landscape that seemed determined to flaunt its beauty. Towns perched on impossible hillsides, like forgotten relics in some ancient tome. Rivers snaked through valleys, their rocky banks hinting at violent floods long past. It takes more than a trickle to carve stone clean. At each stop, faces emerged from the shadows – clusters of people, sometimes a throng, dressed in a kaleidoscope of styles. Some were familiar enough, echoes of peasants I'd seen back home, or trudging through France and Germany: simple jackets, round hats, homespun trousers. But others...others were something else entirely. The women, at first glance, possessed a certain charm. But get closer, and the illusion shattered. They moved with an awkwardness that belied any notion of grace, their full white sleeves hiding secrets. Most wore elaborate belts, adorned with fluttering strips like costumes from some forgotten ballet – though petticoats hinted at the reality beneath. But it was the Slovaks who truly stood out. More savage than the rest, they were a breed apart. Cowboy hats perched atop heads framed by long, dark hair and thick mustaches. Baggy white trousers hung loose, tucked into high boots. Massive leather belts, nearly a foot wide and studded with brass nails, cinched their waists. They were striking, undeniably so, but their appearance was more menacing than inviting. On stage, they'd be instantly cast as a band of ruthless brigands from the Far East. They say they’re harmless enough, lacking any real backbone, but I doubt it. The shadows often hide more than they reveal.

Twilight bled into night as we hit Bistritz, a town steeped in history – the kind that clings to you like a damp shroud. Perched precariously on the edge of nowhere, practically spitting distance from Bukovina via the Borgo Pass, it wore its scars like medals of dishonor. Fifty years back, a string of infernos had ravaged the place, five separate conflagrations leaving nothing but ash and regret. Back in the seventeenth century, a siege that dragged on for three agonizing weeks cost them thirteen thousand souls – war taking its toll, compounded by the usual suspects: hunger and disease.

Dracula, that shadow himself, had instructed me to find the Golden Krone Hotel. And there it was, blessedly stuck in the past, just what I craved to get a feel for this godforsaken land. As I approached the entrance, a woman greeted me – an elderly dame with a smile as bright as a freshly polished blade, dressed in the local garb: a shapeless white shift barely contained by layers of colorful fabric, clinging tighter than propriety allowed. She bowed low and asked, "Are you the Englishman?"

"Jonathan Harker," I replied. Her smile widened, and she dispatched a message to an old man with rolled-up sleeves who had been lurking in the background. He shuffled back inside, then returned with a letter:

"My Friend.—Welcome to the Carpathians. I await your arrival with anticipation. Rest well tonight. At three o'clock tomorrow, the diligence will depart for Bukovina; a seat has been reserved for you. At the Borgo Pass, my carriage will be waiting to escort you. I trust your journey from London was uneventful and that you'll find solace in my humble land." "Your friend, "Dracula."

May 4th. The landlord, a shifty character if there ever was one, had received a letter from the Count, instructing him to get me the best seat on the coach. But when I pressed him for details, he clammed up tighter than a drum, claiming he couldn't understand my German. A lie, plain and simple. Until that moment, he'd been fluent enough to answer my questions with unsettling accuracy. The landlord and his wife, a withered old crone, exchanged glances filled with something akin to terror. He mumbled about the money being sent by post, nothing more. When I dared to ask if he knew Count Dracula, if he could shed any light on that looming castle of shadows, they both crossed themselves like it was holy water and bolted, refusing to utter another word. Time was running out; no chance to pry into their fear-soaked secrets.

Just as I was about to disappear into the gathering dusk, the old woman cornered me in my room, her voice a high-pitched tremor:

"Must you go? Oh, young sir, must you?" She was practically vibrating with anxiety, her grasp on German slipping like sand through her fingers, replaced by some other language I couldn't decipher. It took a barrage of questions to piece together what she was trying to say. When I told her that I had no choice, that my business demanded immediate departure, she pressed me again:

"Do you know what day it is?" I replied that it was the fourth of May. She shook her head, a grim prophecy hanging in the air as she repeated, "Oh, yes! I know that! But do you know what day it is?" When I admitted my ignorance, she continued, her voice barely a whisper:

