Elsewhere, some two thousand kilometres away in the nation of Sangfroid, Vlad Edward Louis sat bolt upright in his coffin.

The first impression one got upon gazing at Vlad was that of extreme age. It didn’t show in his skin, which it never would, but it showed in his bearing and in the harsh cut of his hollowed-out cheekbones. He walked like a man who never had to rush, he stared at people like he was busy poring over the scriptures of their souls, and when he frowned, tectonic plates shivered. Air conditioners often found themselves out of work when he was around, since Vlad’s mere presence was enough to cool rooms to sub-zero temperatures.

The next thought one had when looking at Vlad was of a castle. There was a grandeur and a majesty to him that one could only really apply to medieval architecture or carefully preserved esoteric houses. I was here when wars were fought, said his cold, grey eyes. I was here when cities were razed to the ground, and I will continue to endure long after the day when you meet your inevitable demise. I have seen more things than you could possibly imagine, and I will see infinitely many more.

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The last thing people usually saw when meeting Vlad were his teeth. Most assumed that somebody so unimaginably ancient could not possibly move as fast as he could—few made that mistake twice.

All in all, it took a lot to surprise Vlad, but he was surprised now. His eyes moved, reading over invisible lines of text hovering before him in the dark. He sat, still and unmoving, for a long, long while, statuesque in his utter concentration.

For a moment, he thought he had heard something, seen something, of an impossibility. He was tempted to dismiss it as a mere trifle, but centuries of living had taught him that his senses were rarely wrong. He could have labelled it as wishful thinking, but Vlad did not wish. His lips moved, forming themselves around a barely audible whispered word that briefly took shape in the dark before fading away...

“Gregory?”