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Chapter Text

The air hangs heavy like a suffocating sheet. Smoke and wandering cinders dance across the orange-tinged sky. Somewhere in the distance, a fire roars. The sound of his horse’s hooves on stone is drowned out by screams of agony, of terror, in the distance. Yet riding through a plundered village does not perturb Strahd von Zarovich. Even if his heart did beat, he doubts his pulse would have quickened at the barbaric sight. For this is a sight that he’s grown used to. Crumbling stonework, blazing cottages, the symphony of steel meeting steel... It’s a lullaby that’s followed him since he was a child accompanying his father on the battlefield. It’s the sound of victory. Of a job well done. The destruction of Berez is his doing, after all, and it fills his chest with pride.

Berez had once been a flourishing village, advantageously settled on the banks of the Luna River at the western base of Mount Ghakis centuries before the Barovian conquest. Its people, simple as they were, were skilled in the practical sense—something that was demanded of those who made a home of the sprawling valley. Harsh winter snows in the looming mountain's shadow were the price Berezians happily suffered for the Luna's bounty each summer. Even when his presence was more frequently required as the valley's conquering lord, he tended to avoid the place; not even the valley's whipping winds could carry away the stench of fish guts. Thankfully, such a firm and present hand had rarely been required prior to the current burgomaster. Their taxes were always paid and in proper order. Never a fuss was made, but never an accolade remembered. 

Perhaps they would've continued to choose obscurity had they seen the ashes they would become. 

The city’s true gem, however, had taken the form of a young red-haired woman. With gentle eyes and even gentler features, there had been no doubt when Strahd first laid eyes on her that she was the reincarnation of his beloved Tatyana Federovna. During this lifetime, she had adopted the name Marina . He cared for her as much as he did when he was mortal; of this, he was certain. The years had not dampened his love. His Tatyana, returned to him at last. 

It had brought him no joy putting her to the sword. Marina had grown too bold; someone had planted in her head the foolish idea that his rule could be overthrown, and she actually, truly, believed such a ridiculous notion. Something about ‘freeing these innocent people from his tyranny,’ she had said. Hearing those words come from her mouth had pierced his heart like a knife. While he loved this woman with all of his being, he was a ruler first and foremost. Only weak leaders made exceptions to rules. Insurrectionists were to be executed, and his Tatyana, regrettably, was no exception. His people looked to him for leadership, and he had to set an example. When she’d looked upon him with the fury of hellfire in her eyes for the last time, when his longsword had cleaved through her flawless throat, it had taken all of his strength not to break down and weep. At least her death had been by his hand this time. He had won, and the Dark Powers could not deprive him of hearing the death rattle rush past her sweet lips.  

Without Tatyana, Berez was truly nothing. So he’d ordered his legions of undead to kill the remainder of the so-called revolutionaries. He marked the town for destruction to set an example of what happens when you defy the Ancient. The Land. 

Strahd catches movement from the corner of his eye. Looking down, he notices a blood-caked man crawling along the path. His left leg had been severed, causing him to leave a trail of red behind him. The man glances up, and his clouded eyes immediately widen in terror. His cracked lips move as if attempting to say something—begging for his life, no doubt—but it comes out a wet gurgle. Alas, he hasn’t the time to waste on dead men. Strahd tugs on the reins to rear up Beucephalus. The nightmare whinnies, dark plumes of smoke billowing from his nostrils, before he stomps his hoof down on the man’s outstretched hand. The wretch screams in pain. 

Strahd presses on. He rides past his legion of undead minions as they pursue the terrified insurrectionists and pays little heed to the arrows that are fired at him.  

Beucaphalus is pulled to a stop before a small, unassuming cottage—one of the few buildings spared at his order. Moss grows along the gray stones of its exterior, lending it a somewhat dilapidated look. The corpse of a woman guards its entrance. Strahd dismounts and steps past her body. 

The wooden door is locked. It takes little effort on the vampire’s part to brute force it open with a good shove of his shoulder. Stepping inside, the home looks as if it hasn’t been lived in for years. Cobwebs cling to the corners of the room. One of the windows had been broken, causing dried leaves to amass along the floor. The sparse wooden furniture is either covered in sheets or broken. He hardly pays it any mind. He’s searching for something in particular: an entrance to a cellar.  

It doesn’t take him long to find it: a sliver of brown jutting out beneath a wardrobe. A clever attempt at hiding the entrance, no doubt. He effortlessly pushes the furniture aside and descends. 

The stench of mildew assaults his nostrils. Willing himself to stop breathing, Strahd scans the area. While dark, he’s still able to discern the shapes of the room in various shades of gray. Shelves, barrels, gardening tools… 

A sharp intake of breath catches his attention. His gaze snaps to the source of the sound. Huddled in the corner, he spots an older human woman. The woman has her knees pulled up to his chest, a dagger clenched in her trembling hands. It’s obvious from the way her head whips around that she’s unsure where he is, just that there’s someone in the room with her. He does not miss the days when he was mortal and blinded by such darkness… 

Strahd cocks his head and spends several moments watching the woman in her terror. Finally, he says, “Well met.” 

The woman starts with a loud yelp. Back against the wall, she scrambles into a standing position. “Who’s there?!” she shrieks.  

It would be rude of him to not allow the woman to behold her feudal lord. Strahd mutters an incantation under his breath and taps his pauldron with his index finger. The armor begins shedding bright light, uplighting Strahd’s face. With the added glow, Strahd now notes the gray streaked through the woman’s matted brown hair. The terrified green eyes. He gives his best attempt at a charming smile. “You have the pleasure of conversing with your feudal lord, Count Strahd von Zarovich.” 

The color drains from her face. “What do you want?” 

Strahd clicks his tongue. “That is no way to speak to nobility. If I weren’t feeling particularly benevolent, I’d remove your tongue for such talk. But,” he spreads his hands, “I am here simply to talk. If you tell me what I wish to know, on my honor I will let you leave this hovel alive and rejoin your companions.”  

Much to Strahd’s annoyance, there’s no response. The woman’s knuckles blanche around the hilt of the dagger. 

He continues, “I’ve been informed that there is a child here. I have reason to believe that you may know their whereabouts.” 

The woman swallows. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” 

His pleasant smile drops into a frown. “Do not lie to me, crone.” He takes a step forward until there’s only an arm’s length between them. “I shall ask again. Where is the child?” 

“I’d rather die than tell a monster like you!” she shouts and, taking a step forward, goes to plunge the dagger into Strahd’s chest. The vampire is quick to bat her hand away and, in the same swift motion, grabs her by the throat. He lifts and scrapes her against the wall until she’s gaping down at him.  

“Where is the child?!” Strahd snarls. 

“Fuck you!” 

His patience at its end, Strahd lunges forward to sink his fangs into the woman’s throat. Her body kicks and convulses while he drinks his fill, her ambrosial blood filling him with renewed energy. When the kicking ceases and her body falls limp, he tears her throat out. Warm crimson jets across his face. The corpse is tossed aside; he’ll have one of his servants retrieve it later for reanimation. He’ll have to replenish his forces when all is said and done, after all. 

Strahd lets out a shaky exhale. He feels lightheaded—as is typical after he indulges. With a thumb, he wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth. His eyes fall upon the body. No matter; he doesn’t need this peasant to find the child. He pauses, allowing his heightened senses to be in tune with the cellar. The smell of iron now fills the space, making his gums ache. Beneath it, he can smell rotten potatoes. The stench of sweat from the body. The soap she had used on her skin. A rat squeaks and skitters across the floor. Somewhere, there’s the sound of shifting fabric. It sounds too large to be another rat. The noise stops. 

The vampire approaches the source of the sound. His eyes fall upon a large, wooden crate. Its lid is not secured but sits slightly ajar. His other hand resting upon the hilt of his longsword, Strahd pulls the lid away. 

His breath catches in his throat. 

Inside, swaddled in cloth, is a sleeping newborn. A little girl with a wisp of thin red hair curled over her forehead. His little girl. Marina’s—no, Tatyana’s—last gift to him. A foreign emotion crawls up from his stomach into his throat, choking him. With trembling hands, Strahd reaches down to scoop up the infant and cradles her in his arms. Her eyes open, revealing piercing red eyes.  

Just like his. 

Tears of joy well in Strahd’s eyes. He doesn’t dare wipe them away lest he disturb the child. She is the most precious, the most perfect, thing he has witnessed in centuries next to her mother. So small, so naive to the world and its sorrows. Tatyana had mentioned her name was Anastasia. A regal name, one befitting of his daughter. Anastasia reaches an arm up to curl a lock of his hair in her tiny fist. She smiles, revealing a toothless grin.  

Ever the scholar, he begins to ponder the implications of his union with a mortal human. The child has Tatyana’s red hair and dark skin. She has his crimson eyes. But what else had she inherited? Would she inherit the parts of him from when he was a mortal man, or had the Dark Powers found a way to suffuse her with their poison as well? Something to think on later, he supposes.  

He’s torn from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps on the floor above. An adenoidal voice calls out, “Your Lordship?” 

His chamberlain. For a moment, Strahd considers not responding. He wants a moment longer with his child. Their first meeting. He’s not much for savoring—it loses its appeal after a few centuries—but he wants to lock this tender moment away in his memory forever. 

Strahd sighs. His chamberlain could be coming to him with news regarding the ongoing battle, he supposes. “I’m down here,” he replies, still keeping his voice low so as to not upset Anastasia.  

Rahadin, his dusk elf chamberlain, descends the ladder to the cellar. He calls out, “I report to you with a status update regarding the turn of the ba—” His voice trails off when he turns around and lays eyes on the swaddled bundle in Strahd’s arms. The variety of emotions that cross his face in that instant is almost amusing. Surprise, confusion, more surprise, before finally settling on neutrality while he attempts to compose himself. “A child.” His voice is flat. 

“Rahadin,” Strahd grins and turns to face his chamberlain, “I would like you to meet my and Tatyana’s daughter, Anastasia.” 

The dusk elf’s mouth opens and closes in search of words. Another parade of emotions. “You and Tatyana—” 

“Yes. Our child.” 

“Well.” He clears his throat. “I, ah, suppose congratulations are in order. My lord.”  

They sound hollow coming from him of all people. Strahd chooses to ignore it. “Thank you. Would you like the honor of holding her?” 

“Not particularly.” Catching himself, he adds, gesturing around himself, “I don’t believe the blood I am currently covered in—not my blood, mind you—would be conducive to a newborn’s immune system.” 

“Fair enough.” Admittedly, he hadn’t even considered that blood can be a conduit of disease for mortals. Blood has become such a normal part of his everyday life that he hardly notes its presence anymore. He mutters a quick incantation and, with a snap of his fingers, the blood soaking through his own clothing is gone, leaving him pristine once more. Just to err on the side of caution, he does the same prestidigitation cantrip on Rahadin, who barely flinches. His chamberlain still does not ask to hold Anastasia, he notes with slight bafflement. He must not understand what an honor it is that he would trust him enough to hold his sole offspring; trust has never been something that’s come easy to the nobleman, especially in recent years. 

“If I may, what are you planning on doing with the child?” Rahadin asks. 

As if it’s not obvious. “Raising her. I am her father and, sadly, her sole living parent. It would reflect poorly upon me if I were not in my child’s life.” He inhales deeply. “I will tutor her in the ways of the court. In the ways of the sword and the Weave. In time, if she proves her worth, she may even inherit my throne.” 

Rahadin pauses as if considering his next words carefully. “As friend and counsel, may I speak plainly for a moment?” 

He nods. 

“Is Castle Ravenloft truly an appropriate place to raise a child? Forgive me, my lord, but it is rather…” another pause, “ dangersome. I suppose I am concerned about the number of undead that wander about the halls and if they can be trusted to keep to themselves.” 

Strahd’s eyes narrow. “My minions will keep to themselves because I will command them to. And on the threat of death, my orders are not to be disobeyed.” 

“And the bountiful traps and wards? The staircases and crumbling infrastructure?” 

“Do you not trust me to child-proof my own home? Tread carefully, Rahadin.” 

The dusk elf bows his head. “I mean no offense, Master. I, of course, trust you to do what you feel is best for the child. These are merely things to be aware of going forward.” 

What would he know of parenting? Rahadin has never sired offspring of his own, let alone been in many meaningful relationships. The contact he’s had with children, as far as he’s aware, has been primarily violent in nature. While, admittedly, his own knowledge on child rearing is limited and primarily influenced by his own rearing as a child, he is eager to learn what he can on the subject. To be a stern but present parent as his mother—may her soul rest in peace—was for him. If he does this right, Anastasia may one day restore the Von Zarovich dynasty. “If I ever want counsel on how to raise my child, I will ask.” 

“Of course, my lord.” 

Strahd tips his chin up at the elf before returning his attention to Anastasia. Having stopped tugging on his hair, she suckles quietly on her thumb, her doe-like, red eyes still focused on him. It’s not often he finds children cute— they tend to annoy him more than anything—but there’s something enchanting about this one. He clears his throat. “How has the battle been faring?” 

“Well. These peasants cannot hold a candle to the Von Zarovich forces. I imagine the village will be fully cleared of rebels in the hour. The town will then be yours to do with as you please.” 

“The village has always been mine to do with what I please. But regardless, that is good to hear. I’d like the black carriage to be prepared for my departure within the next half hour. You will ride ahead on Beucephalus to begin making preparations for the arrival of my child. I trust my forces to clean up the rest of this mess.” 

Rahadin bows. “As you wish, my lord. Shall I have the body of Lady Tatyana brought to—” 

Strahd holds up a silencing hand. “There is no corpse to entomb. As always, the Dark Powers have spat upon me and denied me the privilege of mourning.”  

“I see.” An uncomfortable silence fills the room. Rahadin gives another stiff bow at the waist. “Well then. With your permission, I shall take my leave to begin preparations.” 

The vampire nods. Rahadin quickly ascends back up the ladder to leave. Until the carriage is ready, Strahd continues to peer down at Anastasia in awe. 

Castle Ravenloft is alight with excitement. It’s the most energetic the castle has felt in some time—perhaps since the last group of brave adventurers had taken up his offer of dining their, unbeknownst to them, last meal with him. Coming down the halls, Strahd can hear the lively voices of his consorts, primarily those of Escher and Ludmilla with Anastrasya chiming in occasionally. Rahadin and Volenta remain silent, but he can still discern the distinct patter of their footsteps.  

The double doors to the audience hall open, and the five enter. From his throne, Strahd’s eyes are carefully trained on their faces, judging their reactions when they look upon the infant propped up on his knee. Escher is the first to react. His pale face lights up like a torch, and he makes a gasp of what Strahd can only assume to be joy. Anastrasya and Lumilla’s reactions are much more tempered, a small smile gracing their faces. Volenta doesn’t bother hiding her disgust; even from beneath the ivory bone mask, Strahd can see the look of disdain in her eyes. As always, Rahadin remains impassive.  

Strahd raises his voice to address the room, using the same inflection he does when speaking to his armies. “My esteemed chamberlain and consorts, I have the pleasure of introducing you for the first time to my blood, Lady Anastasia von Zarovich.” With his hands under her arms, Strahd gently lifts Anastasia into a semblance of wobbly-legged standing upon his leg. 

Escher claps because of course he does. Her voice full of warmth, Ludmilla echoes, “Congratulations, Your Lordship.” 

“Who’s the mother?” asks Volenta.  

The question catches Strahd off guard momentarily. “My Tatyana. For reasons outside my control, however, she will not be joining us in Castle Ravenloft until Anastasia is grown.”  

Anastrasya, apparently tired of ogling the child, goes to inspect her long, red-painted nails. “So Anastasia is a bastard,” she says flatly. 

The room grows silent. Like a lever pulled, anger flares in Strahd’s chest enough to cause his fingertips to tremble. With long, brisk steps, he’s quick to close the distance between them, Anastasia still tucked securely against his side. In that same gesture, he grabs Anastrasya by the throat and lifts her up as if she weighs no more than a doll. The wretch knows better than to resist. She stares down at him with cold eyes, the slightest tinge of fear in their inky depths. “Anastasia was born of love. I had every intention of marrying that woman. If I hear the word bastard uttered again, I shall remove the tongue of whoever dared utter it and feed it to the wolves.” His grip tightens despite there being neither air nor blood to cut off. “Am I understood?” 

“Yes, Your Lordship,” Anastrasya replies evenly.  

“Good.” He drops the spawn. Her heeled boots clatter upon the stone, and she stumbles. “Get out of my sight.”  

“All of us, Master?” Volenta asks. 

“No.” Strahd shoots Anastrasya a pointed look. “Just this disappointing cur.” 

“As you wish.” Anastrasya gives a low curtsy, the muscles of her jaw clenched, before swiftly leaving the chamber.  

Strahd sighs loudly before pinching the bridge of his nose. Why did he ever bother with consorts? He’s more than happy simply enjoying his own company. And his own company causes far less drama. This is supposed to be a day of celebration, not his lessers questioning him. His remaining patience is razor-thin.  

After a moment, Escher clears his throat. “Again, a thousand congratulations on this most joyous of occasions, Master. Might I hold her?” 

The question perks him up. Unconsciously, he holds Anastasia closer, a wave of possessiveness washing over him. A foolish sentiment, in retrospect, yet the question still grips his mind like a parasite. While he doesn’t trust Escher like he does Rahadin, he realizes that there will be times he must be away and will need to entrust her care to others. Slowly, he nods his head and holds the child out to him.  

Beaming, Escher is quick to scoop her up and rest her head in the nook of his arm. “Hey there, sweetheart!”  

“Do not give my child pet names. Remember: she ranks higher than you.” 

“Right, right. Did you know I had a little sister once? Ten years younger than me. Equally adorable as a baby, if memory serves, but without this cute mop of red hair.” He trails a finger across her head. The spawn makes a foolish face, and Anastasia giggles. 

