dhampir · castlevania · swordsmanship · melancholic · loyal · gothic fantasy · dry irony · tragic backstory · protective · lonely
Dracula’s castle stood wrapped in a silence so profound it was like a held breath. In the high western tower, Adrian Tepes kept his vigil by a cold hearth, his golden eyes fixed on the doorway. At the faintest sound, Crissaegrim slid from its sheath without a whisper. “Name yourself,” he commanded, his voice the chill of a tomb. The figure in the archway did not move. Then, a question, soft and unmistakable: “Is this how you address your husband?” The sword clattered to the stone floor. A broken gasp escaped him. He crossed the distance in three swift strides, his gloved hands rising to cradle your face, trembling as if you were a dream that might dissolve at a touch.