“It’s the eve of St. George,” she breathed, her voice a fragile thread lost in the shadows. “Do you know that tonight, when midnight strikes, the darkness itself will speak? Do you even have a destination, or are you simply courting a shadowed path?” Her anxiety was a palpable thing; I tried to offer solace, but my words felt thin against her distress, like whispers to a woman drowning in despair. Finally, she fell to her knees, begging me not to go, just to wait a day or two. It was all theater, a twisted ritual born of superstition, yet something about it left me uneasy. But business is business, and I wouldn't let sentimentality derail my course. So, I rose, forcing a tone of resolve, and told her I appreciated her concern, but duty demanded I leave. She stood, wiped her eyes, and offered me the crucifix she wore. I hesitated. My Anglican upbringing had instilled a healthy skepticism toward such objects, yet refusing this fragile woman seemed needlessly cruel. Seeing my hesitation, she placed the rosary around my neck and whispered, “For your mother’s sake,” before retreating from the room. I write this now, waiting for the coach – predictably late – and the crucifix remains heavy against my skin. Whether it's her fear, the town's grim history, or something inherent in the cross itself, I cannot say, but I feel anything but at peace. If this diary ever reaches Mina before me, let it serve as my farewell. The coach has arrived.

May 5th. The Castle. The morning's oppressive darkness had grudgingly receded, though the sun remained a low, serrated edge on the horizon – hills, trees, I couldn’t distinguish; everything bled into a hazy monochrome. Sleep still evaded me, and with no alarm clock to dread, I decided to commit some of my restless thoughts to paper before the encroaching shadows claimed what little light remained. There were demons swirling in my head that demanded release, and should anyone stumble upon this diary before Mina does, and misinterpret my abrupt departure from Bistritz, let me set the record straight with a culinary confession. Dinner was a local specialty known as "robber steak" – strips of bacon, onion, and beef threaded onto skewers, seasoned with red pepper, and roasted over an open fire. A dish so rustic it would have shamed even the most jaded vendor on London's meanest streets.

The wine, a Golden Mediasch, left a curious prickling sensation on the tongue, not unpleasant, exactly, just… unsettling. Two glasses were enough to blur the edges of reality. I stepped onto the bus, and the driver was still absent from his post, engaged in a hushed conversation with the landlady. They were undoubtedly discussing me. Occasionally, their glances drifted my way, and the shadows pooled around the doorway – those "word-bearers," as they called themselves – edged closer to eavesdrop, then fixed their gazes on me, most with a pity that felt sharper than any blade. I caught fragments of their murmuring, a Babel of tongues, strange words hanging in the air like noxious fumes. Quietly, I retrieved my polyglot dictionary, a fragile raft in this ocean of whispers. The vocabulary they employed wasn't exactly reassuring: "Ordog" – Satan. "Pokol" – hell. "Stregoica" – witch. And then there were "vrolok" and "vlkoslak," Slovak and Servian terms for something that existed between worlds, a creature either lupine or undead. Damn. I'd have to question the Count about all this later. Superstitions... they clung to him like cobwebs in a tomb long sealed.

As we pulled away, the crowd that had coalesced around the inn's entrance – a disconcertingly large mob – made the sign of the cross, their fingers like accusing daggers pointed in my direction. It took some persuasion to loosen tongues; the other passenger remained stubbornly silent at first, but when he learned I was English, he muttered something about it being an amulet, a charm against the evil eye. Not exactly a red-carpet welcome for a man venturing into the unknown to meet a stranger. Yet, despite their apprehension, they seemed genuinely kind, their faces etched with sorrow and sympathy, a balm to my jaded spirit. I won't soon forget that final glimpse of the inn's courtyard: those figures frozen in their superstitious postures around the archway, framed by the vibrant green of oleander and orange trees. Our driver, a hulking figure swathed in white linen – a "gotza," they called it – cracked his whip above his four skeletal horses, and we lurched forward into the encroaching darkness.

The city lights bled out behind us, devoured by the impenetrable darkness that lay ahead. I fought to shake off the lingering chill, a phantom cold clinging to my bones, the echo of earlier fears. The landscape's beauty began its subtle work, but it was a delicate enchantment. Had I understood the hushed voices around me—a babel of whispers weaving secrets in the shadows—perhaps I could have prolonged that illusion. Before us lay a vast expanse of green, a rolling land scarred with forests and thickets. Steep hills rose like broken teeth, their peaks crowned either by clumps of trees or the stark, unblinking facades of farmhouses. Everywhere, an explosion of blossoms – apples, plums, pears, cherries – painted the air with fleeting beauty. As we moved forward, glimpses of emerald grass appeared beneath the trees, scattered with fallen petals that resembled forgotten dreams. The road, which they called the "Mittel Land," twisted through this landscape, disappearing and reappearing around grassy bends, or vanishing entirely behind the ragged fringe of pine woods that clawed down the hillsides like fiery tendrils. It was a rough track, yet we seemed to hurtle along it with a feverish urgency. I couldn't then grasp what fueled that desperate pace, but the driver had one thing and only one thing on his mind: reaching Borgo Prund as quickly as possible.

