The moon hung low over the Balkan Mountains, casting a silvery glow upon the dense forests of Bulgaria. Night creatures stirred as a figure moved silently through the shadows, a wraith among the trees. Dracula had crossed the Danube under the cloak of darkness, leaving Wallachia behind to hunt in foreign lands. His crimson eyes pierced the gloom, seeking prey worthy of his predatory hunger.

The village of Tarnovo lay nestled in a valley ahead, its thatched roofs clustered like sheep huddled against the cold. Once the proud capital of the Bulgarian Empire, it now languished under the oppressive yoke of Ottoman rule. Soldiers patrolled the streets, their torches flickering like will-o'-the-wisps in the night. The villagers slept fitfully, shadows of fear etched upon their faces even in slumber.

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Dracula observed from a ridge, his senses attuned to the heartbeat of the village. He could hear the muffled conversations of Ottoman guards, the restless turning of villagers in their beds, the soft weeping of a mother who had lost her son to conscription. But none of this stirred compassion within him; he was beyond such mortal concerns.

He descended upon the village like a specter, his movements swift and soundless. The first to fall was an Ottoman captain—a towering man with a reputation for brutality. Dracula appeared behind him as he made his rounds, his cloak enveloping them both. Before the captain could utter a sound, fangs pierced his neck. The man's struggles were brief, his strength no match for the vampire's power. Dracula drank deeply, savoring the rich, spiced flavor of his blood.