A gentle hand on his shoulder tears Strahd’s hawk-like focus from the scene before him. Ludmilla had at some point stepped beside him. “If I may, does she share our…” she pauses, searching for a word, “particular appetites?” 

“I am unsure. Seeing as how she was raised by humans prior to being in my care, I would assume not.” Outside of feeding Anastasia fresh blood to see her reaction, there is not yet a way to tell. Curious himself, he’d checked her mouth for erupting canines only to find her mouth still devoid of all teeth. Having become undead well into his later years, he had to learn the ins and outs of vampirism on his own. Turning an infant or a pregnant woman had never once crossed his mind, and he does not wish to think on such implications.  

“I see.” Ludmilla hums. “If that is the case, she will need a wet nurse until she’s old enough to subsist on solid food, Strahd. Sooner rather than later, especially given that it’s been a few hours since she last fed.” 

“I am aware.” Were it anyone else but Ludmilla questioning his knowledge, he might admonish them. But he’s aware of the spawn’s soft heart. A blessing and a curse, to be certain. His eyes dart back to Escher, who’s now blowing raspberries into Anastasia’s belly and making a fool of himself while Rahadin and Volenta watch in discomfort. “What do you suggest?” 

“With your permission and enough gold to ensure compliance, I can travel to Barovia Village immediately and persuade one of the recent mothers to stand in as Anastasia’s wet nurse.” 

“Fine. I trust your judgment regarding who would be an appropriate fit. You may pay them upfront if need be. If they resist, threaten them.” It is a capital offense to decline the wishes of nobility, after all. “I will have them take up temporary residence in the castle during this time. Perhaps in the barracks.” As much as he dreads having another unwashed body shuffling about Ravenloft, it is a necessary evil.  

“Of course.” 

“I would like to meet them when you return. You have my permission to interrupt anything I might be in the middle of.” He plans to extend his influence over them as soon as possible to ensure their compliance. He doesn’t want to take any chances. The Dark Powers do so love tormenting him; he wouldn’t put it past their nefarious whims to push this girl toward smothering Anastasia in her crib. And humans can be so judgemental toward what they deem monsters— harmless or not. Were something to happen to the gift Tatyana had bequeathed upon him, this perfect bundle of innocence, he cannot say with confidence that Barovia would survive his wrath.  

“As you wish.” Ludmilla continues to stand there as if there is more to say but is hesitant to express it. 

“Speak.” 

“Have other preparations been made for the arrival of a child? The purchase of a crib? Playthings, blankets for swaddling, diapers, etcetera?” 

Strahd doesn’t bother hiding his look of irritation. Behind Ludmilla’s placid demeanor, he can hear the insinuation: did you bring an infant to this castle with no prior preparation? Did you truly, honestly think this through? Admittedly, he had not had time to make preparations. It’d been only a matter of hours since he had learned he was a father in the first place. He’d gone to Berez to crush the opposition beneath his boot, to squelch the flames of rebellion before they could grow and spread like wildfire. One moment, he was attempting to talk Marina down from her silly ideals with the hope of sparing her. The next, he was holding her cold, dead body in his arms with the newfound knowledge that he had brought life into this world. It’s the kind of realization that one cannot necessarily prepare for. And what was he to do? Leave his blood orphaned in the midst of a burning village, defenseless and afraid?  

No. He would do no such thing. He is many things, but he is a problem solver above all. He would adapt and do what he must to ensure Marina’s gift remains treasured. If that takes the form of his underlings scrabbling to make preparations, then so be it. The judgmental, insignificant opinions of the lesser have never bothered him.  

“No on all accounts,” Strahd replies. “Though rest assured they shall be taken care of. Your concern is valid but unwanted, Ludmilla.” 

The spawn bows her head, the gold ringlets in her dark hair tinkling with the motion. “Apologies, Your Lordship.” 

His gaze still boring into Ludmilla’s face, Strahd raises his voice. “Rahadin.” 

The dusk elf, as if relieved to have something to distract him, quickly approaches, his arms crossed behind his back. He nods. 

“You are to go to Vallaki and purchase the essentials for Anastasia: toys, blankets, and diapers. If you find a crib, purchase it. If not, you will instruct one of the local woodworkers to craft a crib befitting nobility.” 

An unmistakable look of horror passing over Rahadin’s features causes a muscle in Strahd’s jaw to twitch. “...A thousand pardons, Master, but this is very much outside of my area of expertise. I would not know where to begin looking for such things or what would be appropriate for a child her age.” 

Over four centuries old and the damned elf hasn’t a clue about child-rearing! Strahd’s fists clench at his sides, the tips of his claws digging into the meat of his palm. “I cannot afford to waste time via your hesitation. Ask the shopkeepers questions, Rahadin. You are capable of doing something as simple as that, are you not?” 

The tips of Rahadin’s pointed ears flush, but otherwise, he says nothing. As if reading the sudden tension in the room, Escher chimes in, “Forgive the interruption, Master, but I can accompany Rahadin to the marketplace. I may be a tad more familiar with what to look for.” 

The neutral expression on Rahadin’s face is replaced with a quick blink—a gesture, Strahd has learned over centuries of his chamberlain’s servitude, of silent pleading. He’s more than aware of Rahadin’s disdain toward his spawn (and most people), but the nobleman does not care. “An excellent idea, Escher. Yes, you and Rahadin shall go to Barovia Village to peruse their markets. If you find nothing worthwhile, then you have my permission to visit Vallaki. You shall leave with Ludmilla at once.” 

A loud sigh from Rahadin’s nose. He bows regardless. “As you wish, my lord.”  

Escher echoes his words before handing Anastasia back to Strahd, who eagerly props her up on his forearm. The three of them turn to leave the audience hall, the double doors creaking shut and reverberating throughout the chamber.  

Only Volenta is left. She rocks on her heels, twiddling her thumbs in front of her. “Is there anything you need of me?” 

There are plenty of things to be done. Cleaning. Securing. Shopping. Learning. But he trusts his volatile consort with very few tasks that don’t involve a blade. “No, Volenta, you are dismissed.” 

Her shoulders drop in relief. Volenta gives a two-finger salute against her brow. “Aye aye, Your Lordship.” Hurriedly, as if trying to leave the room before Strahd can change his mind, she leaves the throne room out the same door the others had gone through.  

Once her footsteps fade into the distance, Strahd lets out another sigh—he’s been doing that a lot recently. His attention shifts back to Anastasia. She’s since dozed off with her thumb in her mouth, her belly rising and falling with the slow breaths of sleep. A small smile tugs at the corners of Strahd’s mouth. Every day, his respect for his mother and the hardships she must have faced rearing not one, but multiple children grows. So much to be done, but so little time to accomplish them in a timely manner. And there’s so much he’d like to teach his offspring, but her life would be a mere blip on his personal timeline that shall stretch on for eternity. The thought is quickly brushed aside lest it cause his moroseness to grow. No, he would do his best to enjoy the time he has with his daughter. He will teach her the ways of the world. The ways of a noble. He will instruct her in the sword, Weave, and bow. Perhaps someday, she may even be a suitable replacement for him on the throne. Maybe. 

The count of Barovia stands in the middle of the hall for the next hour, simply appreciating Tatyana’s last gift to him. 

Chapter Text

A human. An elf. A tiefling. A dragonborn.

To a commoner, such a group is exotic. Foreign. Given that the vast majority of Barovians are human—farmers, cobblers, masons, the ignoble professions—the sight of them no doubt turns heads. The most exotic it gets in Barovia is perhaps a dusk elf, but even they are a rare sight, restricted to the outskirts of Vallaki. He isn’t certain that, if pressed, half of the population could even describe what a dragonborn is. Never leaving Barovia’s borders does that to someone.

But to Strahd Von Zarovich, they are nothing extraordinary. He has seen adventuring groups like this time and time again. It tends to be the outsiders, the rejects of society, that pick up the sword. Oh, he has hosted all sorts at his table before: drow, tabaxi, kobolds, half-orcs. There was even a time when he hosted something that called itself an aasimar, a creature of the divine.

No matter their blood, though, they never last long. They play the role of polite guest at first, giving the expected pleases and thank yous and “yes, My Lord.” But in time, they grow cocky. Overconfident after killing a paltry handful of his spawn. They begin thinking that he, Strahd Von Zarovich, the Ancient, the Land, can be slain as easily as a handful of his spawn.

And each and every time, they realize the folly of their overconfidence when they feel his fangs in their neck and the life being ripped from their bodies.

Just as the sun chases the moon day in and day out, this is the cycle. It has quickly grown tiresome. Yet the monotony of a typical day in Barovia is somehow worse. No citizen dares challenge him. The most rebellious it gets is the occasional burgomaster thinking he won’t notice the town’s taxes being short by a few silver, or a petty thief stealing livestock to feed their family. A day in which he gets to reassert his dominance over the werewolves living in his domain is an exciting one.

So is the curse of immortality. Monotony.

Inviting outsiders to his dinner table at least helps to break up the mundane. Oh, sometimes they surprise him. Sometimes, there are creatures of the divine or adventurers who take pacts with devils or bards who play a decent enough lute or coquettes foolish enough to try and share his bed. All of which are more entertaining than the Barovian farmer whining about the winter taking his herd.

Yet this group is especially boring. Strahd finds himself counting down the minutes until he can dismiss them from his castle while still playing the role of respectable host. Even now, as they sit in his grand dining hall, their eyes darting from the flickering candlelight to the dark corners of the room, Strahd feels the weight of inevitability pressing down upon him. They will eat his food, drink his wine, and ask their carefully measured questions, all while thinking themselves clever. They believe they are studying him, measuring his words, searching for weakness in his mannerisms.

He lets them.

It is a game he has played before, and he plays it well.

Zoril Bask, the tiefling wizard, is the only one with the nerve to meet his gaze directly. A bold one, then. Not surprising—tieflings often feel they have something to prove. This one speaks with that same subtle arrogance, the kind that suggests he believes knowledge is his greatest weapon. It will fail him just as steel fails the others. At least he can discuss the complexities of the Weave with him.

The human, a man with a lean body despite his advanced age, is more reserved. A fighter, then? Or perhaps a rogue, like the dragonborn at his side who keeps his hand ever close to his belt. Strahd notes the way the rogue’s fingers twitch whenever Strahd moves, as if preparing to act. A waste of energy.

The elf is the most predictable of them all. She keeps her back straight, her expression carefully neutral, but Strahd can feel the weight of her judgment like an itch beneath his skin. The holy ones are always the same—full of righteous fury, so certain of their cause, so convinced that their god will deliver them from the darkness. Strahd does not bother asking which deity this one serves. It hardly matters; the gods do not answer prayers in Barovia.

The rogue, Kracol Hinaar, is the first to break the polite veneer. They always are.

“Y’know,” he drawls with a scratchy voice, leaning back in his chair, swirling a goblet of deep red wine between his fingers, “for someone with a reputation as terrifying as yours, this is all a bit… tame.”

Strahd does not react. He has heard this before. The bravado. The casual prodding, as if he is some wild beast they must gauge for weakness. A test, meant to determine how far they can push before his patience frays.

He takes a sip from his own glass and sets it down with deliberate care. “I am a gracious host,” he says smoothly. “You will find no harm under my roof—provided you respect it.”

The cleric shifts in her seat, fingers twitching where they rest on the table. The holy symbol around her neck catches the candlelight, its polished metal glinting. Strahd has no doubt she is itching to press it to his flesh, to see if the stories are true.

The wizard, Zoril, watches him intently. He has been quiet for much of the meal when they’re not discussing the Weave, absorbing the conversation like ink sinking into parchment. Intelligent, then. Or at least, observant enough to know when to hold his tongue.

Strahd lets the silence stretch, watching them watch him. The rogue, emboldened by the lack of immediate consequences, smirks. “So, what now? Dessert? Dancing? Or do we skip to the part where you try to kill—” His words are cut short by a coughing fit. In his haste to cough into his hand, wine sloshes out of his glass and onto the tablecloth.

Strahd frowns, eyes narrowing at the blossoming stain. “So eager for theatrics.” He folds his hands neatly before him. “Must it always come to bloodshed?”

Before the tension can settle, the sound of tiny footsteps pattering down the hall pulls him from his cynicism. The door to the dining room creaks open. Standing tall at a little over three feet is his daughter, Anastasia. A mischievous glint flickers behind her red eyes, the telltale sign that the five-year-old is up to no good—and knows it.

“Daddy! There you are—”

All eyes fall upon her.

The bravado drains from her face. Her smirk drops into an expression of hesitance as she looks between the adventurers. One of them calls out a greeting to her, but she doesn’t dare reply.

More footsteps, followed by heavy panting. Rahadin, his chamberlain, sweeps into the room with all the urgency of a blade drawn in battle. His sharp gaze lands on her, and in an instant, he crosses the distance, scooping Anastasia into his arms. She does not resist.

“A thousand pardons, Your Lordship,” Rahadin stammers, his usual composure splintered with something bordering on distress. “I stepped away for but a moment, and she had already darted off by the time I returned.”

Strahd, his irritation melting into something softer, nods. “You are forgiven, Rahadin. Anastasia is welcome to join us.”

The dusk elf hesitates before setting her down. She clings to his sleeve for a breath longer than necessary before retreating behind his leg, peering at the strangers from the shelter of his presence.

“Anastasia,” Strahd calls, beckoning her forward. “Come here.”

Obedient—for the most part—Anastasia abides. Her movements are measured, deliberate. She creeps to his side, keeping the adventurers in her periphery as if they might strike at any moment.

Strahd places a hand atop her head, a gesture that stills her. “May I introduce Lady Anastasia von Zarovich, my daughter and the heir to Castle Ravenloft.” If a hint of pride colors his voice, then so be it.

As if on instinct, Anastasia curtsies. “Hello,” she murmurs. There is steel beneath the softness, wariness in the way her gaze lingers on them.

Good. She should be wary.

“Daughter, these are our guests this evening.” One by one, he introduces them. The rogue does not acknowledge her, does not move, but even now Strahd feels the weight of his stare settling on the girl—assessing, calculating. A predator sizing up its surroundings. Strahd will watch him closely.

“Why don’t you join us?” Strahd asks, reaching down from his chair to lift her. Anastasia stiffens but does not resist, folding her hands neatly over her dress as she settles in his lap. Rahadin has been coaching her on etiquette, and exposure to courtly manners will serve her well.

The table remains silent. Tense.

His guests’ eyes flicker between him and the girl, uncertainty threading through their expressions. They are recalculating, struggling to mold this new revelation into their understanding of him. It is always fascinating the way mortals flounder when faced with the unexpected.

The elven cleric speaks first. “Your… daughter.” Her tone is careful, measured.

Strahd inclines his head. “Yes.”

The human shifts in his seat, his grip tightening around his goblet before setting it down a little too firmly. “And her mother?”

A bold question. He allows it.

“Dead, unfortunately,” he answers. He takes solace in the fact that Tatyana will return to him in time. She always does. “Anastasia was her last gift to me before she passed.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” says the human. His companions glare at him, as if it is a crime to offer sympathy to The Devil. 

Strahd dismisses it with a wave of his hand; he’s not feeling eager to ruminate on it right now.

The rogue scoffs under his breath. His expression sharpens, suspicion threading through his features. “So, what? Is this some kind of show? You expect us to believe you’re some doting father? That’s a laugh.”

Anastasia presses herself closer against him. He does not need to see her face to know she is frowning.

Strahd’s expression does not shift. If anything, a trace of amusement flickers in his eyes as he regards the rogue. “Believe what you wish. It is no concern of mine.”

A beat of silence. Then, softly, Anastasia asks. “Are they staying?”

The words are simple, but their impact ripples across the room like a drop in still water. The tension shifts, subtle as a change in the wind.

Strahd hums, tilting his head in apparent thought. He watches his guests carefully, notes the flicker of hesitation in their eyes. The way their confidence wavers just a fraction.

“That depends,” he says, his voice velvet-smooth. “Do our guests intend to make themselves welcome?”

Another pause.

Zoril, ever the diplomat, is the first to recover. “We would not dream of disrespecting your hospitality.”

Strahd’s smile is slow, deliberate. “Then let us enjoy the evening,” Strahd says, lifting his glass. “For however long it lasts.”

The book in his lap is dull and uninspiring: a hefty tome on horse husbandry that Rahadin recommended to him centuries ago. He has read it three times now, by his count. When new books are as rare as they are in Barovia—most coming from the Vistani when he requests them—Strahd often finds himself repeating what little reading material he has. After four centuries, it is a dismal routine.

Perhaps it is the monotony of the text that allows his attention to wander, making him acutely aware of Anastasia’s absence. Since she could first walk, his daughter has made a nightly habit of toddling into his study and demanding a bedtime story. And who was he to deny her? Strahd knows full well that she has him wrapped around her little finger, but he also knows how fleeting these years are.

Soon, she will grow into a proper lady of the court, and suitors will circle her like flies to honey.

Or perhaps not. Courtly life has changed since his undeath. What was once a vibrant, scheming world has withered into something stagnant, hollow. The dances, the intrigues, the whispers behind gloved hands—they are relics of a time long past. His daughter, sweet and full of life as she is, may never know the courtly life that once was.

It has been an eventful evening for her. He recalls the relief in her sigh when the adventurers finally departed, freeing her from their dull questions—how she liked living in a castle, how she liked her dress. Strahd cannot blame her for retiring early.

He crosses one leg over the other, returning to his reading.

Two pages in, he realizes he has retained nothing. His thoughts drift once more to his daughter. With a sigh—gods, has he truly grown so soft with fatherhood?—he snaps the book shut with a resounding thud. He should check on her. Ease his worries.

As he moves to stand, heavy footsteps clamoring up the stairwell catch his ear.

The double doors burst open.

The man who stumbles in is one of the adventurers from dinner. Razim Duster, the old human, reeks of onion from dinner and sweat, his breath uneven.

“Count… Count Strahd,” he pants. “Believe me when I say I ran here as fast as I could. But these legs aren’t as nimble as they once were.”