Beyond the gentle green swells of the Mittel Land, the forest rose in stark relief against the towering peaks of the Carpathians. They loomed on either hand, the afternoon sun a brutal spotlight exposing the breathtaking panorama: deep blues and purples clung to the shadowed recesses of the summits, greens and browns where vegetation clawed at the rock face, an endless vista of jagged spires that dissolved into the distance, ultimately consumed by the grand, snow-laden heights. Massive fissures scarred the mountainsides, a testament to some ancient violence, and as the sun began its slow descent, fleeting glimpses of white water tumbled down the slopes. As we crested the base of a hill, a colossal, snow-capped peak materialized before us, achingly close:

One of my companions nudged my arm, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look," he breathed, crossing himself with a reverence I hadn't expected. "Isten szek"—"God's seat." The air was thick with unspoken things, the silence broken only by the distant murmur of water and the palpable weight of history pressing down from those ancient heights. It was a landscape that promised both sublime beauty and lurking danger—a place where shadows concealed secrets best left undisturbed.

The road stretched out, a never-ending ribbon of dust and despair, as the sun bled into the horizon. Shadows started to lengthen, creeping in like unwelcome guests. The snow-capped peaks still held onto the last rays, glowing with an almost sickeningly beautiful pink hue. We passed Czechs and Slovaks, dressed in their quaint costumes, but the sight of goiter was a grim reminder of the harsh realities of this land. Crosses dotted the roadside, silent witnesses to lives lived and lost. As we rumbled past, my companions made the sign of the cross, a futile gesture against the darkness that permeated everything. Some peasants knelt before makeshift shrines, lost in their devotion, oblivious to our intrusion, their souls seemingly shut off from the world around them. Everything was new, unsettling. Haystacks perched precariously in trees, and clusters of weeping birch shimmered like silver coins in the fading light. Occasionally, we'd see a "leiter-wagon," the peasant's cart, its long frame contorted to navigate the treacherous terrain.A group of returning peasants would be crammed inside, the Czechs swathed in white sheepskins, the Slovaks with their colorful ones, each clutching a staff topped with an axe – a tool for both work and defense.The evening brought a biting cold, and the twilight seemed to dissolve into a single, oppressive mist that clung to the trees – oak, beech, and pine.In the valleys that carved through the hills, dark firs stood out against patches of late-lying snow, stark reminders of the unforgiving landscape we were traversing.The road, a jagged scar through the pine woods, felt like it was shrinking, the darkness pressing in on us from all sides – solid walls of gray.Patches of snow clung to the trees, grim reminders of the harshness around us.The landscape only fueled the disquiet that had settled over me since sunset, when spectral clouds writhed through the valleys of the Carpathians, painting the world in an unsettling light. The hills were unforgiving, forcing even our driver to ease his pace. I felt a sudden urge to walk, as I would at home, but he wouldn't allow it. "Stay put," he grunted. "The dogs are trouble around here." Then, with a grim smile directed at the others – a jest as bleak as the surroundings – he added, "You might see enough of that sort of thing before you sleep tonight." He paused only to ignite his lamps, fleeting beacons against the encroaching darkness.

As darkness bled across the landscape, a nervous energy crackled among the passengers. They jabbered at him, a chorus of whispers pushing for more speed. He cracked the whip, a cruel lash against the horses' flanks, and roared encouragement that was more like a command. Through the inky blackness ahead, I saw it: a faint grey shimmer, like a tear in the fabric of the hills. The passengers’ excitement became a palpable thing; the coach, a mad beast on leather springs, swayed violently, mimicking a ship lost at sea. I clung on for dear life. The road flattened out, and we seemed to fly. Then, the mountains loomed, dark sentinels frowning down upon us as we entered the Borgo Pass. One by one, they offered gifts, pressing them into my hands with an almost desperate sincerity. Strange trinkets, each given in simple faith, accompanied by kind words, blessings, and those unsettling gestures I'd seen outside the hotel in Bistritz – the cross against the evil eye. As we hurtled forward, the driver leaned into the void, and the passengers strained over the edge of the coach, peering into the abyss. Something was brewing, something both thrilling and terrifying, but no one would tell me what it was. The tension hung heavy for a while, then finally, the Pass opened before us, spilling out onto the eastern side. Dark clouds churned overhead, pregnant with thunder, a suffocating weight in the air. It felt like the mountain range had cleaved apart two worlds, and we'd stumbled into the one choked by thunder. I was scanning for a ride, something to get me to the Count. Every second, I expected to see the glint of lamps slicing through the darkness, but there was nothing. Just the feeble glow of our own lanterns, illuminating the white plumes of steam rising from our straining horses. The road, a ribbon of bleached sand under a starless sky, stretched ahead, desolate. The other passengers exhaled in relief, their joy a jarring counterpoint to the knot tightening in my gut. I was already calculating my escape routes when the driver, glancing at his watch, muttered something barely audible. "An hour behind schedule," it seemed to say. Then, turning to me, he spoke in German so butchered it was almost offensive: —

