The long wooden table that dominated the dining hall creaked under its age; its surface worn smooth by generations of hands. Candles flickered weakly in iron sconces mounted along the timber walls, casting long shadows that danced in the dim room. The Albescu family sat together, their faces illuminated by the soft, wavering light, which could not entirely dispel the shadows that seemed ever-present in their lives.

The manor, once a barracks in the days when the Albescus had troops of their own, bore none of the grandeur one might expect of a boyar family. The stone ancestral manor, now a hollow ruin, loomed nearby like a ghost of their former stature. It had been stripped over the years, its stones carted away by the dark lord’s men and its treasures lost to time and despair. What remained of the Albescu household had retreated into this wooden structure, plain and functional, its modesty a reflection of their diminished state.

Outside the manor, the peasants of the village fared even worse. They lived in crumbling shacks, the remnants of homes that had once sheltered generations with pride. Families packed together under sagging roofs; the walls patched with whatever materials could be scavenged. The older villagers spoke wistfully of a time when their lives had been better, when the fields yielded plenty, and they had the means to repair their homes and build anew. Yet now, under the shadow of Dracula’s dominion, such memories seemed more like fairy tales. Still, they held a wary gratitude for the Albescus. Unlike other nobles who lived off the labor of their peasants with indifference, the Albescus shared the burdens of the of the village’s workload. But gratitude was no cure for fear, and the villagers worried what future winters might bring, or worse, what new horrors might descend from the castle above.

The Albescu’s meal on the table mirrored the simplicity of their home. A pot of boiled cabbage sat in the center, steam rising faintly as it mingled with the chill in the air. Loaves of coarse bread, baked earlier that day, were passed around, their crusts hard but their insides soft enough to sustain. A small wedge of cheese, carefully portioned, was shared among them, its sharpness cutting through the otherwise bland flavors. Despite their noble blood, the Albescus ate no better than the peasants who worked their lands. Whatever remained of the harvest after Dracula’s thralls took their share was divided equally between the manor and the village.

Avram sat between his sisters, Maria and Liliana, with his mother, Ana, across from him and his father, Petru, at the head of the table. The room was quiet except for the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl or the soft crunch of bread. It was a silence born not of comfort but of exhaustion—the weight of their existence pressing down on each of them.

Liliana nibbled at her bread, her pale fingers trembling slightly as she broke off small pieces. She avoided looking at anyone, her wide eyes fixed on her plate as though she feared what she might see in their faces. Maria, in contrast, ate with steady efficiency, her movements calm and measured. She occasionally reached over to refill her mother’s cup of cider or to offer a reassuring pat on Liliana’s arm.

"The cider, made from the abundant apples of their orchards, was one of the few indulgences left to them. The Vampire Lord’s thralls seemed to have little interest in the fruit, leaving much of the harvest for the villagers to keep. From this bounty, the community crafted hard cider, a drink that offered both sustenance and solace. Each sip carried a faint sweetness—a fleeting reminder of better days.

Petru broke the silence, his deep voice filling the room. “Avram, fetch more cider from the barrel,” he said, nodding toward the corner where the wooden barrel stood. “And bring another loaf of bread. We’ll not have your mother going hungry.”

“Yes, Papa,” Avram replied, rising quickly from his seat. He was eager to please his father, whose presence filled the room with a quiet authority. As he moved to the corner, he caught sight of his mother’s tired smile, a flicker of warmth amidst the somber atmosphere.

Ana’s gaze lingered on her husband. “You work too hard, Petru,” she said softly. “Even the strongest ox will break if the yoke is too heavy.”

Petru shook his head, his expression resolute. “The yoke must be borne, Ana. If not by me, then who?” He gestured toward the table. “Our people depend on us. The moment we falter, they will fall. You know this as well as I do.”

Maria nodded in agreement. “The villagers look to us for strength, even if they don’t say it. They see how we live, how we share what little we have. It gives them hope, even in the shadow of…him.” Her voice lowered at the last word, as though speaking it aloud might summon the dark lord himself.

Liliana flinched, her hands tightening around her bread. “Do you think he’s watching us now?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Do you think he knows what we say?”

Petru’s jaw tightened, but it was Ana who answered. “Liliana, my child, do not give him more power than he already holds. Fear feeds the darkness. Hold fast to your faith and your family. That is our shield.”

Avram returned to the table, placing the fresh loaf and a jug of cider before his father. As he sat back down, he noticed the tension in the room. He hated the way Liliana’s fear seemed to seep into everyone else, like a shadow stretching to cover them all.

Petru poured a measure of cider into his cup and raised it. “To our family,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the gloom. “And to the strength we draw from one another. Whatever may come, we will endure.”

The others raised their cups, murmuring their agreement. Even Liliana managed a faint smile as she lifted her drink. For a brief moment, the room felt lighter, the shadows held at bay by the simple act of unity.

But as they drank, Avram couldn’t shake the feeling that the darkness was pressing closer, just beyond the wooden walls of their modest home. He glanced toward the window, where the night stretched out like a yawning void, and he wondered when the calamity would strike.

Ana’s sharp eyes turned to Avram, who sat unusually quiet, his small hands gripping his wooden spoon tightly. “Avram,” she said gently, “you look troubled. What is it?”

Avram hesitated, his gaze falling to his bowl. He did not want to speak, did not want to give voice to the dark feeling that had been gnawing at him all day. But his silence only drew more attention.

“Answer your mother,” Petru commanded, his tone firm but not unkind.

Avram swallowed hard and lifted his head. “I... I feel something bad is going to happen,” he admitted in a trembling voice. “It’s stronger than it has ever been. I have never felt anything like this before.”

The table fell into silence, the weight of his words settling heavily over the family. They all knew what Avram’s premonitions meant. They had come true too many times before to be dismissed as mere imaginings.

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Liliana let out a sharp cry, her face twisting in fear. “No! No, not again!” she wailed, rising from her seat so quickly that her chair toppled backward. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as she fled the room, her sobs echoing down the hall.

“Maria,” Ana said quickly, her voice calm but commanding. “Go to her. She needs you.”

Maria nodded, setting down her spoon and standing with purpose. She placed a steadying hand on Avram’s shoulder as she passed, a brief but comforting gesture, before hurrying after her sister.

Petru’s brow furrowed deeply as he leaned forward, his tone measured but firm. “Avram, tell me exactly when this feeling first came over you. Was it today? This morning?”

Avram hesitated for a moment, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve before replying. “It started while we were watching the peasant carve the Saint,” he admitted quietly. “When I saw his hands trembling... I don’t know why, but the feeling just... it hit me. Like a shadow I couldn’t shake.”

Ava, her expression equally concerned but edged with reproach, crossed her arms and fixed her gaze on him. “And why didn’t you speak up earlier?” she asked. “Why wait until commanded to tell us?”

“I didn’t know how,” Avram confessed, his voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t want to upset anyone. Look at Liliana—just hearing it was too much for her.”

Ana reached out and gently placed her hand over Avram’s, her touch warm and reassuring. “Avram,” she said softly, “we are your family. Whatever shadows you feel, we face them together. You don’t have to carry this alone, do you understand?”

Petru nodded in agreement, his deep voice steady and resolute. “Your mother is right. If you feel something, you must speak of it, no matter how heavy it seems. We need to know. We will deal with it, no matter what comes.”

Avram looked down at his hands, twisting the edge of his sleeve as he spoke. "Thank you, Mama, Papa," he said softly, his voice wavering. "But I wish... I wish I could bring about something good and holy for once in my life. Instead, it’s always this—always something dark and terrible."

Petru’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward, his steady gaze locking onto his son’s. "Avram," he began, his voice firm but kind, "what you have is a gift, not a curse. These premonitions—they are a gift from God, a warning to prepare us for what may come. They do not make you responsible for the evils of others."

Ana reached across the table, placing her hand over Avram’s and squeezing gently. "Your father is right," she said, her voice warm and reassuring. "God has given you this gift for a reason. You may not see it now, but it is not a burden to bear alone, nor something to regret."

Petru nodded, his strong features softening as he added, "It is not your task to carry the weight of the world’s wickedness, my son. What matters is how you choose to act when the time comes."

Avram lifted his gaze, his parents’ unwavering belief in him a small light in the midst of his uncertainty. Though his heart still felt heavy, their words gave him something to cling to—a hope that perhaps his gift could be used for something greater than fear.