Strahd’s patience is already thinning. “Do they not teach manners in whichever backwater town you hail from?”

The man hunches over, gasping. “Apologies…”

Strahd exhales slowly. “Speak. Did you forget something in your haste?”

“Your… your daughter…”

A flicker of something sharp and cold coils in his gut. His shoulders tense. “Anastasia? What of her?”

“She… she has been…”

Strahd’s eyes narrow. “Speak, damn you!”

“Taken.” The word is gasped out, desperate. “My companions… they snuck back in and grabbed her. I tried to—hah—stop them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

The room stills.

Then, quietly—too quietly—Strahd asks, “They did what?”

The man wipes the sweat from his brow. “Not long ago. Maybe ten minutes. Again, I—I ran here as fast as I could.”

Outside, thunder suddenly roars, shaking the pillar stones of Ravenloft. The first harsh patters of rain strike the parapets.

How dare they.

How dare they!

He goes out of his way to extend every courtesy to these insects, and they have the audacity to spurn him like this! He will see their heads ripped from their shoulders, their festering skulls mounted on pikes outside Ravenloft, corvids picking worms from their rotting eye sockets.

Strahd's claws dig into the fat of his palm. The pain barely registers. “Where are they headed?!”

“To Barovia Village. They’re planning on handing your child over to the townsfolk—the ones who have been hurt by you. Justice, they called it, but—”

“She’s a child!” Strahd roars.

He wastes no more time. Not even bothering to grab his cloak, he sucks in a deep breath and dashes toward the wall of the study. His form shifts, blurring into mist as he pushes through the stone, passing through again and again until he clings to the castle’s outer wall. Like a lizard, he scrambles downward on hands and knees. Rain pelts his face, stinging his eyes, but he pushes past the discomfort.

When he is but ten feet from the ground, he kicks off the wall and, sucking in another breath, forces his body to shift. His jaw distends into a muzzle, coarse black fur bursts across his body, and the moment his paws hit the ground, he takes off down the hillside, kicking up mud in his wake.

Even with the storm, it is easy to pick up the stench of the outsiders: sweat, alcohol, and the all-too-familiar scent of Anastasia. His ears press flat against his skull. He runs all the harder.

The sloshing of boots reaches his ears, accompanied by the occasional curse. Peering through the fir trees, he spots them—three people. One carries Anastasia over his shoulder. Strahd's blood boils when he sees the gag covering her mouth. She pounds her bound hands into the man's back, but the impact of her tiny fists does nothing.

“This fuckin’ rain!” Zoril shouts. “I can’t see shit!”

“Just keep running!” Adrirae barks.

Strahd’s upper lip curls into a snarl. His muscles burn with exertion. The group lets out a startled cry when he bursts from the brush, growling. He lunges at the first fool in his path—the tiefling wizard. His jaws clamp onto the man's thigh, hot blood filling his mouth. The wizard screams, doubling over.

“What the fuck is that?!”

“A wolf! It’s got Zoril!”

“Kill it!”

Strahd releases his hold only to leap for Zoril’s throat. His jaws snap shut, crushing his trachea. He shakes his head violently, tearing flesh from bone. The wizard lets out a wet, gurgling sound before crumpling lifelessly into the mud.

Before Strahd can turn on the next, a bolt slams into his side, staggering him. White-hot pain—holy energy—sears his flesh, sending agony rippling through him. His skin blackens and smokes around the point of impact.

The cleric gasps. “It’s undead! Shapechanger!”

No need to keep up the ruse any longer. Snarling, Strahd forces himself back into his true form, hissing at the pain that radiates through his body. He bares his fangs, voice thundering over the rain.

“Release my daughter now, and I will ensure your death is a swift one!”

The rogue and cleric exchange a glance. Adrirae mutters an incantation; another bolt of radiant light surges toward him. Strahd sidesteps at the last moment, the blast striking a tree behind him, sending sparks into the rain.

A muffled scream wrenches his attention back to Anastasia. Kracol now holds her in front of him, one arm wrapped tightly around her torso, the other pressing a dagger to her throat. For the first time, he notices that half of his face has been recently burned, scales peeled back to reveal blackened flesh. His left eye is swollen shut.

“Anastasia!” Strahd bellows.

“Not another move, or I’ll slit her throat!”

Anastasia goes deathly still. Her wide eyes, glistening with fear, lock onto Strahd. If his heart still beat, if it had not been hardened by war, it would break at the sight of her. Instead, his rage blinds him, his mind racing through his options.

He could let him walk away. But if these insects’ intention is to throw her to the peasants, it still wouldn't guarantee her safety. He could rush forward, ideally slit his throat before he can act, but he's not confident enough in his speed to risk Anastasia's life.  A gust of wind could knock him away, but that would require reaching into his component pouch without him noticing. 

But every fiber of his being craves bloodshed. He wants the rogue’s head on a pike.

Strahd draws a slow breath, steadying himself. Clearing his mind. “Kracol,” he murmurs, voice slipping into a hypnotic lull. He extends his influence like an aura, sinking his will into the dragonborn’s feeble mind. “There’s no need for rash decisions. Put the dagger away. Step back from Anastasia.”

Kracol’s eyes glaze, his head lolling forward before he jerks upright. “Yes, my lord.” Without hesitation, he sheathes his dagger and releases Anastasia, who glares daggers at him.

“Tell me, Kracol,” Strahd purrs, tilting his head, “why would you do something so foolish?”

“Apologies.” The dragonborn coughs loudly into his arm, his yellow eyes watering. “We thought we could use her as leverage. Wanted to save Barovia and its people, s’all.”

“And to that end, you would sacrifice a child?”

Kracol scratches his chin. “S’pose so. The greater good and whatnot.”

The greater good. It sickens him.

Adrirae whips her head between Strahd and Kracol, confusion stark on her sharp features. “Grab her! What are you doing?” she shrieks.

“‘M just talkin’ to my friend here.”

“He’s not your friend! He’s—he’s controlling you! Making you talk against your will! He’s evil!”

“Evil is a subjective term,” Strahd muses, barely sparing her a glance. His voice deepens, a command laced within it. “Approach me, Kracol.”

The dragonborn obeys without hesitation, stepping forward with a toothy, pleasant smile as though he’s talking to a trusted companion.

Adrirae screams, unleashing another bolt of holy energy above Kracol’s head. But Strahd is ready for it this time. With cloak in hand, he swats the blast away, redirecting into the sodden grass. 

He cups the dragonborn’s scaly face, tilting it to the side, ignoring Adrirae’s frantic shrieks. Another bolt strikes him square in the shoulder, tearing through his water-logged doublet and searing his flesh, but he does not falter. Baring his fangs, he sinks them into Kracol’s throat, drinking deeply. Dragonborn blood is always unique—hot, like a strong liquor, rich with power.

But he does not allow himself to savor it for long.

Strahd grips Kracol’s head and twists. His spinal column gives a dull snap! , the dragonborn’s body going limp in his grasp. A sharp gasp of air—then nothing. He lets the corpse crumple into the mud, rainwater splashing around it.

He turns to Adrirae. She has drawn her mace, fingers trembling around the hilt.

Ah. Fear. It is a delicious thing. A heady sensation.

Strahd smiles.

Strahd squares his shoulders, a sharp gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Bold of you to think you stand a chance against me by your lonesome. I’ll get to you in a moment.” He reaches into his component pouch and retrieves a small cocoon. With fluid precision, he crushes it between his fingers, murmuring Weave-laced words under his breath. His hand flicks in Adrirae’s direction.

Her eyeballs, suspended by growing eyestalks, push out of their sockets, her back contorting into an opalescent shell. Her scream is cut short as her body suddenly shrinks, the sound strangled by the rapid transformation.

A snail plops unceremoniously into the grass.

Strahd smirks. The wretch won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Letting his shoulders drop, he turns back to Anastasia, who now sits in the grass, her eyes red with tears. He kneels beside her, his expression softening. “You’re safe now, little one,” he murmurs, gently undoing the gag.

The moment the strip of fabric is pulled from her mouth, she starts babbling in frantic, broken words. “‘m sorry, daddy! I tried running away, but they got me, a-a-and I hit them with fire, but then they, they…” Her face crumples, and fat, trembling tears roll down her cheeks.

“Hush. I’ve got you,” he says. With practiced hands, he undoes her hand bindings. In an instant, Anastasia throws her small arms around his neck, sobbing loudly into his chest.

Not knowing what to do with his arms, he awkwardly pats her back. Emotions, even with his own flesh and blood, have never come easily to him; centuries of war have long since buried the tender caregiver within. But the blinding fury that once surged in his chest now wanes, replaced with a deep sense of relief. The storm that raged within him begins to subside, the fury dimming like thunderclouds dispersing into a pale sky.

Anastasia hadn’t been harmed. That’s what matters. No peasant will lay their hands on her today—or ever, for as long as he rules Barovia.

After a few more moments, Strahd gently untangles her arms from around his neck and holds her at arm’s length. “What is it that I say about crying, Anastasia?”

She hiccups and scrubs at her eyes with the back of her hands. “That… that Von Zaroviches do not cry.”

“That’s right. Because we are strong.”

She nods, her face wrinkling with determination.

Strahd reaches up, gently patting her damp hair which appears almost black in the rain. “Good girl. Now, dry your tears.” His gaze lifts over her shoulder, scanning the area. The rain has already washed away the blood, leaving only the scent of earth and dampness behind. His eyes fall upon the snail, now slowly inching its way atop a twig, its eyestalks growing and retracting.

Right. He supposes he should tie up these loose ends before the spell wears off.

“Anastasia,” he says, his voice taking on a serious tone, “There is still one vagrant remaining. A cleric. What would you like to do with her?”

Her eyebrows raise, clearly taken aback by being given such a choice. “Oh! Um, well…” She presses her thumb to her fang, her “thinking face” making Strahd’s chest tighten with a strange, paternal fondness. “Can we keep her? As a pet?”

“Alas, true polymorph is beyond even my abilities. What else?”

“Hmmm…” Back to her thinking face. “May I drink her blood? Like you do?”

Strahd chuckles, an indulgent sound that dances with pride. She has her father’s appetite, indeed. “I don’t see why not. You must be very careful, though, Anastasia. If you drink too much, you could hurt yourself. When I say stop, you stop. Understood?”

The dhampir has only ever tasted fresh blood from cups until now. Even in the throes of death, he’s seen livestock lash out violently, and Anastasia isn’t yet ready for that kind of danger. She’ll have to learn sooner or later the most efficient way to feed from sentient beings. But not yet.

Anastasia nods eagerly, her wet strands of hair smacking her face with each movement.

“Good.”

Strahd stands and approaches the cleric-turned-snail. With a snap of his fingers, he dispels the polymorph spell. The snail’s form ripples, and in its place stands an elf, her lungs heaving with ragged breaths as she tries to regain her bearings.

“Wh-what did you do to me?!” Adrirae pants, panic flooding her voice.

Rather than respond, Strahd moves with supernatural speed, rushing behind her and ramming the heel of his hand into the base of her skull. Her eyes roll back into her head, and she collapses, unconscious, a spray of rainwater splashing against the ground.

He kneels beside her still form, voice low and commanding. “Come here, Anastasia.”

She obeys without hesitation, squatting beside him. With a clawed forefinger, he points to a pounding, pulsing artery on the fallen elf. “This is the carotid artery. In humanoids, it carries blood from the heart to the brain. Biting here is the easiest way to get a quick meal, though the radial or ulnar arteries,” he points to his own wrist, “are also good options. Always be careful when feeding from someone. If they’re conscious and not properly restrained, they will fight back. That should be a last resort. It’s better to bite when they’re asleep or unconscious. Any questions?”

“Can we drink the heart?” she asks innocently.

Strahd chuckles darkly. “No. Regrettably, there’s the ribcage in the way, though if you ever find yourself with the chance to extract a heart, you’ll find no sweeter meal.”

“What’s an ar-ter-y?” she asks, her brow furrowing.

“It’s a,” he pauses, considering how best to explain, “a series of tubes in the body that carry blood.”

“Do I have arteries?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have arteries?”

“Yes.” He brushes a wet strand of hair from his face. “No more questions for now. I’ll have Rahadin begin incorporating anatomy lessons into your curriculum if you’re curious about the humanoid body.”

She beams up at him, her face a mixture of awe and affection.

Strahd watches her for a moment, something in him stirring—no matter how long it’s been, she still brings out a tenderness in him he never expected. It’s something he’ll have to keep an eye on lest his emotions get the better of him. As a ruler, he cannot be blinded by such things as affection. His foes would be eager to exploit that.

“In any case, you’ll bite there, on her neck, and then drink from the wound. Understood?” Strahd’s voice is steady, his eyes sharp, as Anastasia nods her head. He shifts his position, kneeling behind the cleric and pinning her shoulders to the ground. His grip is firm, ensuring she remains immobilized should she wake before the task is complete.

Anastasia leans forward, her small hands pressing gently against Adrirae’s chest for balance. Strahd feels a slight tremor in her body—not from fear, but from anticipation. Her fangs, still a bit clumsy from inexperience, press against the woman’s neck before she finally bites down.

The unconscious elf twitches, her body responding even as she remains still. Blood wells up, and Anastasia latches on with an eagerness that makes Strahd exhale sharply through his nose. It’s what he expected—she is young, driven more by instinct than skill. Her shoulders rise and fall rapidly as she drinks, too fast, too hungrily, like a starving creature finally sated.

Strahd places a steadying hand on the back of her head. “Slowly,” he instructs, his tone calm but firm. “Do not gulp.”

She makes a muffled sound that could be mistaken as a growl, but obeys, adjusting her rhythm. Strahd counts just a few seconds longer in his mind—he allows her just enough time to understand the feeling, the power of the blood pulsing through her.

“Enough,” he commands, his fingers tightening slightly against her scalp.

Anastasia whines, a high, petulant sound, and Strahd has to pull her away with more force than he would like. Her lips are stained red, cheeks flushed, and her breath comes in uneven, ragged gasps. A streak of blood runs down her chin, but she doesn’t seem to notice, lost in the exhilaration of the moment.

“That was—” she starts, voice thin with excitement.

“Addictive,” Strahd finishes for her, his gaze sharp as he wipes the mess from her chin with his thumb. “And dangerous. You must always be careful, Anastasia. If you drink too much, you will hurt yourself. For that reason, this shall be a very rare treat until you have more self-restraint.”

She blinks up at him, still looking dazed, but she nods slowly. Then her gaze flickers back to the cleric, to the small puncture wounds on her neck, and she frowns slightly. “She is not moving.”

“She’s alive,” Strahd assures her. “But weak.”

“Does that mean we can do that again?” she asks, eyes bright with curiosity.

Strahd chuckles, resting a hand atop her damp head. “In time, my dear.” His fingers trail briefly through her tangled red hair before he turns his attention back to the scene before them. “This one threatened you, however, and must be disposed of.” That, and even as well-behaved as she is, he doesn’t trust his daughter to not feed again the moment he turns his back.

He had considered turning her—a cruel punishment for the faithful, ensuring that her soul would never ascend. But she had abducted his sole heir. The last thing Strahd wants is to see her shrew-like face every day. No, much better to leave her rotting corpse for the worms. Or perhaps, he thinks with a smirk, he’ll spear her head and place it as a warning to all who dare oppose him.

With a swift motion, he wraps his hands around the elf’s head and twists. There’s a satisfying crack, and her death rattle—a slow, final exhale—passes from her lips. Adrirae is still.

The sound of footsteps, accompanied by heavy panting, breaks Strahd’s attention. He looks up, seeing Razim trotting down the hill, his brow glistening with sweat. Strahd stands, positioning himself protectively behind Anastasia, his hands settling on her shoulders.

Upon seeing them, Razim gasps for breath. “I… I finally caught up to you.”

Anastasia, still clinging to Strahd, presses herself tighter against him when Razim looks her way. “Oh, thank the gods, your child is safe.”

“The gods had nothing to do with her safety,” Strahd replies coldly. “I am the one who intervened.”

Razim’s response is quick, almost automatic. “Of course… Of course.” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand across his brow. Strahd watches him closely, waiting for the old man to gather his thoughts.

“I—” Razim begins, then hesitates, his eyes flickering to the still-warm corpse at their feet. A deep furrow forms between his brows, and this time, he doesn’t look away.

Slowly, he steps closer, kneeling beside Adrirae’s lifeless form. His fingers ghost over her throat, pressing lightly against the skin as though confirming what he already knows. He lets out a slow, measured breath before brushing his calloused hand over her face, closing her vacant eyes.

“She was a fool,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “Stubborn. Always so sure of herself.” He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “I’m assuming the others have shared a similar fate?”

“Yes,” Strahd answers simply.

Razim exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “They believed they were doing the right thing.”

“They all do,” Strahd says flatly, his tone almost detached.

“You are a rascal. But even then, it’s… It’s not right to harm a child. No matter who their father is.” For a long moment, Razim is silent. His fingers curl slightly against his knee, then relax. When he finally rises to his feet, he does so with the stiffness of age, a quiet grunt escaping him. He doesn’t look at Strahd immediately but instead shifts his attention to Anastasia.

She clings to Strahd’s side, her pupils wide, her fingers curling into the fabric of his pants. Her breath is steady now, but she watches Razim warily, her frame tense with uncertainty.

Razim studies her in silence before letting out a heavy sigh. “She is unharmed?”

Strahd inclines his head. “Yes.”

“Good. That’s good.” The old man’s gaze lingers on her, his expression unreadable. For a brief moment, his eyes flicker to the faint stain of red on her lips. His frown deepens, but wisely, he doesn’t voice his concerns. Instead, he says quietly, “From one father to another… Cherish this.”

Strahd remains still, his gaze unwavering.

Razim’s voice softens as he adds, “She will not always be this small. She will not always hide behind your legs, looking to you for protection. I remember when my children were young. It seems like I blinked, and they were having children of their own. I would give anything to spend those moments with them again.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air, heavier than they should be.