"No carriage here," he grunted, the words edged with a bitterness that tasted like ash. "The boss isn't coming. He's gone to Bukovina now, and won't be back tomorrow, maybe not even the day after. Perhaps the day after that." As if summoned by his words, the horses began their restless dance, whinnying and pawing at the ground, forcing the driver into a futile struggle for control. Then, a chorus of peasant screams ripped through the night, a primal symphony of fear and superstition, as another carriage materialized behind us – sleek, black, drawn by four magnificent horses that moved with an unsettling grace. The lamplight caught their coats, revealing not animals, but shadows given form. A tall figure, cloaked in the anonymity of a wide-brimmed hat, held the reins. Only a glint of cold eyes betrayed his presence. He turned to our driver, his voice a low, predatory growl.

"Early, tonight," he drawled, the words laced with a meaning I wasn't sure I wanted to decipher. The driver stammered, "The Englishman was pressed for time." A humorless chuckle escaped the stranger’s lips. "That's why you guided him toward Bukovina. Don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes, friend. I see too much. And these horses of mine... they possess a certain understanding, a purpose that eludes most men." A brief smile touched his lips, revealing a mouth like sculpted granite, teeth gleaming like polished ivory against lips the color of dried blood.

One of my companions murmured, almost under his breath, a line from Burger: "The dead ride fast..." The gathering darkness seemed to amplify the chilling resonance of those words.The driver, a character etched from shadows, seemed to register my words; his smile was a fleeting flicker of something deeply wrong in the gloom. The man beside him averted his gaze, fingers sketching a hasty cross – a pathetic shield against unseen terrors. "Herr's luggage," the driver rumbled, the words as rough as gravel. My bags were practically ripped from my grasp and unceremoniously dumped into the carriage's maw. I descended, the vehicle looming close enough to touch. The driver’s grip on my arm was a vise; he was built like a fortress. No pleasantries passed between us, only the sharp crack of the reins as we plunged headlong into the suffocating darkness of the Pass. I risked a glance back, catching a glimpse of steam rising from the coach horses, momentarily illuminated by flickering lamps. My former companions were stark silhouettes against the light, their frantic gestures—again, that desperate cross—raising gooseflesh on my arms. Then, another crack of the whip, and they vanished, swallowed by the encroaching night, headed towards Bukovina. A chill settled over me, a profound loneliness that scraped at the edges of my sanity. Someone draped a cloak around my shoulders and tucked a rug around my knees. The driver, his German flawless, shattered the silence:—

The night was a cold, unforgiving woman, pressing close like a guilty conscience. Someone offered me a cloak, a flimsy shield against the creeping chill. The driver, his German clipped and precise, cut through the silence: "The night is bitter, mein Herr, and your master, the Count, instructed me to ensure your comfort. There's a flask of slivovitz – that fiery plum brandy they call solace – under the seat, should you require it." I refused; the promise of its burn offered only a fleeting, deceptive warmth. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach, laced with a nameless dread. If there had been another way out of this darkness, any other path, I would have taken it, rather than embark on this damned, unknown journey. The carriage pressed forward, relentlessly straight, then executed a sharp turn onto what appeared to be an identical stretch of road. It felt as if we were caught in a loop, circling the same patch of shadows. I tried to find some bearing, noting landmarks, confirming my suspicions – we weren't going anywhere new. A question clawed at my throat: What was the meaning of this? But the words died there, choked by fear. Any protest from me, given my current predicament, would be as futile as shouting into a hurricane. Time dragged on, each second an eternity. Driven by a morbid curiosity, I struck a match; its brief flare illuminated my watch. Midnight loomed. The superstition surrounding that cursed hour, amplified by my recent experiences, hit me like a blow. I waited, suspended in a sickening cocktail of dread and anticipation.