A sudden, urgent rapping on the manor door broke the quiet of the evening—Bang, Bang. From outside, the voices of two women called out, trembling with worry. “Forgive us, my Lord, for disturbing your evening!”

Petru rose swiftly from his seat, his sharp eyes turning toward the door. Without hesitation, he strode across the room, the wooden floorboards creaking under his deliberate steps. Reaching the door, he grasped the iron handle and pulled it open. Standing there, silhouetted by the pale moonlight, were two older women, their faces etched with fear and their hands trembling as they clutched their shawls against the night’s chill.

Petru recognized the women immediately. One was the mother of Vasile and Mihai Dumitru, the two inseparable brothers, and the other was Nicolae Stanescu’s mother, a widow whose only son had become a pillar of strength in the community. These were not strangers but women he had known for years, their faces now lined with fear and desperation, tugging at his heart.

He thought of the three young men—Vasile, Mihai, and Nicolae—boys he had come to know well. In a village consumed by fear and suspicion, they stood apart. They were perhaps the only three males in the entire village who showed true courage in the face of adversity.

Because of this, Petru often entrusted them with tasks that no one else could be relied upon to handle. The rest of the villagers, weighed down by the constant shadow of Dracula’s dominion, lived in fear. Many would turn on one another without hesitation, reporting anything remotely suspicious to Dracula’s men in a desperate attempt to protect themselves. Such cowardice had rendered most of the village untrustworthy.

But Vasile, Mihai, and Nicolae were different. They had proven themselves time and again through small but significant acts of bravery. Petru had seen their character and found them worthy of trust, assigning them to tasks of a delicate and discreet nature—deeds that required not only courage but loyalty and discretion.

“Little Mothers,” Petru greeted them warmly, his voice steady and kind, “come inside. The night is no place for such worry.” He stepped aside, beckoning them in.

The women hesitated for only a moment before stepping over the threshold, their movements quick but hesitant, as though afraid they were imposing. They both dropped into hurried curtsies.

“Forgive us, Lord,” the first woman, Vasile and Mihai’s mother, began, her voice cracking with distress. “We beg your pardon for disturbing you and your family—”

“You need not apologize,” Petru interrupted gently, raising a hand to reassure them. “You are always welcome here. Now, tell me what has brought you here at this hour.”

The two women exchanged uneasy glances before Nicolae’s mother spoke, her words tumbling out in a rush. “It is our boys, Lord. Vasile, Mihai, and Nicolae—they are gone. We fear they have been taken!”

“Taken?” Petru’s voice grew sharper, his brow furrowing with concern. “By whom?”

“We fear the Dark Lord’s men,” the second woman sobbed. “We tried to stop them—we begged them not to do anything foolish—but they wouldn’t listen. They spoke of an adventure, Lord, and left before dawn this morning. We thought they’d return by sundown, but...” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with trembling hands.

"The first woman clutched Petru’s sleeve with trembling hands. 'Please, my lord, they are good boys—just reckless. We had no one else to turn to. Is there anything you can be done to help them?'"

Avram’s eyes remained fixed on his father, observing the slight tremor in Petru’s hands as the elder Albescu offered the mothers one last assurance before sending them on their way, his voice steady but distant, as if detached from the words he spoke. As the women’s hurried footsteps faded into the night, Petru closed the door firmly and slid the heavy bolt into place with a resounding thud.

Avrum noticed it immediately—the way his father’s strong frame seemed to shrink, his shoulders slumping under an invisible weight. Petru’s face, so resolute moments ago, had paled to an ashen hue, the blood drained from his features as if he had seen a ghost.

“Father,” Avram asked softly, his voice trembling. “What is wrong?”

Petru turned away from the door, tilting his head upward toward the ceiling. His eyes shut tightly as his lips moved soundlessly, mouthing the words: “I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”

Before Avram could ask more, the eerie, guttural howls of wolves erupted outside, rising and falling in an unsettling chorus. It was a sound too close and too calculated, as if the beasts had encircled the manor. The hair on Avram’s neck stood on end.

From another room, Liliana’s voice broke through the mounting dread with a piercing scream. “They are here! Just leave us alone!” she cried, her voice filled with terror and despair.

The tension in the room thickened like smoke, as if the walls themselves were closing in around them. Petru opened his eyes and lowered his head, his expression dark and unreadable. He clenched his fists, as though preparing for the inevitable.