Anastasia shifts slightly, her fingers tightening before she tilts her face up to him. “Can we go home now?”

Strahd looks down at her, at the trust in her eyes, no longer burdened by doubt or fear. He brushes a hand over her curls, smoothing them back into place. “Yes,” he murmurs. “We can go home.” He turns his attention back to Razim. “Your… timely arrival has spared your life today. Leave, and don’t let me see you again.”

Razim’s eyes twitch, but he bows his head with reluctant obedience. “Yes. Of course.”

“The proper response is ‘thank you, Your Lordship.’”

Razim winces slightly but doesn’t argue. “Yes. Thank you, Your Lordship. But if I might ask a small request… Might I bring the bodies of these three—or what’s left of them—back to Barovia Village for a proper burial? They—”

“No,” Strahd interrupts, his tone decisive. “They conspired against me. There is no burial for traitors.”

The old man deflates, a weary sigh escaping him. “Ah. Yes. Of course.” Razim bows lower this time, his movements rigid, betraying the bitterness that simmers beneath his obedience. Strahd watches him, amused by the restraint in the old man’s posture. There is grief there, certainly, but also resignation.

Razim doesn’t ask again. Instead, he exhales slowly, gathering himself. “I will take my leave, then.”

Strahd inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Do.”

Razim hesitates for just a moment longer, his gaze flickering once more to Anastasia. He studies her face, perhaps searching for fear, for uncertainty—but he finds neither. She is pressed against Strahd’s side, her expression steady, unafraid.

Whatever Razim sees in her drains the last of his resolve. He turns without another word, his steps slow but purposeful as he makes his way down the hill. He does not look back.

Anastasia bounces on her toes, her voice barely a whisper. “Is he angry?”

“He is nothing,” Strahd replies simply, his voice cold. “Do not trouble yourself with the thoughts of lesser men.”

She nods, satisfied with the answer, and rests her head against him. Strahd allows himself a rare moment of stillness, of quiet, before he lifts her into his arms. She sighs into his shoulder.

He turns away from the bloodied grass, from the bodies left where they fell, and begins walking toward the distant silhouette of Castle Ravenloft.

“Come,” he murmurs. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

The full moon peeks through grime-covered windows, casting distorted beams of light across the time-worn halls of Castle Ravenloft. A cold breeze seeps in and rattles the panes of glass, but Strahd von Zarovich can hardly feel the chill that permeates his desacralized home. Long strides carry him up several flights of stairs toward the room that had once served as guest quarters. In recent years, the spacious room had been converted into a space more suitable for a child of noble blood—his child, to be precise.  

The closet, once kept bare save for the possessions of infrequent guests, had become filled with elaborate coats and dresses that would make even the richest denizens of Barovia blush. Several chests of toys now littered the space; while he himself frowned upon play—time that could be better spent studying—he had read in several books its importance in developing a child’s motor skills. Though he’d afforded ample spaces for play, Strahd had also ensured the inclusion of a large desk and bookshelf to promote mental growth as well. Most of the books were from his personal library; a child, he believed, would not learn from the bumbling antics of talking animals, but from reading the works of great authors of yore: Salvatore, Elminster, and the like. Through reading about the history of the valley, a noble child would be better suited for one day inheriting a throne. 

Strahd had known Anastasia was truly his child when she’d first expressed a keen interest in the arcane. She gravitated toward books that discussed the intricacies of spellcasting and the nature of the Weave—even if she did not fully understand them. When she was but a toddler, Strahd had indulged her by reading the more complicated tomes by her bedside. Now, at the age of nine, his child has begun tackling those grimoires on her own—much to his pride. 

His child. The words still sound so strange to him. Improbable, even. 

Like him, the girl has the spark of magic. From the very first notion of arcane aptitude, he’d begun having her tutored in the ways of spellcasting. Simple, useless spells that even the most harebrained could master, but magic nonetheless. When she could fully grasp the complexity of the Weave and its potential ramifications, then he would personally tutor her in more complex rituals. But for now, he would have to be satisfied with mere cantrips. 

While it perhaps may not be time to fully indulge in the Weave, Anastasia is finally of age to begin honing her other skills.  

With his heightened senses, he can hear muffled voices from within Anastasia’s room before he even reaches the top of the stairwell. Notably, he hears the calm, adenoidal voice of his chamberlain, Rahadin, droning on about how the pronunciation of Elvish differs from Common. Upon crossing the lounge, Strahd pauses outside the door to listen in. 

“Elvish is meant to roll off the tongue like water. Im tur- feel ha in i nen. You use your lips far too often, Anastasia, making it sound more like mud than water.” 

A small, higher-pitched voice replies, “How can I be expected to talk without moving my lips?!” 

“With practice. Humans far less intelligent than you have learned to speak Elvish decently enough.” 

There’s an exasperated groan from within. Strahd gives an amused smile. He knocks on the door—a mere courtesy—before opening it. He finds Rahadin sitting cross-legged on the floor across from Anastasia, whose legs are stretched out before her and crossed at the ankle. The dusk elf has a thick book propped open in his hand. The duo looks up when he enters. 

Anastasia’s red eyes light up. “Father!” Almost tripping in the process, she pushes herself up and comes to a halt before him. She curtsies, and Strahd ruffles her thick hair.  

“Hello, Anastasia.” 

“Master,” Rahadin greets.  

“I hope I am not interrupting anything.” Again, merely a courtesy; his matters always take priority. 

“Your presence is, as always, welcome,” says Rahadin. “We were in the midst of practicing Elvish.” 

“Oh?” Strahd turns his attention to the girl. “And what did you learn today, Anastasia?” 

She pauses for a moment, thinking, before puffing out her chest. “Wher’e were i librarui?” 

“Wher’e na- i librarui?” he and Rahadin correct in unison. The dusk elf shoots him a rare apologetic look. 

Anastasia’s face reddens. She quickly repeats the sentence with the correct phrasing. As he could have assumed from Rahadin’s muffled instruction, the girl’s pronunciation still needs work. Something to concern himself with, and a conversation to have with the dusk elf, later. Strahd goes to adjust the cuff of his shirt jutting from beneath a leather bracer. “Rahadin, are the two of you at a decent enough stopping point for today?” 

“Yes, my lord.” Rahadin snaps the book closed, his voice taking on an authoritative edge once more. “We shall resume your lessons tomorrow, Anastasia, where we’ll discuss changes in verb tense and continue practicing your pronunciation.” There’s a judgemental tone when he speaks the last word. Were it anyone else talking to his daughter in such a fashion, he would have their tongue removed.  

Strahd claps his hands together. “Good. There’s a full moon tonight, and the weather is clear. Put your armor on, Anastasia.” 

“My armor?” she parrots. “Will we be practicing combat again?”  

“Of a sort.” 

“Will you be watching us today, Father?” Anastasia asks. There's a hopeful glint behind her red eyes. 

Strahd chuckles. The zeal of children. “I thought I might do more than just watch. Today, I shall be instructing you.” 

Her eyes go wide. An excited energy washes over her, and she looks between him and Rahadin, who is standing once more with his arms crossed behind his back. An unbecoming grin spreads across her face. “I am going to go put my armor on right now!” she says giddily before zooming out of the room. As she reaches the door, she pauses, catching herself, and turns toward them. She curtsies. “Father. Your Excellency. May I be dismissed?” 

“You may.” 

Needing no further encouragement, Anastasia rushes out of the room toward the armory. When he hears the sound of her boots upon the stones of the stairwell, Strahd turns to address Rahadin once more. “Escort Anastasia to the courtyard when she is ready, where I will be waiting.” 

Rahadin bows. “Yes, my lord.” 

Without another word, Strahd turns to leave. 

The glow of the full moon sheds enough light across the courtyard that he does not need to solely rely on his darkvision. Waiting, Strahd paces back and forth. The ground is muddy from last night’s rain, but it hardly bothers him; it wasn’t uncommon for him to run drills in the midst of a thunderstorm, the rain stinging his eyes and the mud flooding his boots, when he was a young man. Two of his consorts, Ludmilla and Anastrasya, sit on the rotted stump of a tree beside him, a blanket spread across it to protect their finery. Rumor had quickly spread throughout the castle that he was to be the one training Anastasia today; no doubt the girl had told Ludmilla in her excitement. Beside them nervously sits a bedraggled middle-aged man with a metal collar and chain around his neck, the other end calmly held in Anastrasya’s hand. He doesn’t mind having an audience; keeping his consorts entertained on the occasion typically postpones their bored pestering for at least a few weeks.  

After a stretch of time, Strahd finally hears familiar footsteps approaching. The entrance door of Castle Ravenloft creaks open. Two figures, Rahadin and Anastasia, outlined in orange from the torches within, walk out. Anastasia has changed out of her elaborate red dress and now wears a simple dress shirt and trousers, a leather cuirass fitted on top. Her long, red hair has been intricately braided away from her face—Rahadin’s doing, no doubt. The dusk elf guides her forward before bowing and stepping away. He takes up a spot leaning against the protective walls of the courtyard to observe. 

Strahd stops pacing to look over the girl. Anastasia stands with the proper pin-straight posture of a lady, but he can still sense the giddy energy radiating off her. Her eyes briefly meet his, and she smiles before dropping them once more. “I am ready. What will we be learning today, Father?” 

Strahd hums. He's glad that his child has apparently inherited his thirst for knowledge. “Before we begin: a lesson.” He inhales. “No doubt you are aware that you and I are different from, say, Rahadin.” 

“Yes. He is an elf, and we are humans.” She chuckles. ”I am also a girl.” 

“...Yes.” It is partially true, so he cannot inherently correct her. “But there are other differences between us—namely our relationship with life.” 

Her curiosity is apparently piqued; Anastasia steps closer, her head tilting. 

Strahd continues, “You and I, we walk the fine line between life and death. We are neither truly alive nor dead, but undead. I am colloquially known as a vampire. Unlike Rahadin, I do not need to breathe. My hunger is not sated by bread and meat. I do not sleep as a human does, and my heart does not beat.” He places a hand above where his still heart rests for emphasis. “Being of my blood, you have inherited many of these same traits, it would seem.” 

Anastasia's brows furrow, an unspoken question on her tongue. 

“A question, Anastasia?” 

“Have you always been a vampire? Does that mean you are not a human?” 

It brings him small comfort that she had not recoiled from him as most others do upon learning about his nature. “It is… Complicated.” For a child, anyway. “I am human in appearance and upbringing only. I have not always been a vampire, but that is perhaps a story for another day.” 

She appears to chew on this for several moments. “...Am I a vampire? Is that why I drink blood and Rahadin does not” 

“Not quite.” It’s a question that he himself still has difficulty answering. Just what is it that makes one a vampire? His spawn, his creations, are clearly undead, yet his progeny still has that glow of humanity; he sees so much of Tatyana’s spark in her. She craves blood—he’s seen that bestial hunger in her eyes, too—but, unlike his spawn, he has watched her age before his very eyes. The Dark Powers have thankfully left Anastasia untouched. It is clear that there is something about his cursed blood that has not hindered her, but altered her. A boon, to be certain. A relief, even. 

He remembers with much fondness when he first laid eyes on his daughter. She bore the best traits of both he and Tatyana: the warmth of the sun manifested in her red hair and his spark of magic. It filled his non-beating heart with a joy he had not felt in a long while. Living, breathing proof of he and Tatyana’s love for one another, that she would endure the pains of labor and gift him such a treasure. Fatherhood was never something he had put much thought into; while it was his responsibility to sire a child and continue the Von Zarovich legacy, he’d anticipated dying on the battlefield long before he was at a point in life to sire children. Such was his fate as the oldest son of King Barov von Zarovich. In his fourth decade, when he’d spent his best years with sword in hand, he’d all but given up on the prospect.  

Yet she stands before him: Anastasia. His Anastasia. While he wishes Tatyana had not betrayed him and thrown their chances of raising their child together to the wind, he’s confident another chance for her to embrace motherhood will come. In time, Tatyana will come to know herself once more. But in the meantime, he has made it his duty to properly raise Anastasia as a child of the court. He will continue to tutor her in the ways of the arcane and the sword, feed her curiosity of the world around her, so that one day she may be worthy to inherit his throne. 

Anastasia shows promise, but there is still much for him to learn about her—just what it is she’s capable of and what she has inherited. As is the way of scholars, he will have to dedicate his time to studying the phenomenon further.  

Strahd continues, “Do not concern yourself with such labels, Anastasia. You are a Von Zarovich first and foremost.” 

Her frown deepens as if she is, in fact, still concerning herself with such labels. Ensnaring herself in the taxonomy their very nature defies. This will undoubtedly need to be a conversation they continue at a later time to ease her mind. Identity is important at this age from his understanding. 

“In any case, I believe you are at the age where we can begin to truly explore such talents.” Strahd begins to pace, his hand draped over the hilt of the sword at his hip. It brings to mind memories of when he had instructed his army in such a fashion. He crooks two fingers toward himself. “Come here.” 

His progeny steps forward. Strahd faces the outer castle wall, and he briskly steps toward it. His left foot leaves the ground and presses against the solid stone, followed by his right. As effortlessly as if he were a spider, the vampire begins to vertically scale the surface, his cloak dangling beneath him. His movements are confident, graceful. Once he is halfway up the wall, he turns around to look down at the young girl who is staring up at him wide-eyed. Strahd enunciates over the wind, “I said ‘come here,’ Anastasia.” 

Her gaze jumps between him and the structure before her. She presses a thumb into a pointed canine while she stares ahead, thinking. After a long while, she shouts back, “Simply… Walk up it? Like you did?” 

“Indeed.” 

The finger is back in her mouth. “Forgive me, Father, but I do not know if I can do that.” 

“You have not even tried, little one.” Strahd thinks about his own process, trying to recall the first time he had scaled a wall. It has been so long, however, that he finds it difficult. It’s not unlike trying to explain breathing—one simply does it. “Approach the wall with confidence. Use your hands if you must. Do not dig your fingers into the stone as one does when scaling but adhere via the Weave.” 

Anastasia blinks. Her shoulders raise when she inhales deeply. Tentatively, she takes a few steps forward until there is only an inch between her and the wall. She presses her hand against it and then another. Anastasia hops, and her boot uselessly scrapes against the stone when she tries to clamber up it. She tries again and again, hopping high enough to press both feet against the wall—only to slide back down. 

Her face pinched, she kicks the wall. 

Strahd calls down, “Temper. Calm yourself, Anastasia. Your mind must be clear.” 

“I cannot do it!” she protests.  

“As with anything, you must practice. Try again.” 

She gives a frustrated sigh before squeezing her eyes shut. The tension in her eyelids lessens, and her chest expands with measured breaths just as Rahadin had instructed her to do on the days when her temper gets the better of her (more often than Strahd would like). A beat passes, and her eyes open. Once more, she presses her hands, fingers splayed, against the stone. She jumps— 

And plummets back to the ground. Her boots sink into the mud with a wet squelch. 

Anastasia looks over her shoulder as if for the first time truly appreciating the audience that has gathered to observe her. Her face flushes, and Strahd notices the slightest tremble in her fingertips. 

The nobleman takes a deep breath of his own. Were this one of his soldiers, he would punish them for such errant displays of emotion. He’d force them to continue and withhold their meals until they showed adequate improvement. Persistent determination balanced with wisdom is always something he has sought in his troops. When he was Anastasia’s age, he’d practiced swordplay in the courtyard until his calloused hands cracked and bled with the hope of making his father proud. But this is not a soldier, and he is not his late father. This is his daughter. He crams the reminder into his head over and over with the hope of it abating his frustration.  

It does little to help.  

Forcing his mouth shut lest he lash out at the girl, Strahd turns his back to the group. His eyes roll back into his skull; he searches the recesses of his mind for the dark, psychic tendril that connects him to his spawn. He wades past several connections until he finds the one that tethers him to Ludmilla. 

You learned how to do this more recently than I. Guide her. 

As if a trigger had been pulled, Ludmilla quickly stands. Her white skirts billow in the breeze as she approaches Anastasia. Her ruby-painted lips pull back into a comforting smile. “This was hard for me on my first try, too.” Ludmilla places a hand on the girl’s thin shoulder, and Anastasia looks up at her. 

“Really?” 

“Mhm. It took me at least a moon before I felt anywhere close to confident climbing walls. If this is a power you possess, you will master it,” Ludmilla gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, ‘in time.” At that, the spawn takes a large step to the side before turning to the wall. She shakes out her wrists, inhales, and charges at the obstacle. When she is but two feet away, she leaps; her hands slap against the stone, the toes of her boots digging into it. Ludmilla climbs a few feet higher before staying put. Looking over her shoulder, she says, “Try jumping at the wall rather than walking up it. Sometimes panic can be enough of a motivating factor for latent powers to activate.” 

Strahd grunts and crosses his arms in front of his chest. It is times like these that he greatly appreciates his consort’s gentler, patient heart. While it does foster weakness, some do respond better to a gentle hand.  

Ludmilla’s voice is calm despite the whipping of the wind, “Close your eyes, Anastasia.” 

His child’s eyes briefly flicker to his before she obeys the command, her long eyelashes fluttering when she closes her eyes. 

“Search your mind for the Weave. Allow stillness to come over you, and see if you can feel its gentle tug.” After a long pause, she asks, “Do you feel it?” 

“...I think so, yes.” 

“Good. Grab hold of it and do not let go. When you feel ready, suck a deep breath into your lungs until it feels like they are going to burst—and try again.” 

Anastasia’s eyes open. Strahd does not miss the look of apprehension behind her red irises, but it is soon replaced with a look of determination. Her fists ball at her sides. Once more, the girl runs at the wall and leaps. Palms and boots slap against stone, and she begins to slide back down—until she’s suspended five inches from the ground. She shakes her head as if incredulous before looking up, her eyes searching for his. Anastasia beams up at him, a wide grin on her face. “I did it, Father!” she shouts. 

Ludmilla responds before he has a chance. “Well done, Anastasia!”  

Strahd is not impressed; the bare minimum is undeserving of praise. Though it is helpful to know that his child is at least capable of clinging to walls like a red-haired lizard. “Now climb,” he orders. 

The fire behind her eyes immediately dies. Uncertainty more than apparent in her motions, she extends a shaky arm upward—and immediately slides the rest of the way down the wall.  

Strahd frowns. “Again.”  

His consort’s voice rings out again. “It’s okay, Anastasia. Try again.” 

Annoyance prickles his scalp. Ludmilla’s voice is beginning to grate on his nerves, and Strahd does not appreciate being undermined. Her coddling would only replace the girl’s reticence with equally hindering arrogance. He glares at the top of Ludmilla’s head, his displeasure radiating through their mental connection. She quickly glances up at him and shrugs her shoulders before skittering back down the wall and resuming her previous post beside Anastrasya.  

Once more, Anastasia steps away, sucks in a breath, and leaps at the wall. Once more she slides, but this time she is able to stop herself sooner. And once more, as soon as she reaches that hand out to begin climbing upward, she plummets back to the ground. Anastasia tries several more times, filling up the better part of an hour and clinging more and more surely each time, but still she is unable to do the part that actually matters: climbing.  

“Enough,” Strahd huffs. Even his patience has limits. He walks back down the wall, trying to keep his expression neutral all the while, until he’s standing back on the ground before his daughter. She refuses to meet his eyes. 

“I am sorry if I disappointed you, Father.” 

The muscles in his jaws tense. “We’ve learned that you’ve inherited the ability to climb walls. That is good. You will continue to practice this in addition to your routine sword training. Understood?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Good.” He sighs through his nose. “Let us move on, then, to something you have more experience with: the blade. You brought your equipment with you, yes?” 

Her dour mood immediately brightens. “Yes!” Anastasia scampers off to where Rahadin is leaning against the wall. As she approaches, he holds out a leather sheath. She takes the equipment from him with a small curtsy before eagerly fastening it to the belt at her waist and running back to Strahd. 

The nobleman points a clawed finger at the nervous man in tattered clothing sitting beside his consorts. “Do you see that man?” 

She nods. 

“He will be your challenger today.” 

Anastasia squints as she looks him over. “Forgive me, Father, but he is so… Skinny. He looks terribly frightened.” 

“A cornered animal can and will bite. You must learn to never underestimate your opponent. Anastrasya?” 

“Yes?” Both Anastrasya and Anastasia reply in unison. He doesn’t miss the sour glare Anastrasya shoots the child.  

Strahd clears his throat. “Anastrasya. Bring our guest over.” 

The vampire spawn leans toward the man to whisper in his ear. His pale eyes go wide, darting between her and Anastasia. She grabs a shortsword resting beside her and shoves it into the man’s hands before standing, jerking the chain along with her. The man yelps in surprise but follows with the sword held tightly in trembling hands. Even from a distance, his body reeks of sweat. There’s a haughty air to Anastrasya’s voice when she speaks, “I’ve told our friend here that should he defeat our young lady, he can earn his freedom.”  

The excited air about Anastasia quickly becomes one of trepidation. Up until now, the girl has only practiced her swordplay with Rahadin and occasionally Escher, his third consort. Despite the age difference between her and the most recent addition to his larders, he has faith in her. She’s a Von Zarovich, after all. Tactical prowess runs strong in her blood. The girl had learned from one of the best swordsmen second to only himself. From what he’s witnessed during her practice sessions, she shows promise. Now, it is her turn to prove herself with an actual opponent. 

“Assume your stance, Anastasia. Do not disappoint me,” says Strahd. 

His threatened disappointment appears to motivate her, as the girl quickly puts space between them and draws her sword. Her stance widens, and she grips the ornate weapon with both hands.  

Anastrasya reaches out to undo the chain from the man’s collar, giving him one last mocking pat on the back before pushing him forward. She calls out, “Indeed. Don’t disappoint my husband, girl.” 

The young girl gives a quick sneer back in response. 

Anastasia grips the hilt of her sword, her knuckles blanching. The older man stands across from her, his weathered face etched with concern. There’s evident fear in his eyes, but there is something else, too—a flicker of determination mixed with a tinge of regret. Judging from his poor posture and the weak-wristed grip on his blade, it’s more than apparent that this man is inexperienced in the ways of combat. Though perhaps his size advantage may make this more of a fair fight. That, and fear can be a very, very motivating factor, Strahd has learned over the centuries. 

A clear night, the moon overhead casts long shadows that dance across the grassy clearing where they stand. Anastasia squares her shoulders; Strahd can hear her little heart pounding away in her chest like a bird desperate to flee. 

Strahd says over the wind, “You may begin.” 

Anastasia bows to her opponent, who in turn continues to stare at her, bottom lip quivering. With a swift inhale, Anastasia takes the short sword in one hand and dashes forward. Her feet move deftly as she executes a series of precise strikes. The fervent union of steel echoes through the air as the prisoner desperately parries her blows. His movements are hesitant, his posture shaky, but he holds his ground—much to Strahd’s surprise. 

Anastasia's determination surges as she presses on, her sword dancing with a grace that belies her age. Strahd can see similarities between Anastasia and Rahadin in how she deftly dances around her target in search of an opening. 

The older man's breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to keep up with Anastasia's relentless assault. Sweat dots his forehead, his grip on his sword growing weaker by the second. He thrusts forward, and the girl is barely able to sidestep the attack in time. The fear in his eyes has been replaced with the look of a wild animal—wide-eyed, feral. Desperate. When his next lunge misses, he sidesteps to kick Anastasia in the side of her knee with considerable force. The young girl gives a grunt of pain. Strahd cannot discern if he heard the snap of bone over the fear and frustration catching in her throat. Unable to regain her balance, she tumbles to the mud, wisely dropping her sword so as to not accidentally impale herself. There’s little time for her to catch her breath when the prisoner begins stabbing downward with a savage cry as if trying to spear a fish.  

Strahd can feel Ludmilla’s gaze boring into the side of his head, urging him to call the fight off. Strahd’s affect remains steady. He’s more intrigued than worried. 

Anastasia rolls away from the blows. She grabs her sword as she springs back to standing with the vigor of youthfulness. Not unlike a pig wallowing in filth, the child is now caked in mud, the red of her hair now a dull brown. Yet the red of her eyes still shines brightly in the relative darkness. The prisoner lunges at her again; with a final, swift strike, she disarms the older man, the point of her sword coming to rest at his throat. A triumphant smile tugs at the corners of her lips, her chest heaving with exertion. 

"Yield," she says, her voice steady with newfound pride. The older man pauses before nodding slowly, melancholic acceptance crossing his features. Anastasia lowers her sword just as the prisoner drops his. 

The stillness of the night is replaced with Ludmilla’s pleased clapping; even Anastrasya gives a few slow claps. His daughter turns to him, her face beaming beneath the mud. She’s looking for praise. For acknowledgement.  

With long strides, Strahd steps forward—right past his daughter. His sudden approach must have startled them, as the defeated prisoner swiftly turns to watch him. When their eyes meet, the vampire stares past the tired blue irises and straight into the center of the man’s being. In his mind, he searches for that inexplicable spark of life and feels himself wrap around it like a wet blanket when he extends his influence. The prisoner’s eyes become dull, his expression stone.  

“Anastasia,” Strahd breathes, “come here.” 

The girl obeys, coming to a stop a few inches beside him. There’s a curious air about her. 

“Your lesson is not yet finished. You remember how I stated that I do not subsist on bread and meat, yes? Creatures such as I… Just as Ludmilla, Anastrasya, Escher… We can only feed upon the blood of thinking creatures for sustenance. For better or for worse, my child, it would seem you’ve inherited this same craving. The glass of blood you are given with supper may suffice for now, but as you grow into a woman, so will your appetites. You will crave blood like a parched man craves water and it will never. Be. Enough. From this day on, you shall feed from the larders of Ravenloft as the rest of us do.” The nobleman strokes the man’s weathered cheek with the back of his hand; he doesn’t flinch but gently tilts his head. “The Von Zarovich family owns everything in this valley—its people included. They exist to serve their communities, to nurture their families. And when the time comes… To nurture us with the life that courses through their veins. That is our right as the conquerors of Barovia.” 

Beside him, Anastasia shifts from foot to foot. A palpable unease emanates from her. 

“Anastasia, your final task for today is to feed upon this man. Know what it means to truly nourish that dark urge that slumbers inside you just as it does me.” 

“What?” There’s an incredulous tone to her voice. “You mean, eat him? To death?” 

“Not eat—drink. Use your fangs. Bite his throat and sup, just as we practiced the night you were kidnapped. What you experienced then was but a taste. This shall be a proper meal."

"I hardly remember anything from that night! That was so long ago!"

"I can lead you to this stream, but instinct must do the rest, my child.” With little force needed, Strahd braces the man against his frame and gently lowers him to the ground, his head propped in the crook of his arm. The human’s eyes roll about sluggishly in his pronounced skull. Strahd moves the hand on his cheek down to his neck, resting the smooth back of his claw against his thrumming carotid pulse for emphasis. His own gums ache with the desire to feed; he ignores the urge for now. 

Anastasia presses the pad of her thumb against a fang—a nervous habit. Her other hand worries the bottom hem of her shirt. After a moment, she says in a small voice, “Will this hurt him?” 

“Like a pinprick. Then, they feel nothing at all. Some even find it pleasurable.” His voice deepens. “A peasant’s role is ultimately to serve their lords and ladies. I’ve taught you this since you were a babe, Anastasia.” 

Another beat of hesitance, and Anastasia crouches down. Her eyes wander across the prisoner’s face as if taking in every detail. Strahd wonders if he, too, had once been so concerned about the suffering of others. Before he’d been changed by the horrors of war. Yet that had been a literal lifetime ago; he remembers little of his state of mind as a young man.  

Her head cranes downward. Anastasia’s red eyes flicker up to his, seeking confirmation. Strahd nods with bated breath. For a moment, her lips rest against the man’s carotid artery as if she is feeling its pulse—or waiting for him to resist. No resistance comes, however. Just as the vampire had intended. There’s a sharp intake of breath from Anastasia, and her fangs pierce the delicate skin of his neck. There’s a soft sigh from the man, his fists balling at his sides.  

Strahd continues holding the man as Anastasia feeds. The girl merely laps at the new puncture wounds at first, but her actions soon become insistent. Greedy. Her lips latch onto his throat and she feeds hungrily, high-pitched whines torn from her chest. For the first time since he’d originally laid eyes on his child, pride swells in his chest. Strahd rests his hand on the back of Anastasia’s head, encouraging her. She growls at the touch, but her possessiveness is quickly forgotten in her bloodlust. 

His child. 

The color begins to leech from the older man’s face, his eyes fluttering shut. The bestial voice in the back of Strahd’s mind, starving, grows louder at the smell of iron in the air. More intrusive and insistent. He needs to feed. As much as he enjoys watching his progeny give in to that animalistic urge, he needs to act soon or there will be nothing left for him. Strahd roughly grabs the prisoner by the forearm and brings it to his lips. With no hesitation, he bites into the radial artery, relishing the sanguine warmth that gushes across his tongue. The dark urge in the back of his mind quiets, and the world becomes a droll buzz while he, too, feeds ravenously.  

The two of them, father and daughter, feed until the moon dips below the horizon and the man’s veins run dry. 

Chapter Text

Carrots. Bread. Radishes. Onions. Lentils. 

Rahadin, the chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft, throws his furred cloak over his shoulders and fastens it with a brooch. 

Carrots. Bread. Radishes. Onions. Lentils. Potatoes? Yes, potatoes. The latest batch had gone bad, he recalls. Over and over he repeats his list lest he forget something important. His memory is sharp as ever—a blessing in his line of work—but it is better to be safe than sorry. The fewer trips he has to make into town, the better. 

Carrots. Bread. Radishes. Onions. Lentils. Potatoes.  

Rahadin catches movement from the corner of his eye. It’s not an anomaly in a castle inhabited by rats and giant spiders, unfortunately, and he presses on down the hall of Castle Ravenloft. Suddenly, a humanoid figure drops down before him from the ceiling. Rahadin jumps—he actually yelps, much to his embarrassment—and his hand instinctively goes for the scimitar at his hip.  

Giggling meets his ears. The figure rises. It brushes red locks of its hair aside, revealing the face of Anastasia von Zarovich, his master’s daughter. “Apologies. I did not mean to startle you.” 

His heart pounding, Rahadin glares daggers at the young lady of the castle. “I don’t know what else your intention could have been dropping from the ceiling like an insect!” 

“Again, my apologies.” 

“People of nobility don’t crawl on walls, Anastasia,” Rahadin grumbles.  

She tilts her head slightly. “Father does it.” 

“That’s diff—” Rahadin stops himself. There’s no point in arguing with children. He calls upon the reserves of his patience. “Did you need something, my lady?” 

“Not especially. I completed the reading you assigned for today, and I thought I would stretch my legs a little.” Anastasia nods her head in his direction. “You have your riding breeches on. Are you going somewhere?” 

Curse her and her perceptive nosiness. “Yes. Like you, I have finished my work for today and was planning on going to Barovia Village.” 

“Barovia Village? Why? I thought you hated going into town.” 

“A necessary evil. Unlike most occupants of this castle, I need solid, perishable food for sustenance.” If there’s a bit of flatness in his tone, then so be it. 

“Oh.” Anastasia blinks. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense. May I come with you?” 

Such eagerness for something that is merely a mundane weekly chore for him. “Shopping?” 

“Yes!” 

“No.” As much as he doesn’t enjoy the activity itself, he does cherish the peace and quiet it affords him. If his master’s overly inquisitive child were to join him, then he’d be missing out on the single part he does enjoy. 

“Please, Rahadin?” Anastasia’s eyes widen like those of a dog pleading for scraps. “I have been feeling so cooped up as of late. The change of pace would be nice, and it has been some time since I have been to Barovia Village.” 

Rahadin’s lips press into a thin line. “The road to Barovia Village is a dangerous one. Rogues, brigands, pickpockets… People that would have no qualms with harming a little girl.” 

Her chest puffs up. “Forgive me, but I am not little anymore, Rahadin! I am 14, practically a woman! I can defend myself should the need arise.” 

“And I am over four centuries old. You are a child.” 

She tilts her head. Rahadin can practically hear the gears in her brain turning. Scheming, no doubt. “I shall ask my father if he trusts me in your company. I can think of no one else that would be a more suitable bodyguard!” Before he can object, Anastasia dashes down the hall. 

His words catch in his throat. All he can shout is, “Ladies do not run in hallways, Anastasia!” She slows into a brisk walk instead, but already she is far ahead of him. Rahadin huffs and follows. By the time he’s caught up to her, Anastasia has already pushed open the double doors to the study. He walks in on the dhampir already mid-conversation with her father.  

Strahd is laid out upon one of the chaise lounges, a book in his hands. His black eyes briefly flicker up to meet his when Rahadin steps into the room. 

“—which leads me to my question. Father, would it be okay if I accompanied Rahadin to Barovia Village? I trust him to keep me safe.” 

Through a wordless wide-eyed stare, Rahadin does his best to convey the words please say no to the nobleman. Strahd smirks, perhaps acknowledging his understanding, before replying, “I don’t see the harm in it. If you remain diligent in your training, perhaps one day the roles will reverse and you will be protecting my chamberlain.” 

Ouch. Anastasia positively beams at the comment. “Do you truly think so?” 

“One day. You’ve been improving in the ways of the Weave, but it will still be some time before you can match him in the blade.”  

A small compliment, he supposes. It does nothing to dim her glow. “Thank you for the kind words, Father.” 

“Do not let it get to your head. Many great soldiers have been felled by their ego.” 

She bows her head. “Of course.”  

Rahadin attempts to keep his inner turmoil from reflecting on his face. He mirrors Anastasia’s bow. “I shall protect her with my life, Your Lordship.” 

“Of that I have no doubt. Anastasia, go put on your riding clothes. I certainly do not need to remind you that even though he is of a lesser title, you are to heed his words at all times.” 

“Of course. May I be dismissed?” Despite the formality of her words, Rahadin doesn’t miss the way she occasionally bounces on her toes in excitement.  

“You may.” 

Needing no further encouragement, the lordling leaves for her quarters. Once the door clicks shut behind her, Strahd turns his attention toward him. The dusk elf can practically feel the smug expression burning into the side of his head. Strahd always has derived a certain pleasure from needling him, making a game out of seeing him break. He’s silent as if waiting for Rahadin to challenge his decision. No words come, however; as much as his master’s rulings may frustrate him at times, he would never dare question them. It doesn’t stop him from squinting his eyes at the lord of Barovia, however, knowing full well that he’s one of the few privileged enough to be impudent with him on the occasion. Strahd is more than aware of his dislike of playing nanny. His particular skill set aligns more closely with that of warrior and teacher than entertainer.  

“My lord.” With a final nod, Rahadin leaves to catch up with Anastasia. 

“Could I have a steed like yours someday?” 

Rahadin raises his voice over the billowing of wind in his ears. “If you keep up your arcane studies, my lady, then that day may come sooner rather than later.”  

The fog hangs heavy in the air, cloaking the landscape in a silvery veil. Evergreens loom like silent sentinels, their branches obscured by wisps of mist. A chorus of thrushes fills the air with their calls, their song muffled by the tree cover. In the distance, the outline of hills fades into obscurity, swallowed by the ethereal embrace of the fog. 

Anastasia stretches forward to pat the shaggy black mane of her horse. The sound of its hooves almost overpowers her words. “The horses at the stable are wonderful, but I do think I would like to have a spectral steed. If I understand correctly, they do not need to eat, they are loyal, and they can be summoned at a moment’s notice. They must be quite cost-efficient.” 