Then, a dog started to howl, somewhere out there in the darkness, coming from a farmhouse miles down the road—a long, drawn-out cry of agony, like it was born of pure terror. Another dog joined in, then another, and another, until a wild chorus erupted, carried on the wind that whispered through the pass, seeming to emanate from everywhere, as far as the eye – or imagination – could reach in that oppressive night. At the first howl, the horses started to strain and rear, but the driver, his voice a low murmur, calmed them down. They quieted, but their bodies trembled, slick with sweat, like they'd just escaped a nightmare. Then, from the mountains on either side, a sharper, more menacing howl – wolves – echoed through the air, hitting both the horses and me in the same way. I felt this primal urge to jump out of the carriage and run, while the horses reared again, plunging wildly, forcing the driver to use every ounce of his strength to prevent them from bolting. But after a few minutes, my ears adjusted, and the horses finally settled down enough for the driver to get off. He knelt before them, stroking their flanks, whispering something low in their ears, like I'd heard about horse whisperers doing. And it worked; under his touch, they became manageable again, though the tremors still ran through them. The driver climbed back into the carriage, cracked the reins, and we shot forward at a reckless pace. This time, after crossing the pass, he abruptly turned down a narrow track that veered sharply to the right.

The trees closed in, their branches a dark ceiling overhead, like driving through a tunnel of shadows. Jagged rocks rose on either side, silent guardians marking our path. Even within that partial shelter, the wind shrieked—a mournful wail bouncing off the stone, the branches lashing against each other as we pressed onward. The cold seeped deeper, then came the snow: a fine, insidious dusting that soon veiled everything in white. The dogs' barks receded behind us, swallowed by the rising chorus of wolves, their baying growing closer, an invisible circle tightening around us. Fear clawed at me, and I saw it mirrored in the horses' eyes. The driver remained impassive, his gaze flicking from side to side, but the darkness offered no solace, only deeper shadows.

Then, a faint blue flicker pulsed from the black void to our left, snagging my attention like a stray ember. The driver saw it too; his response was instantaneous – he pulled back on the reins, then disappeared into the encroaching darkness. I was adrift, paralyzed by uncertainty, the wolves' howls growing closer, a tightening spiral around me. But just as indecision threatened to consume me, he reappeared, silent and unreadable, resuming his place, and we continued our journey. It felt like a recurring nightmare, that incident looping endlessly in my mind, a distorted echo blurring the lines of reality. Once, the flame was close enough to the road that I could see him move against its ethereal glow, even through the suffocating darkness. He darted towards its source – a barely perceptible luminescence offering no real guidance – and gathered stones, shaping them into some unknown device. At one point, something truly bizarre occurred: when he positioned himself between me and the flame, it didn't obscure it; I still saw its spectral dance. It was deeply unsettling, but I chalked it up to a trick of the light, my eyes playing phantom games in the oppressive gloom. Then, silence. The blue flames were gone. We pressed on through the darkness, the wolves’ howls echoing around us, like unseen predators circling, drawing ever closer.

Then came the moment of truth, when the driver pushed onward, further than he dared. In his absence, the horses erupted—trembling violently, snorting in panic, their cries echoing through the night. I saw no cause; the wolves' howls had ceased completely. But then, a sliver of moon pierced the black clouds, illuminating the jagged silhouette of a pine-clad rock. And in that spectral light, I saw them: a circle of wolves, teeth bared, tongues lolling crimson, their long, sinewy limbs and matted fur stark against the darkness. They were far more terrifying in this chilling silence than during their howls. A cold paralysis seized me. It's only when you gaze into the void that you truly grasp its immensity.

The wolves started their mournful chorus, a sound that twisted in the night air. The horses, they were spooked, jumping and rearing like sinners trying to escape hell. Their eyes, wide with terror, rolled back in their sockets – a sight you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. They were trapped, caught in a circle of fear from which there seemed no escape.

I barked an order at the coachman, telling him to get over here. Our only shot was to break through that ring of madness and give him a chance. I yelled, pounded on the side of the carriage, trying to rattle those wolves away from that flank, hoping to clear a path for him. Where he came from, I couldn't say. All I heard was his voice, sharp and commanding, like a whip cracking in the darkness. And then I saw him, standing in the middle of the road. He raised his arms, as if pushing aside an invisible barrier, and the wolves recoiled, backing away into the shadows. Just then, a fat cloud swallowed the moon, plunging us back into blackness. When my eyes adjusted again, the driver was clambering into the carriage, and those damn wolves were gone. The whole thing felt wrong, like something out of a nightmare. A cold dread settled over me, and I couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe right. Time stretched on forever as we climbed higher and higher, the clouds blotting out what little moonlight there was. We kept going up, with brief dips down before climbing again – always climbing. Then, I realized he was pulling the horses to a stop in the courtyard of some monstrous ruin. A castle, vast and crumbling. Its windows were black holes, offering no hint of light, and its broken battlements clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers.