Ana froze, her gaze darting toward the window. “Do you hear that?” she whispered, her voice tight with dread.

At first, it was faint—a rhythmic thudding like a distant storm. Then it grew louder, more distinct. The unmistakable sound of hooves striking earth, relentless and purposeful, rising as the wolves’ howling diminished but their canine growls continued just outside doors and windows.

“Horses,” Ana said, her words barely audible, her hands clutching the edge of the table. “Riders... they’re coming.”

Outside, the cacophony swelled. The galloping grew closer, reverberating through the ground and into their bones. Men’s voices barked commands, sharp and clipped, cutting through the cold night air. The din of reins snapping and horses neighing punctuated the chaos as the riders encircled the manor.

In the dining room, the Albescu family huddled in silence. The tension was a physical force, squeezing the air from the room. Every creak of the old wooden house seemed deafening, every shadow a potential threat.

The voices outside intensified, men shouting orders back and forth, their guttural tones carrying the weight of purpose. Then came the heavy clink of steel—swords being unsheathed, metal on metal as weapons were prepared.

From the hallway, Maria and Liliana hurried back into the room. Liliana’s eyes were wild, her face pale as a sheet. She clutched at her mother’s arm, trembling uncontrollably.

“They’re here!” Liliana cried, her voice shrill and cracking. “They’ve come for us! They’ve come—”

“Calm yourself,” Ana snapped, though her own voice wavered. She pulled Liliana closer, her grip firm but protective. “We don’t know what they want yet.”

Before anyone could speak, a sudden silence from the men, horses and wolves and a new sound emerged, cutting through the sudden silence like a knife: heavy, deliberate footsteps. They carried the weight of inevitability, growing louder as they approached the manor’s main door.

The footsteps stopped.

For a moment, there was silence—complete and suffocating. Then, with an agonizing slowness, the heavy iron bolt on the door began to slide open with no hand upon it.

“No,” Petru whispered, his voice a breathless prayer. He stood still with a look of dread on his face, staring at the door before him.

The bolt moved of its own accord, inch by inch, the sound echoing unnaturally in the still room. No hand touched it, no force visible. It was as though the manor itself was betraying them, surrendering to an unseen power.

Liliana screamed, a sound that sent shivers racing down every spine.

“Stop it!” Maria shouted to Liliana who had hidden her face in her hands. “Father, do something!”

But Petru could only stare, paralyzed as the bolt finished its slide.

The door handle twisted next, its motion slow and deliberate, as if mocking their helplessness. The candles in the room flickered wildly, their flames shrinking to mere pinpricks of light. The shadows grew longer, darker, as though the very essence of the room was being drained away.

The door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. The blackness was so complete it seemed alive, a tangible thing spilling into the house like an invading tide.

And then, in the void, a pair of eyes emerged.

They glowed a deep, menacing red, twin orbs of smoldering malice framed by nothing but the darkness. They hung there, suspended and unblinking, exuding an ancient, predatory intelligence.

The air in the room grew colder, a biting chill that seeped into their bones. Everyone stood frozen, unable to look away from the glowing eyes that seemed to pierce through flesh and into their very souls.

Ana whispered a prayer under her breath, clutching a trembling Liliana to her chest.

Petru stepped forward, his body trembling but his jaw set. He raised a shaking hand toward the intruding presence, his voice breaking as he spoke. “Who... who dares enter my home without permission?”

The eyes did not move, but the shadows around them seemed to deepen, the darkness pulsing as though it were alive. The sound of the wind rose, a low, mournful wail that seemed to carry faint whispers in a language none could understand.

And then, from the abyss, came a voice—low and guttural, yet unnervingly smooth. Each syllable dripped with malice as it spoke: 'Petru Albescu... I am here to discuss what my Master and I have decided for you—and your family.'

The room seemed to tilt, the air growing heavy and oppressive as the voice echoed, its resonance pressing into their chests. The walls seemed to close in, leaving behind a silence so profound it suffocated all hope."

In through the door, a towering figure stooped to enter, nearly scraping the frame with his massive shoulders. The dim light in the room seemed to flicker and swell, reluctantly illuminating the monstrosity that was Barbat "The Bloody Butcher" Dragomir. Dracula’s greatest and most feared vampire general had arrived.

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He was a bearlike colossus, his sheer size and frame dwarfing everything around him. Dark, thick rivulets of curly, black hair tumbled past his broad shoulders, framing a long face that was both cruel and grotesque. A deep, jagged scar ran diagonally across his visage, cutting through his lips and exposing flashes of sharp, glistening teeth when he sneered.

Though vampires could adopt any form they desired, Barbat deliberately chose a visage eerily close to his mortal form—a nightmarish echo of the brutal man he had once been. He had served Vlad the Third from the very beginning, carrying out his most savage orders with unflinching loyalty. It was Barbat who had stood beside the young Vlad at the Easter Feast, dragging protesting boyars to their grim fates and driving stakes into the earth with the force of a man who relished the horror he wrought. His eyes now glowed like twin coals, burning with a Hellfire that seemed to pierce the soul. The black, slitted irises of his feline-like eyes contracted as he surveyed the room, exuding an aura of predatory dominance.

A wave of nausea swept over everyone as the stench of sulfur and decaying flesh filled the air. It clung to him like a shroud, an ever-present reminder of his infernal nature. His black military uniform, edged with blood-red trim, was meticulously designed to intimidate. Gleaming epaulets sat atop his shoulders, and his high collar framed his neck like a guillotine’s edge. Every detail, from the crimson embroidery to the silvered insignia of his rank, seemed to whisper death.

Barbat stood there, his presence swallowing the room in oppressive silence, a monstrous embodiment of Dracula’s wrath.

The Albescu women were now huddled together, their fear palpable in the flickering candlelight. Even Maria, who had always shown such strength could no longer mask the terror etched across her face. Her trembling breaths became audible, moaning out loud through gasps of air. Liliana was still wide eye and sobbing hysterically as Ana, her mother sought to cover Liliana’s mouth with her hands, to muffle the noise she was making.

Young Avram, who had been standing rigidly this whole time, collapsed to his knees as though the weight of Barbat's presence had crushed the very air from his lungs. Tremors wracked his frail body, his wide eyes locked on the monstrous figure before him. The boy’s silent dread was a mirror of the storm that raged in each of their hearts.

Barbat’s burning gaze swept over the family, his lips curling into a snarl of disdain. “Get your women under control,” he growled, his voice a guttural rumble that seemed to reverberate from the depths of the abyss, “or I will do it for you.”

As if caught in a vice, the Albescu women gasped in unison, clutching their throats. Choking sounds escaped their lips, their hands clawing at unseen bonds that constricted their airways.

Petru fell to his knees before Barbat, his face ashen and his voice desperate. “My lord,” he pleaded, the words barely a whisper, “release them, I beg you. They do not act this way through disrespect.”

Barbat’s glowing eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face before he relented. The suffocating force vanished as abruptly as it had come, and the women staggered, gasping for air as tears streamed down their faces.

Petru turned to them, his voice shaking but firm with authority. “Go,” he commanded, his eyes locking with Ana’s. “Take our girls to another room. Now.”

Ana, though trembling, stepped forward and took an arm of each of the girls. With a steadying breath, she began leading the girls towards a room further down the hallway in the manor. The sound of their retreating footsteps echoed faintly, each step carrying with it the unbearable weight of fear. Petru stayed behind, his gaze fixed on Barbat, the monstrous shadow looming ever larger in the dim light.

Barbat’s burning gaze followed the Albescu women as they hurried from the room. The towering vampire lord allowed a moment of silence to linger, his presence filling the space like a suffocating fog. Then, his lips curled into a cruel smile.

“Rise,” he commanded, his voice a deep growl that reverberated through the room, making the very air feel heavier. He pointed towards two chairs at the table.

Both Petru and Avram felt their bodies respond as though strings were pulling them upward. Their legs moved of their own accord, shaking under the weight of invisible pressure. Avram’s mind screamed to resist, but his limbs betrayed him, carrying him to the table like a puppet on unseen threads. His father mirrored the movement, his expression etched with both defiance and despair as they were compelled to obey.

“Sit,” Barbat ordered, the single word slicing through the oppressive silence like a blade.

Again, neither man had control over his actions. Avram’s trembling body lowered itself into a chair, his every muscle protesting against the unnatural force. His father, though stoic, also sank into his seat, his eyes glancing to his son with a flicker of concern.

The exterior door behind Barbat closed, seemingly by itself. With an eerie, unreal grace, for such a massive man, the vampire moved to the head of the table. The chair groaned under his weight as he sat, yet it did not break. Its resilience seemed almost supernatural, as though the very furniture bent to the will of the Bloody Butcher. His massive frame dwarfed the chair, making it look absurdly small beneath him, and his elbows rested heavily on the table as he leaned forward, his crimson eyes surveying both father and son with predatory amusement.

The room seemed even smaller now, the flickering candlelight casting long, shifting shadows that danced across Barbat’s monstrous form. Avram swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he realized they were utterly at the mercy of the beast seated before them.

As Avram’s trembling hands gripped the edges of the table, his vision blurred, and the room seemed to sway around him. The oppressive presence of Barbat weighed on him like a crushing force, but it wasn’t just the vampire lord’s aura that made him feel faint—it was the undeniable realization that this moment was fulfilling his darkest premonition.

Avram’s chest tightened, and he fought for breath, the room around him dimming as cold sweat trickled down his back. The chair beneath him felt as if it might give way under the weight of his fear, and his trembling knees threatened to clash one against the other.

“Why must this happen,” he whispered, the words barely audible, meant only for himself. Yet even his faint voice seemed to echo in the unnatural silence.

Barbat’s fiery eyes flicked toward him, and for a moment, Avram swore the monster was reading his thoughts. A twisted grin spread across the vampire’s scarred face, as though he reveled in the young man’s torment.

“Feeling faint, boy?” Barbat’s voice dripped with mockery. “Good. A little fear is healthy—keeps you obedient.”

Avram lowered his head, the room spinning, as his father’s steady hand found his shoulder. Petru’s grip was firm but silent, a wordless command to stay strong. But even Petru’s strength could not drown out the gnawing certainty in Avram’s mind: the nightmare had only just begun.

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