“Indeed.” As if Anastasia has ever had to worry about finances a day in her life, Rahadin thinks to himself. That’s one of the perks of Strahd insisting they keep a financier on staff.  

“Could I ask you what I hope is not too personal a question, Rahadin? It is related to my studies, I promise.” 

“You may ask it, but I am under no obligation to answer.” 

“Of course.” She inhales. “To my understanding, you do not dedicate time to studying the Weave. Why is it, then, that you are able to conjure spectral mounts and teleport?” 

An interesting question, one that he has pondered himself many a time. “Elves have a natural inclination toward not only nature, but the Weave. Magic naturally flows through our veins. These are gifts that were passed down to us by Corellon Larethian. Speaking of,” Rahadin pauses, “What is Corellon’s domain, Anastasia?” 

The girl hums, thinking. “Art and magic. They inhabit Arvandor.” 

“Correct.” He continues, “I cannot speak for all of my ilk, of course, but certain spells come naturally to me without much forethought or practice—typically out of necessity.” 

“Interesting! I wish I could cast spells without practice.” 

“While you may not have elven proclivities, the Weave still rolls in your veins. Your father is one of the most impressive spellcasters I’ve had the honor of witnessing, and it seems you’ve inherited that spark.” 

He can hear the smile in her tone of voice. “Father is very talented, yes. I only hope I can be a fraction as powerful as him someday.” 

“Perhaps. Though all things with practice. Even His Lordship had to spend countless hours flipping through dusty tomes to hone his craft.” 

Cloud cover casts a somber hue over the town. Barovia Village, particularly when compared to the dour yet bustling atmosphere of Vallaki, is a quaint place. Its people are simple, shackled by their fears of what lies outside the town walls. It’s this fear that causes them to solely work during what constitutes daylight in Barovia. When the sun, heavily obscured by cloud cover, nears the horizon, its citizens frantically scramble inside their aged timber-frame homes like scattering ants to wait out the night. It’s for that reason that Rahadin has gotten into the habit of traveling to Barovia Village at first light: to ensure that he gets the widest selection of produce, of course, but primarily to ensure that the stalls are open in the first place.  

The two of them hop off of their steeds, Rahadin disappearing his and taking the reins from Anastasia. Silently, they navigate the narrow cobblestone streets that wind their way around tightly packed buildings. Rahadin can feel eyes burning into the back of his head, a sensation that, unfortunately, he’s grown quite used to. And even if he wasn’t used to the stares, they would hardly bother him; so rarely do spiders bother themselves with the opinions of flies, and the citizens of Barovia Village are no exception. The older folks watch him from their doorways with vigilante fear. The children—disgusting things—hardly seem to notice their elders’ apprehension; they dart back and forth across the streets, their laughter mingling with the distant tolling of the church bell. 

From the corner of his eye, Rahadin notices Anastasia watching the children with a smile. There’s an eager energy about her, as if she, too, longs to join their play. Yet she remains at his side. A wise decision; if she wishes to be treated as an adult, then she must act as an adult. And adults certainly don’t run around screaming and making a mess of things with their slobbery antics.  

They make their way to the central square for the morning market. Stalls line the square with merchants hawking their wares amidst the bustle of townsfolk going about their routines. The scent of freshly baked bread mingles with the stench of horses from the nearby stable. A few of the merchants call out to Anastasia specifically, shouting out if the ‘young lady’ would like their vases, their cuts of meat, their various useless baubles.  

“Stay close, Anastasia,” Rahadin murmurs to her. 

Anastasia gives each of them a curt nod but remains at his side. It’s hard to infer how she’s feeling amidst the chaos. Rahadin’s hand remains on the hilt of his scimitar just in case; he has no qualms with removing a hand should someone dare reach for his coin purse. 

Upon reaching the food vendors, Rahadin is quick to purchase his groceries. He’s never been one for small talk, and thankfully none of them try to make conversation with him. 

It’s as he’s putting the last of his onions into a sack that he notices Strahd’s daughter is no longer at his side. His heart rate quickens. He peels away from the stall and scans the area. Thankfully, Anastasia’s red hair stands out against the dull colors of Barovia Village, and he finds the girl stationed in front of another stall. Huffing, Rahadin marches over to her. He resists the urge to grab her shoulder—His Lordship would not be keen on him handling his daughter—but leans over to hiss in her pointed ear, “What did I say, Anastasia?” 

The girl jumps. Wide-eyed, she looks to Rahadin. “Apologies! This stall caught my eye, and I did not think it was too far away!” 

“It’s far away enough for a pickpocket to exploit a child.” She does not protest this time at the descriptor. Rahadin straightens and throws his bag of produce over his shoulder. His eyes drift over the market stall that appears to belong to some sort of tailor or trapper. Various furred garments made from the pelts of wolves and sables line the wooden table. The dusk elf frowns; Strahd will not be happy to hear that his four-legged children of the night are being turned into gloves of all things. “Do you need new clothing?” Rahadin doesn’t miss how the vendor stands a little taller at the question. 

“Need? Oh, no. I have plenty of warm clothes, which I am very grateful for. But…” Anastasia shifts from foot to foot before pressing her thumb against one of her pointed canines.  

Rahadin makes a mental note to scold her later for putting her hands in her mouth. “Speak your piece.” 

“I was merely admiring this ushanka. It is beautiful, is it not?” 

“Crafted from the finest sable pelts in Barovia,” says the vendor with a nod of his head, which earns him a glare from the dusk elf.  

Rahadin has never comprehended concepts such as vanity. As a soldier, he’s always preferred practicality. Beautiful silks and jewelry would not keep one alive on the battlefield, after all. Despite this, the lord of Barovia insists on his household, and especially his daughter, being regally dressed—especially if they are to show themselves in public. It’s a practical enough hat as far as warmth is concerned, he supposes… “How much for the ushanka?” 

The vendor answers immediately, “Two gold.” 

“Two gold?” Rahadin fights to restrain his incredulousity. Two gold is more wealth than most Barovians see in a moon. No doubt the swindler took one look at his regal clothing—the clothing Strahd insisted he wear—and made the unwise choice to spike the price. He’s being swindled, but Rahadin does not have the desire to argue (or threaten). His lips press into a thin line as he reaches into his coin purse. He hands two gold coins decorated with the profile of his master to the man. “Fine. Anastasia, take your hat.” 

“Really?” The dhampir rises on her toes, red eyes bright. “Thank you so much, Rahadin!” 

“It’s your father’s coin.” 

With a polite nod of her head to the merchant, Anastasia plucks the brown-furred ushanka from the shelf and pulls it over her red hair, effectively covering the slightly pointed tips of her ears. She does a small spin for him as if showing off her new look. Rahadin chooses not to react. 

“What do you think?” 

He sighs. “It looks warm, my lady.” 

“It is! Would you like to try it on?” When the dusk elf raises a single eyebrow, she quickly sobers from her excitement. Her eyes drop, and she shifts her attention to straightening the hat on her head. 

Rahadin asks, “I’ve purchased what I came for. Is there anything else you need while we’re in town?” 

“I do not believe so, no.” 

“Let us be off, then. The stench of unwashed masses is giving me a headache.” The chamberlain offers the reins back to Anastasia, who gratefully accepts them. 

The ride back to Castle Ravenloft is a quiet one. This time, Anastasia does not berate him with questions. A part of Rahadin wonders if he has said something to offend the girl, but he is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He takes it as an opportunity to enjoy the silence. The rhythmic clopping of horse hooves lulls him into a feeling of calm; he’s always felt more at peace when out and about than confined to castle walls.  

Overhead, the sky hangs heavy with gray clouds. The imposing silhouette of the castle looms ahead, its dark spires piercing the dull sky like jagged teeth. A light drizzle falls around them—not enough to soak through their clothes, thankfully, but enough to be a nuisance. It’s as the two of them are veering off the beaten path to wind up the mountainside that Rahadin hears the panicked chirps of a thrush. Three birds scatter from the brush about 80 feet away. Never tearing his gaze from the growth, the dusk elf brings his steed to a halt and motions for Anastasia to do the same. “ On your guard, ” he whispers to her in Elvish. 

Five humans, with little grace after losing the element of surprise, rise up from behind a cropping of bushes. All five are armed and armored, Rahadin notes. Two archers, three melee fighters. One of them balances a glaive in their hands.  

“What do we have here?” an ugly, bearded man sneers. “Looks like two of the Devil’s pets to me.” 

“Bet they got full pockets!” a female archer adds. 

Brigands. His pulse hammers. Not for his own safety, but for that of Anastasia. The girl is more than capable of handling herself, but he doesn’t like to take chances when she is involved. “I am Rahadin, chamberlain of your lord and master, Count Strahd von Zarovich. You shall let us pass.” 

“What, and let you run back to your castle so the Devil can cast his evil spells on us? Unlikely.” The bearded man stands straighter and spits on the ground. “How’s about this: you empty your pockets for us, and we let you go. Simple as that. Otherwise, me and my friends here have no issue removing a few more demons from Barovia.” 

Why is it always the weak ones with an ego? He’s not the first human to underestimate him and, unfortunately, will not be the last, he suspects. The mental gymnastics they must be going through to think they stand a chance at grifting them… Their armor is poorly fitted, poorly crafted. The stance of the third fighter with the short sword is all wrong. It’s laughable, really. But all it takes is one stray arrow, one poorly parried strike, to down the young dhampir. 

Rahadin slides off his horse and dismisses it with a wave of his hand. His jaw tenses. “Counter offer: our possessions remain on our person, and I let you scurry back to whichever rat hole you call a home. If not, I’m confident my master would appreciate five new thralls.” 

His words seem to sober the two archers. They shift in place, lowering their bows slightly. The man in front, however, snorts. “Seems like we’re at an impasse then.” One of the archers attempts to say something to him, but the brute is quick to silence him with a wave of his hand. 

“Anastasia,” Rahadin says firmly, “ride back to the castle.” His eyes never leave the group in front of him. 

“And leave you here to deal with these ruffians? I think not!” 

The longer they stand before him brandishing their weapons, the more danger it imposes upon the girl. His lord had entrusted him with her safety. To see harm befall her would be a failure of the utmost severity on his end. Not bothering to keep his voice steady, he snarls, “Listen to me! You are to leave at once! Am I understood?” He turns to stare her down. 

“But—” 

“Am I understood?!” 

A pregnant pause hangs in the air. “...Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Then go.”  

Anastasia’s brows are knitted. The thumb of her left hand is back on those damned fangs again, her right worrying at the reins. Finally, she gives a small nod of her head. Rahadin sighs in relief when he hears the cracking of reins. From the corner of his eye, he watches her horse turn back toward the castle.  

The sound of a bowstring being pulled catches his attention, and his blood freezes in his veins. The female archer has her bow raised and pointed at Anastasia. Acting on instinct, Rahadin barks out an incantation in Elvish; a silvery mist quickly engulfs him, and suddenly he’s standing beside the archer. He barrels into her side. The arrow is let loose, and it whizzes right over Anastasia’s head. Her horse rears up onto its hind legs, and the dusk elf is only half cognizant of her trying to calm the animal. In the same motion, Rahadin draws his scimitar and, catching the archer off-guard, plunges his blade just beneath her underarm. The axillary vein and tendons are severed. He pulls his blade away in an arc of hot blood. 

All hell breaks loose the moment her bow clatters to the ground. With a roar, the bearded human runs forward, ax in hand. Despite his build, he’s surprisingly quick—but he’s quicker. Rahadin raises his scimitar, holding it horizontal and taking an offensive stance. When the ax-fighter is in range, Rahadin lunges forward. The human dodges the attack and brings the edge of his ax down onto the flat of his blade, catching him off balance. The sound of steel on steel bounces off the trees as their weapons collide; deceptively quick, and deceptively skilled. The muscles in his arms burn as he uses his blade to parry the heavier weapon away; he’s more than aware that it’d only take one heavy cleave of that weapon to send him crumpling. Despite the danger, he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. The battlefield is where he feels alive. The idea that his next breath may be his last propelling him forward. While he’s deeply honored to serve Strahd as chamberlain, he feels far more at home on a battlefield than behind a desk. 

In truth, he’s been itching to spill blood since this lot first showed their face. It’s been some time since his blade has been oiled with the blood of his foes. Combat drills with Anastasia are enjoyable, but at the end of the day they are mere child’s play. Skilled as she is, his attacks are to demonstrate, not to maim. But he has no issue with severing this group’s heads from their necks. The sheer audacity of them to endanger the child of Count Strahd von Zarovich… It’s a lethal mistake, one that he has every intention of making them pay for.  

As his attacker lunges forward, Rahadin sidesteps the blow and counters with a swift elbow to the throat. The enemy staggers back, gasping for air. He takes advantage of the opening to draw his scimitar along his throat, severing an artery in the process. Blood stings his eyes, but he pushes through it to charge toward the next human. The other archer shoots at him. An arrow thuds into his studded leather armor and threatens to steal the air from his lungs; the angle causes the tip to not pierce the leather, but he’s certain he’s going to have a bruise on the morrow from the impact. More arrows whistle through the air. Rahadin ducks and weaves, narrowly avoiding the deadly projectiles as he closes in on his enemies. His laughter fills the air, his sadistic pleasure fueling his efforts. 

Rahadin slashes at his second melee opponent, his blade bouncing off a steel pauldron when the woman with the short sword turns just in time. The elf's movements are fluid and precise, a dance of death that leaves his foes struggling to keep up. With his parrying knife, he jabs it into the armor gap along her inner thigh. She cries out in pain, her right knee buckling. Before Rahadin can follow up, however, the flash of a glaive catches his attention. He mutters in Elvish once more; when he reappears in that cloud of mist, the back of the glaive-wielder is in full view. The dusk elf slashes at the exposed back of his knees, causing him to crumple with a wheeze of pain. Rahadin follows him down to drive his parrying dagger into the back of his neck and through the dense cord of muscle; he can feel the satisfying pop as he digs it into the spinal column. This one won’t be getting up any time soon, he thinks with dark amusement. 

The moment he’s back on his feet, searing pain suddenly radiates throughout his left arm. Having pierced all the way through, the end of an arrow juts out just above his elbow. Blood soaks into the dark blue of his doublet. There’s little time to assess the damage, however, before a heavy weight barrels into his back. Stars fill his vision when his back collides with the ground, irritating his arrow wound even further. The dirt-caked face of a human woman—the one with the short sword—fills his vision. Her expression is one of disbelief followed by growing smugness at the realization that she now has the upper hand. Rahadin seethes through his teeth at the ever-increasing pain in an attempt to focus, damn you! The woman moves to straddle him, pinning him with her weight. She raises the sword high over her head. 

“Die, demon!”  

Rahadin can barely hear her past the pain-fueled buzzing in his ears. 

Just as she’s about to bring that sword down, a bolt of fire collides with her chest. He can feel the intense heat, threatening to singe off his eyebrows, coming off it when the woman’s hair catches fire. She screeches and rolls off him in a frantic attempt to squelch the flames. Another bolt follows, silencing her screams. It gives Rahadin enough time to push himself back onto his feet. Blood oozes down his forearm. Through the glow of the fire, he watches as Anastasia jumps into the fray, sword in hand. The air smells noxious with burnt hair. 

A bubble of fury rises in his chest; he thought he’d made it perfectly clear that she was to go back to the castle, not try and play the hero! 

A change of plans; regrettably, he needs to end this faster than he would like. The longer the dhampir is in the open like this, the higher the chances she’s going to take an arrow to the chest. He wouldn’t put it past these barbarians to harm a noble child, and he's not confident in his ability to protect her from arrow fire. It will be an easy fight once he can get close—the chorus of screams from his scimitar will see to that—but closing the gap will prove difficult. And there’s not enough time for him to draw his own bow.  

“Anastasia! Get back!” He doesn’t bother hiding the anger in his voice. Yet the child ignores him. 

With her free hand, she quickly traces a sigil in the air before hissing an incantation. A mote of fire flickers into existence in her palm. Anastasia lobs it as if throwing a ball, but it flies just to the archer’s left. The remaining combatant grunts and readies his bow. The dhampir rolls out of the way just in time, preparing another fire bolt. The moment she rises from the roll, she lets it loose. The ball of fire collides with the archer’s shoulder, causing his cloak to go up in flames.  

It’s enough of an opening for Rahadin to utter his own incantation. Drawing upon the last of his wells of energy, he teleports to the archer’s side. Grimacing through the pain, he slams the butt of his blade into the back of the man’s head. His eyes roll back into his skull, bow clattering to the ground, before he collapses. The spray of rain squelches the flames. 

Only silence remains on the battlefield. Rahadin’s breath comes in ragged gasps as he surveys the carnage around him. 15 feet away stands a now rain-soaked Anastasia, her red hair clinging to her face. Their eyes meet. Almost impulsively, she presses her thumb into one of her fangs. The image, her looking particularly small and meek beneath her furs, reminds him of the times she’d been caught misbehaving as a toddler. It does little to abate his fury, however. 

“What were you thinking?” he hisses. “I gave you clear orders to stay away, and what do you do? You come charging in here with your sword out!” 

“I apologize—” 

“Your father instructed you to obey me as a condition for this little excursion, did he not?!” 

“He did.” Her thumb has yet to leave her fangs. “Again, I apologize. I was worried about you, and when I saw that woman had pinned you—” 

“It is my duty to protect you, not vice versa! You could have died—” Rahadin stops himself. Takes a deep breath. He’s stepping out of line. It is not his place to berate his master’s child. “I… apologize for raising my voice, my lady. ” The dusk elf sheathes his scimitar and winces at the fresh wave of pain that surges through his arm. He’s not looking forward to treating this arrow wound. 

Her voice soft, Anastasia says, “Father taught me that a soldier, a leader, looks after their own—even if that means risking their own lives.” 

Interesting, coming from Strahd of all people. He keeps the thought to himself. “You fought well. Foolishly, but well.” 

The praise causes Anastasia to drop her hands to her side and meet his gaze again. She clears her throat before standing straighter. “You are injured.” 

“Yes. I’ll take care of it when we return to the castle.” 

“Can you ride with such an injury?” 

“Yes.” He’s done harder tasks with worse injuries before. But the sooner he can pull the cursed thing out, the better. Rahadin’s eyes sweep across the area. Five bodies lay motionless, their blood pooling in the mud. His master could perhaps reanimate the four corpses. But the fifth… He watches the slow rise and fall of the archer’s chest. “Anastasia. Have you fed today?” 

“Hm?” She tilts her head. 

Rahadin gestures to the archer’s unconscious body. “You may feed upon this one if you wish” 

“Oh!” The words certainly catch her attention. “If you are certain…” The dhampir sheathes her sword. Wasting little time, Anastasia kneels at the body’s side, being careful to keep the ends of her coat out of the mud. She grabs the archer’s arm and brings his wrist to her lips. 

Rahadin averts his gaze. Not that such an act bothers him, but he prefers to give the lady privacy with such acts. The occasional slurping sound meets his ears. “Keep them alive. His Lordship may have plans for them.” 

Another slurping sound. “Of course.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” 

Once the dhampir has drunk her fill, she stands. She dabs at the corners of her mouth with a thumb. Thankfully, the archer still appears to be breathing—shallowly, but at least he’s alive. At his request, Anastasia helps him hoist the body onto the back of his spectral steed. With saddlebags full of produce and a potential new addition to Strahd’s forces, the two of them set off back toward Castle Ravenloft. 

Chapter Text

Anastasia stands in a patch of light that filters into the audience hall through a large window's broken glass and iron latticework. Sunlight. Until two moons ago, sunlight had only been something she’d read about in her father’s tomes. The books fondly described it as warm, comforting. Plenty of things had been compared to it: a maiden’s smile, the color of wheat, the feeling of unbridled joy. 

Yet now, as it bathes her dark skin, she struggles to see the appeal. It hurts her sensitive eyes and makes her sweat, the heat abrasive rather than soothing. The warmth isn’t the gentle caress she imagined but a persistent, uncomfortable tingling. Were it not for the commoners' joy at its return and the benefit to Barovia's agriculture, she’d wish for the sun to disappear behind the valley's thick clouds once more. 

Her father once warned her about the sun, calling it the bane of the undead. Though she isn’t undead, she finds herself longing for the constant comfort of shadows. The sun, which promised hope and renewal for the people, turns out to be a more complicated force. As she stands in its light, she grapples with the duality of her experience. 

Anastasia sighs. She’ll have to repair the broken window when she gets a chance; the last thing she wants is to be sweating while holding audience with her people. Indeed, there are many things around Barovia Castle she’ll have to fix when she gets the chance. Strahd von Zarovich was an educated man and a tactful father, but maintaining their home had admittedly not been one of his strengths—as evidenced by the cobwebs that drape from the hall’s high ceilings like banners.  

With the toe of her boot, Anastasia pushes a fallen plank of rotten wood aside. She really should have cleaned earlier… Though it is not a Countess’ place to clean, she reminds herself. She’s allowed to delegate tasks and hire new staff. A maidservant could be of great service to the castle. Someone will have to replace their late maid, after all. 

Anastasia winces. She will have to replace many people. Escher, Volenta, Ludmilla, Anastrasya… The halls of Ravenloft feel especially empty without them. While she got along better with some of her father’s consorts than others, she misses them all. She misses Ludmilla’s humming while she embroidered in the study and Escher’s raucous laughter that could be heard two rooms over. Admittedly, she even misses Anastrasya’s teasing. They were like family to her, a constant throughout her life. While some of them—most notably Anastrasya—brooded whenever she came near, Anastasia knew that they were loyal at the end of the day. They would throw themselves without protest into the path of danger if it meant keeping her and her father safe. 

And they had. They had given their lives for them—and to what end? Her noble father is still dead. 

It still doesn’t seem real. All of her life, her father had been this unshakable figure who roared across the battlefield like a clap of thunder. He was the Ancient. He was the very land itself. The Devil Strahd. The commoners trembled at the mention of his name. He had lived for lifetimes before her and had conquered entire lands. Yet all it took to fell him was four vile, cocky adventurers. 

Gods, how she wishes she’d made them suffer more before they were granted the mercy of death. Death was too good for them; no, they deserved to cry and agonize and rue the day they dared challenge her lord father. While she does not see herself as cruel, they would have deserved her cruelty for the suffering they’d inflicted upon her family.  

Her family. Once strong, now reduced to a cripple and a half-breed. Is this how Father had felt upon her mother’s passing? 

With the sleeve of her floral-embroidered coat, Anastasia scrubs her eyes and sucks in a trembling breath. No, she needs to be strong. There will be time to grieve when she’s back in the privacy of her quarters. Today, she is Countess Anastasia von Zarovich of Barovia, daughter of the first vampire Count Strahd von Zarovich and blood of the conqueror King Barov von Zarovich. She is noble. She is just. But most importantly, Barovia is under her rule, and she will not tolerate any opposition. 

She turns away from the patch of sunlight to face the large wooden throne—a remnant from back when her father held court with the commoners. The throne is plain, a tad lackluster for her tastes, though she supposes it suited her father well; the man had never been one for needless embellishments. Outside of the familial Von Zarovich ruby he was never seen without, she can recall very few moments of him wearing jewelry. When things settle down, perhaps she will look into something more ornate for her hall. Something that would command awe. Fear, even. A throne that would earn her respect while she tries to claw her way out of her father’s shadow.  

But a part of her hesitates to simply get rid of something that was her father’s. Memories of him sitting on this very throne, his leg crossed at the knee, looking bored as he listened to Barovian nobles prattle on with their honeyed words, dance in her mind. 

That will be a concern for future Anastasia. For now, she needs to make herself presentable. Balling her fists at her sides, she stomps forward and climbs up the marble dais leading to the throne. When she sits, a plume of dust rises from the red cushion, causing specks to dance in the lazy beams of sunlight filtering in. To her chagrin, her feet dangle an inch from the floor; she scoots forward until her boots touch. 

Here, she waits. Rather than be pulled under by memories, she focuses on steadying her breathing. While she does not need to draw air except to speak, she finds it helpful for soothing her nerves. Unthinking, the pad of her thumb finds its way to her left fang.  

She’s unsure just how much time has passed when she hears the sound of footsteps on stone in the distance. Two pairs, and one is accompanied by a distinct shuffling sound. The double doors to the throne room are pushed open. In steps Rahadin, accompanied by Burgomaster Ismark “The Lesser” Kolyanovich. When teaching her the noble families and leaders of Barovia, her father had made a point of telling her just how he had earned the nickname. Something about him having big shoes to fill when his father, Kolyan Indirovich, died and the townsfolk feeling he was ill-prepared for the job. Though seeing him now, the way he walks down the hall with his head held high, he looks anything but lesser. He’s filled out nicely since the last time Anastasia saw him. 

Rahadin limps ahead of the young burgomaster, his left foot dragging slightly along the floor. He tries his best to walk with dignity regardless, arms crossed behind his back in the way he does when in polite company. Anastasia’s heart aches at the sight; it was while defending her father that he had received such an injury. Rahadin never did half measures— he’d fought harder than Anastasia had ever seen him to protect his former master, but it wasn’t enough. The combined powers of Castle Ravenloft weren’t enough to save her father, and they weren’t enough to spare the dusk elf from his grievous injuries. Seeing him lying in a pool of his own blood, Anastasia wasn’t confident that he was going to make it. She grieved, certain that she was going to lose two family members that night. But thank the dark powers he survived—though not without serious injuries that he will live with for the rest of his life, his prime fighting days far behind him. 

Rahadin clears his throat. “You stand before Countess Anastasia von Zarovich of Barovia. Your Ladyship, I present to you Burgomaster Ismark Kolyanovich.” He pauses. “The Lesser.” 

Ismark’s upper lip curls. “Countess. What a deplorable title you’ve taken up.” 

”It is proper courtesy to bow before a noble, Burgomaster Barovia,” says Rahadin, his voice flat.” 

”I would rather die than bow to this—“ Before he can finish the sentence, Rahadin whispers an incantation in Elvish— misty step, Anastasia recognizes—and, in a cloud of silver mist, suddenly reappears behind Ismark. With his good leg, he kicks the back of the burgomaster’s knee, causing him to fall onto his shin with a grunt of pain. 

Rahadin hisses, ”That could be arranged, though I would not wish to give you such an easy out for disrespecting the throne. You’d sooner see the flog than the gallows.” 

Anastasia holds up a hand. “Thank you, Rahadin. You are welcome to assume your position by my side.” It feels queer ordering him around; it seems like only yesterday that her stern tutor-turned-chamberlain had been rapping her knuckles with a switch for putting her elbows on the dining table. 

Rahadin attempts to bow but staggers, and Anastasia doesn’t miss the way he fights back a grimace as he shifts his weight to catch himself. The silent, catlike grace he once possessed is now marred by a limp as he moves forward to stand guard on her right. His once-imposing gait, a symbol of unwavering strength, now betrays a vulnerability that he tries to mask with pride. It only seems to amplify the void left by Strahd’s absence. 

The chamber fills with an oppressive silence. The air feels thick, pressing in with an almost tangible weight, and the only movement for a long while is the subtle shifting of shadows on the walls. Anastasia is the first to break the stillness. “It is good to see you again, Ismark.” She speaks truthfully; it relieves her to see that he’d held his own after she’d left the party. 

”I wish I could say the same, Hazel.” The name drips with venom. “Though I suppose traitor might be a more suitable name.” 

”Watch your tongue before I cut it out,” Rahadin interjects. 

Anastasia raises a hand, signaling silence. “If you wish to skip the pleasantries, Burgomaster Barovia, then so be it.” She lifts her chin, her tone growing sharper. “Having led Barovia Village for some time now, you are aware that the village’s taxes are due every Yinvar, yes?” 

His voice is gruff. ”Correct.” 

”And yet my chamberlain has informed me that the village is short eight platinum this cycle. Would you care to explain?” 

Ismark chews on the inside of his cheek. “My people cannot afford your exorbitant taxes; they have given all they can, yet our harvests have been lacking this year. This issue had been brought forth to your Lord Father, yet he did nothing to alleviate our suffering. Our people starve, and our mothers cannot produce the milk to feed their babes.” A muscle in his jaw twitches. “So yes, we are, in fact, eight platinum short.”  

Upon hearing this, Anastasia’s heart sinks, though she maintains a stoic facade, masking her emotions behind a veil of quiet resolve. She presses her thumb to a fang. Her father had instilled in her from a young age that a ruler’s duty was to prioritize rationality over emotional entanglements. Only weak rulers succumb to sob stories, no matter how much they might tug at the heart. 

”That is unfortunate to hear. I am hopeful that the sun’s recent emergence will allow Barovia Village’s crops to flourish in the coming days. Yet we all must make sacrifices. All citizens have the obligation to pay their fair share, and it is the burgomaster’s responsibility to budget—“ 

“And what would you know of responsibility, She-Devil?!” 

Anastasia's gaze hardens. “Insult me again, and you’ll find yourself without a tongue to wag.”

Ismark gives a sharp, harsh laugh. “I don’t think you would.”

“Test me,” Anastasia replies coolly, her eyes narrowing.

Ismark cocks his head, the muscle in his jaw twitching again with barely contained fury. He takes a step forward, his expression a mix of defiance and desperation. The silence in the chamber grows heavier, thick with tension.

“Perhaps you’d like to prove me wrong, then,” Anastasia says, her tone icy and unwavering. “But be warned: your insolence has a cost.”

A low growl emanates from Rahadin, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. The threat in his stance is clear, but Anastasia remains composed, her gaze locked onto Ismark’s.

Ismark takes a deep breath and throws his hands up. “What do you want from us, then? Our people are suffering, and you demand more than they can give. Do you wish to bleed them dry?”

Her eyes flicker with a hint of annoyance. “My demands are not unreasonable. Your people are expected to contribute their fair share to the realm. The shortfall must be addressed. If you are unable to meet the obligations, then alternatives must be considered.”

“Alternatives?” Ismark’s voice rises, laced with anger. “You speak of alternatives as though they are simple solutions. What do you propose? That they give you their homes? Their firstborns?!”

Anastasia’s expression hardens. “That is not my concern. The valley’s needs are paramount. However, if you believe there is an alternative solution, I am willing to listen. But make no mistake, the taxes are non-negotiable.”

Ismark’s face contorts with a mix of anger and despair. “The crown has no need for more money. I’ve seen firsthand the storehouse in Vallaki that’s filled to the ceiling with taxes the Devil hadn’t bothered to collect in years. You are a cold-hearted tyrant. Just like your father, you’d rather see your people suffer than show mercy.”

”On your command, I shall remove his tongue, my lady,” Rahadin murmurs in her direction. Anastasia holds up a hand to him.

“Mercy?” Her voice is calm but steely. “Mercy is a luxury the valley cannot afford. I am here to ensure stability, and that means enforcing the rules as they stand.”

“Then you will have blood on your hands,” Ismark says through gritted teeth, his voice a harsh whisper.

Anastasia raises an eyebrow. “So be it. The choices you make now will determine your future. Either find a way to fulfill your duties or accept the consequences.”

The room falls silent again, each word echoing in the tense atmosphere. Ismark’s shoulders slump slightly, and Anastasia watches him with a steely gaze, unyielding in her resolve. “…As burgomaster, I humbly ask for your mercy in the form of two additional moons. Barovia Village shall get you your eight platinum.”

“As you have been exceedingly churlish in my presence, I now demand nine.”

He winces. “Nine platinum. Fine.”

Anastasia runs her tongue along her teeth, thinking. With how he’s been acting, Ismark deserves neither her mercy nor her pity. Yet it is not the people of Barovia Village that have forgotten their manners, she reminds herself. Her rule shall be just. This is a new page being turned, and she needs to prove herself to the people of Barovia. “…I shall allow this. You have two moons to provide the additional nine platinum. If you fail, Burgomaster Barovia, you will be made an example of. Am I understood?”

His shoulders sag. In the dim lighting of the hall, Anastasia notes the unkempt stubble on his chin and the heavy bags under his pale eyes. He looks far older than his years, even more so since she last saw him. “Yes, Your Ladyship. The people of Barovia Village thank you for your generosity.” 

“I am sure they do.” She hums. “That is all. You are dismissed.”

For the first time, Ismark bows willingly. It feels like a knife twisting in her chest to see Ismark, a proud man she once held in high regard, in such a state. But such is the way of the world.

Anastasia steps down from the throne. “I shall escort you back to the village.”

”My lady,” Rahadin’s voice is stern, the same inflection he’d used when instructing her in her lessons all those years ago. “Allow me. It is not a noblewoman’s place to escort, but rather that of the chamberlain.” He steps forward to meet her. 

Her eyes flicker down to his leg. “I do not mind.” 

Rahadin’s voice lowers, and he holds her gaze. “Please. Allow me.” 

Anastasia withers under the briefest flash of vulnerability in his eyes. Each grimace on Rahadin’s face, each strained movement, serves as a relentless reminder of how the grand strength that once ruled over their lands has irrevocably faded. She finds it hard to push that from her mind. “No. I shall escort him.” 

His mouth gapes open, stunned. “But my lady—!” It looks as if he wants to say more, to protest, but he clamps his mouth shut into a thin line. “…As you wish. I shall be waiting here for your return.” 

”Thank you, Rahadin.” Refusing to meet the dusk elf’s eyes, Anastasia turns her attention back to Ismark. “If you would kindly follow me, Burgomaster Barovia, I shall escort you off the premises.”  

Ismark doesn’t immediately prepare to leave. Instead, he stares her down while she walks down the hall toward him. Were she a weaker woman, the hatred behind his gray eyes would have brought her to tears. Weep about what once was. What could have been. But she’s a countess now, not some plucky “adventurer” playing pretend.  

As much as it pains her, Ismark and Ireena hate her now. She needs to live with that. 

Eventually, he scoffs and follows behind. The double doors to the audience hall click shut, and she’s left alone with Ismark. Anastasia mutters an incantation under her breath, and a ball of bright light appears at the tip of her index finger, illuminating the dark corridors of Castle Ravenloft. A small courtesy for the human behind her—she could navigate these corridors with her eyes closed.  

Anastasia is the first to break the awkward silence. “How is Ireena?” 

”That is no longer your concern.” 

”I am not allowed to ask about a friend’s wellbeing?” 

A sharp, humorless laugh reverberates off the stone walls. “Friend. Do I have your permission to speak freely?” 

”Within reason.” 

“My sister despises you—as she should. No, you forfeited the title of friend when you sided with the monster who’d been stalking her since she entered womanhood.” 

Something on dark wings threatens to push itself into her consciousness. She pushes it back down. “I understand that you two are upset—“ 

”Upset. Hurt. Betrayed. Embarrassed. Angry—“ 

”Yes, yes, I understand.” She inhales shakily. “Ismark, let us not dwell on the past. I acknowledge that my previous actions as a spy were both deceitful and damaging to our friendship. But I assure you, my current intentions are entirely genuine. While the past cannot be undone, the present offers a different reality. I am here not as a spy or a deceiver, but as someone committed to forthrightness.” 

”I don’t believe that.” 

They descend one of Castle Ravenloft’s many stairwells, her red dress swishing with each step. “While I was in your company, I found myself genuinely valuing our interactions. What began as a mere facade gradually evolved into something of genuine import. Now, as I present myself to you free of any pretense, I offer you my sincere friendship.” 

“You can keep your friendship.” 

She huffs through her nose “I do not seek your immediate forgiveness, nor do I expect the wounds of the past to heal swiftly. However, I hope you will acknowledge that my offer of friendship now is sincere and devoid of ulterior motives.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Anastasia winces. Despite her title, she knows she deserves that. It would be within her right to follow through on her earlier threat and cut out his tongue, but there’s a strange comfort in his bluntness. Ismark, despite everything, is an honorable man who stays true to his values. 

