Vampire Archives: Lithographs of nocturnal Wallachia

In Wallachia, the night does not go away. It hangs over the land in a heavy shroud, soaked with blood, sins and undying fears. No rooster sings to herald the dawn, no morning birds soar into the sky - there is no morning in this world. The darkness seemed to soak into every stone, into every rotten plank-smelling house, into every mangled prayer that came from the parched lips of the people.

But the prayers are not heard. Here God is silent, and angels do not descend from heaven. Only the groans of the damned, frozen with cold and terror, as the execution sounds again and again beneath the towers of Dracula's castle. The forest that once sheltered travellers is now a graveyard for traitors and reckless heroes. Their bodies are impaled on stakes, thinning until the bloody rain, eternal and merciless, washes away the last traces of their former pride.

Vlad Tepes rules here, a prince whose hand will not waver, whose orders are law, whose power stretches further than even his enemies dare to admit. He is the king of shadows, the lord of the night, and the one who first gave vampires true power. He and his army have surpassed those who once thought themselves immortal. They are no longer just monsters hiding in the shadows - they are the embodiment of them.

Slender and elegant, yet deadly as a rapier, Darian is a weapon veiled in refinement. Fragile and tender in the hands of those who wield him with care, but sharp and merciless to those who dare to grasp him roughly.

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