A nagging thought wheedles its way into her consciousness: you’ve either killed or driven away all of your friends. Now you are truly alone. She clears her throat. “Yes. Well. In any case… I hope that Ireena is in good health at least?” 

Ismark glares at her from the corner of his eye. “With your father no longer hounding her and drinking her blood at every given chance? Yes, she is in good health.” 

”That is good to hear.” 

”Mm.” 

Their footsteps echo through the grand corridor as they reach the landing. 

“Let me ask you a question,” says Ismark. 

Her brows raise. “Certainly.” 

”Who are you now?” 

Anastasia tilts her head, studying him with a quizzical look. "I believe Rahadin introduced me earlier. I am Countess Anastasia von Zarovich, heir to Strahd von Zarovich, and lady of Barovia." 

"Cut the courtly bullshit." His eyes narrow. "I thought Hazel was odd but kind. She went out of her way to support her friends. She laughed readily. She was a powerful fighter. Then she stabbed those friends in the back—literally and figuratively—and made me question everything I knew about her." Ismark’s fists clench at his sides. "So, I ask again: who are you now?" 

Anastasia considers his words. The instinct to deny any change, to claim she’s still the same person at heart, flares up. But perhaps she owes him—and herself—the truth. 

”I… am a dhampir. A half-blood. I crave the blood of man as much as I crave good books and beautiful music. I’m a scholar. A fighter.” She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. “And I can be a good friend if given second chances.” It feels as if she’s peeled off her skin and laid herself bare before him, heart and all. She can practically hear her father’s voice yelling at her for making herself so vulnerable. She is ruler of the valley, not some pathetic burgomaster’s friend! 

Ismark stands in silence, arms crossed. He looks her over from head to toe, and Anastasia dares to stand bare before him. Finally, he snorts and gestures forward. “After you.”   They continue toward the great entry. When Anastasia pushes open the massive double doors, the creak of the hinges echoes in the vastness. A beam of sunlight envelops them both. Adjusting to the sudden brightness, she raises a hand to shield her eyes, squinting. 

Then she hears it—the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn. Her blood turns to ice as she feels the point of a blade pressed against her back. 

A deep voice mutters, “Barovia has its first taste of freedom in centuries. We cannot afford to have yet another tyrant. I am sorry.” 

As the blade’s point digs into her back, Anastasia’s mind races, a tumult of fear, anger, and disbelief. This is not how she envisioned her new reign starting; she had anticipated resistance, but not this raw, personal vendetta. Her father’s voice echoes in her thoughts, a harsh reminder of the weight of her inheritance. She had always been prepared to fight enemies of the realm, but facing this from someone she once considered an ally cuts deeper than any weapon could. The sense of isolation hits her hard, a stark reminder of the loneliness that comes with power. She feels a pang of regret, not just for the immediate danger, but for the path she has walked that led to this moment. The realization that her struggle for control and acceptance has alienated her from those she once cared about is almost as painful as the imminent threat to her life. 

She swallows heavily. “Ismark. Consider what it is you are doing.” 

"I have. For half my life, I fantasized about killing your father. It haunted my thoughts, my dreams... I feared it would drive me mad. Yet for the past two months, all I’ve thought about is how I would kill you and finally rid this valley of the Devil’s curse." His laugh is sharp, almost hysterical. "I should have been enjoying time with my sister in the sunlight, but all I could do was dream of your demise." 

“Without a leader, Barovia would crumble.” 

”Then so be it. Better for us to crumble by our own hands than by those of a tyrant.” 

”Rahadin would not rest until your head was on a pike.” 

”Then so be it. Death does not scare me; I would die with a smile on my face knowing that my people are free.” 

Anastasia runs her fingers along the fur trim of her coat. Her right hand practically vibrates as she fights the urge to press her thumb into a fang. But if she moves, she’s not confident Ismark won’t strike. "May I turn around?" Her voice is barely a whisper. 

”No. Stay where you are.” 

”It is dishonorable to stab someone in the back.” 

”And I’m sure you would know all about stabbing people in the back! ” 

”If you won’t allow me to turn around, would you at least allow me my last words?” asks Anastasia. 

”Fine. But make them brief.” 

She inhales slowly. “…I had thought better of you, Ismark.” Before the burgomaster can process her words, Anastasia steps forward and falls to her knees. She rolls to the side, dodging Ismark’s frantic jabbing when he’s caught off guard. When she springs back up, she shoves at his chest to put distance between them. Ismark broadens his stance, and he grips his long sword with both hands. 

“You die tonight, She-Devil!” 

“Fuck you!” Anastasia hisses. She hunches over and bares her fangs, her crimson eyes flashing with anger. 

Ismark lunges forward, his sword slicing through the air with practiced precision. Anastasia sidesteps effortlessly with ethereal grace. She retaliates with a swipe of her diamond-hard claws, aiming for his face. He blocks the attack with the hilt of his blade, knocking her hands away. 

She leaps back to regain her footing. In the same motion, Anastasia’s eyes narrow as she conjures a ball of fire in her palm, hurling it toward Ismark. The flames streak through the air, leaving a trail of smoke in their wake. Ismark pivots, narrowly avoiding the searing blaze that singes the edge of his cloak. The fire bolt instead collides with the trunk of a tree behind him, causing its bark to smoke and smolder.  

He swings again; while the burgomaster has the luxury of wielding a weapon, she has speed and the Weave on her side. With a burst of energy, Anastasia rolls beneath the descending blade, her claws leaving deep scratches along Ismark's leather armor when she passes. She springs up behind him, her movements a blur, and attempts to rake her claws across his exposed arms. Ismark grunts when two claws connect, tearing through his blue gambeson and slicing through the flesh beneath, and spins around just in time to catch her next swipe with the flat of his sword. His blood streaks through the air, and the irresistible smell of it makes Anastasia’s head spin. The gums surrounding her canines ache.  

Their battle is a whirlwind of steel and fire. Ismark's strikes are deliberate and forceful, each swing aimed to overpower, while her attacks are fast and unpredictable, her claws flashing with each movement as she intersperses fiery bursts between her strikes. 

They circle one another, and the very forest seems to hold its breath. No longer can she hear the gentle chirping of insects or the breeze rustling the surrounding fir trees; it’s only her and Ismark, his labored breathing almost deafening while the sun beats down upon them.  

Ismark manages to land a solid blow, his sword grazing Anastasia’s shoulder. She hisses, a flash of fury crossing her face, and retaliates with a roar, the Weave crackling through her veins like hot lightning. She launches a series of rapid strikes, each one accompanied by a burst of flame that forces Ismark to backpedal. 

One by one, the faces of her former adventuring party, their smug expressions, flash in her mind. She hears the death knell on her father’s cold lips, sees the stunned expression on his features, before he withers into ash.  

Because of them, she is utterly alone—the last of the Von Zarovich lineage. She should not be walking upon sun-kissed land; Barovia should still be cloaked in perpetual darkness so that her father's armies might thrive! They should be fighting side by side, spending evenings reading together in his study, and making merry as he recounts stories from his past! 

Ismark steadies himself and raises his sword high, channeling all his strength into an overhead strike. Anastasia ducks beneath the blade, her eyes blazing with a fierce determination. She wraps her hands around his wrists. Orange light begins to swirl in her palms. With a gut-wrenching shout, Anastasia ejects a cone of searing flame from her hands. Ismark screams, thrashing violently, as the flesh begins to crackle and peel from his hands, but she does not relent. 

To lift a hand against your liege demands that the very hand raised be severed in retribution. This is close enough, she supposes. Her father would have executed Ismark for attempted regicide, but she cannot bring herself to carry out the sentence. 

Ismark’s hands and wrists are charred white, and Anastasia can see the bone beneath. A pork-like smell coupled with charcoal assaults her nostrils, and she unconsciously wrinkles her nose. Panting, she releases her hold.  

Ismark stumbles forward, barely catching himself on unsteady legs. Wide-eyed, he stares down at his charred, trembling hands. A sob forces its way past pale lips before he falls to his knees.  

He deserves far worse than the loss of both of his hands, yet something still twists behind Anastasia’s stomach. Her upper lip curls. “If you hurry back to your village, one of your clerics may be able to save your hands. Though I suggest you make haste before infection sets in, Ismark the Lesser.” 

There’s no reply. The burgomaster continues to gawk like a fish out of water, his stunned silence occasionally interrupted by another disjointed, high-pitched sob.  

“Two moons. Nine platinum. Make it so.”  

Without another word, Anastasia turns to return to Castle Ravenloft. There is much to think about. 

Chapter Text

Anastasia presses her thumb into her left fang, the fingers of her right hand tapping rhythmically along the arm of the wooden throne. She hadn’t had visitors in some time, ever since the little incident with Ismark. As much as she longed for company beyond Rahadin’s silent presence, she couldn't bring herself to face the public. So, she’d delayed hiring new staff to fill the numerous vacant positions at Ravenloft. I manage just fine on my own, she told herself. Surely it can wait a few moons.

The doors to the throne hall creak open, and Anastasia straightens. Illuminated by torchlight, three figures stand in the doorway. She recognizes the unmistakable silhouette of Rahadin, her dusk elf chamberlain, at the forefront, leading the two visitors down the hall. In the months since his injuries, his gait has improved significantly. Though he still limps, it’s clear he’s been working tirelessly to move with more grace than before. Anastasia feels a flicker of pride at his progress.

The group halts halfway down the hall. Rahadin bows deeply, clearing his throat. “You stand before Countess Anastasia von Zarovich of Barovia, daughter of the late Strahd von Zarovich. Your Ladyship, I present to you Aldric and Gisela of Waterdeep.”

The pair bows and curtsies respectfully, and Anastasia notes their poise—they've clearly had some experience with nobility. Their practical clothing, however, suggests they’re not of noble birth. Aldric, as he was introduced, has dark hair and eyes, with round spectacles perched on an otherwise unremarkable face. Gisela, by contrast, is fairer, with tumbling blonde hair and pale eyes, dressed in ornate armor and a thick, blue cloak fastened at her shoulders. “Be welcome, Aldric and Gisela of Waterdeep,” says Anastasia.

Gisela speaks first. “Thank you, Your Ladyship, for agreeing to see us.” Her voice is smooth and pleasant.

Anastasia tilts her head. “What brings you to Barovia… and to me?”

Gisela is silent for a moment, thinking. “We come seeking your aid. Your protection.” 

“Is that so?” Anastasia quirks her eyebrow. She’s not used to people coming to her family seeking protection; usually, others would seek protection from her father. “Please, elaborate.” 

“Plainly speaking, there are people in Faerun that want both me and my brother dead. There are hunters—cruel, ignorant men—hunting him, and they will not stop their pursuit until they see his head on a pike. I was hoping that, along with your assistance, your valley could deter these hunters from chasing us.” 

This is getting more interesting by the minute… “Why are these hunters pursuing you and your brother?” 

Her gaze drops. “They believe that Aldric is a monster. They despise him because he is… because he is different. He’s incredibly intelligent, and people tend to fear that which they don’t understand. But do not misunderstand, my lady; we don’t wish harm upon anyone. We seek a peaceful, quiet existence.” 

Anastasia redirects her red-eyed gaze to Aldric. “And why do you believe these people are hunting you?” 

His voice is unnervingly soft when he speaks. “I study the undead. I find them fascinating.” 

She doesn’t miss the wide-eyed glare Gisela aims at Aldric, who does not even seem to care—or notice. Anastasia chuckles. “The undead? That is an uncommon subject of choice. How does one become interested in studying the undead?” 

His face lights up. “I’ve been interested in them since I was young. When I was beginning my wizardry studies—” An elbow to the ribs quickly silences him. 

“Again, I can assure you that we mean no harm to you or the people of Barovia, my lady. We merely seek sanctuary,” Gisela interrupts. 

Anastasia frowns. Like her father, she does not appreciate people keeping secrets from her—especially if they’re seeking her protection. She files that away for later. “And why should I agree to house a couple of foreign outcasts?” 

Gisela bows. “I am a trained cleric with a background in medicine. In exchange for a place to stay, I would gladly offer you and your staff my healing services. In addition, I can help with any chores around the castle. My brother as well. Any coin we have is yours.” 

She waves a dismissive hand. “I have no need for your coin. Your clerical skills, however, could prove useful.” As long as she’s been alive, Castle Ravenloft has never had a court healer. And why would it when half of its occupants had regenerative abilities and balked at divinity? Perhaps these two could fill that gap... and, if nothing else, help with the staffing shortage. 

From the sidelines, Rahadin clears his throat. “A word, Your Ladyship?” She nods, and her chamberlain approaches. He whispers in her ear, his voice urgent, “Respectfully, I do not trust them. They have yet to prove their loyalty, and they are being deliberately cryptic in their answers. For all we know, we could be offering sanctuary to enemies who will slit our throats in our sleep. I strongly advise against taking them in.” 

Anastasia chews on the inside of her cheek. She whispers, “A cleric and a wizard could be powerful allies.” 

“Or powerful enemies with access to our sleeping quarters.” 

Anastasia feels a pair of eyes boring into the side of her head. Looking up, she catches Aldric’s gaze. He quickly looks away. Slowly, she returns her attention to Rahadin. “...Fortunately, I have a trustworthy chamberlain who knows how to keep people in line.” Though she values Rahadin’s counsel and recognizes his experience, she’s also intrigued by these two. And if they do turn out to be traitorous, well, she and Rahadin can deal with them swiftly.

She gives Rahadin a small smile before turning back to the pair. “Very well. You may take shelter in Castle Ravenloft, in exchange for your combined arcane and scholarly services. I will expect you to pull your weight with chores as well.” 

Gisela gives a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you, Your Ladyship. Both Aldric and I are eternally grateful.” 

“Understand this, though,” Anastasia continues, her tone turning colder. “Both my chamberlain and I will be watching you closely. If we so much as suspect treachery, you will rue the day you crossed my borders. Do I make myself clear?” 

Another bow from Gisela. “Yes, Your Ladyship.” 

Anastasia turns her gaze to Aldric. After another elbow from his sister, he mirrors the gesture. “Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“Good. The guest quarters are on the top floor. Rahadin will give you a tour of the castle and show you to your rooms. You may freshen up before the evening ends. We will reconvene tomorrow.” With a flick of her hand, she dismisses them. Gisela and Aldric bow once more before leaving, and Rahadin steps forward to carry out his duties. 

Gisela and Aldric are tolerable enough company. They mostly keep to themselves, usually only conversing with one another. When they do interact with Anastasia, their conversations are brief and polite, which is fine with her. Once done with her chores, the cleric can usually be found in her quarters praying or roaming the castle grounds. Her brother, however, practically lives in the study. Anastasia can count on one hand the number of times she’s found him without a massive tome or spell scroll laid out before him. And, even more interestingly, she’s never actually seen him eat —though she supposes she can chalk that up to him being a shy eater. His loss; her kitchen is better stocked than any inn or hovel they would find in the city.  

While she, more than many, can appreciate losing oneself in a good book, Aldrich’s constant presence in the study does prove to be a bit of a headache. Working in such proximity does, she’s found, make her self-conscious. She can never shake the feeling of being watched, or that her work is being scrutinized despite the young wizard being on the other side of the room.  

One evening, she finds her fevered mind keeping her from rest, running through over and over the last encounter she’d had with Ismark. The look of burning hatred in his eyes. His sharp words. The blood-curdling scream that poured from his mouth when she burnt his hands down to the bone. Needing something, anything, to distract herself, she makes her way to the study. When she reaches the door, she notices a warm orange light spilling from beneath it. Anastasia groans inwardly; she can guess who’s also up at this hour… Steeling herself with a long, slow inhale, she pushes the door open. 

As expected, Aldric raises his face from his book, startled. His shoulders drop once more, and he greets Anastasia with a nod. 

“Your Ladyship.” 

“Aldric.” 

The wizard sits upon one of the chaise lounges, a heavy book in his lap. A brown, speckled cat is curled up beside him. It lazily opens its eyes to peer at her before stretching, arching its back. It yawns before hopping off the chair, brushing past Anastasia to leave. Upon noticing her puzzled expression, Aldric says, “That’s my cat, Renfield. Don’t worry—he’s very sweet. I’ve asked him not to scratch any furniture and to do his business outside.” 

A cat and a wizard. How original. “Is he your familiar?” 

“Not quite. Loyal traveling companion, yes, but he’s not a summoned spirit in the traditional sense.” 

“I see.” Not wanting to engage in further small talk, especially after her lack of rest, Anastasia goes to grab a book on Barovian history from a shelf. She takes it to a small armchair on the opposite side of the room from Aldric. It’s easy to lose herself in the text; while dry, she finds it fascinating to learn about the early years of her people. How her father had shaped the valley into what it is today. It brings with it a small bubble of pride in her chest. Not much of it is new information to her—her father and Rahadin had drilled history lessons into her from an early age, saying that it was vital for a noble to know their past—but it’s always good to have reminders, she thinks.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She cannot shake the feeling of being watched. Glancing up, she catches Aldric staring at her. He quickly looks back down at his book, feigning innocence, though his cheeks flush. Anastasia scoffs and rolls her eyes, but returns to her reading… For what must be a maximum of five minutes before she feels eyes on her again. More forcefully this time, her head snaps up. “Can I help you?” she blurts. 

This time, he doesn’t look away. “...You’re undead, aren’t you?” 

The question almost causes her to choke on her saliva. “I—I beg your pardon?” 

“You’re undead, aren’t you?” 

“What kind of question is that to ask someone?” 

“An earnest one. I mean no offense, of course.” He gestures outward toward her. “The red eyes. The fangs. The chill that emanates from your skin. I would’ve assumed you were a vampire had I not seen you walk in the sunlight.” 

“There are vampires outside of Barovia?” 

“Indeed. Not many, regrettably, but enough to have caught the attention of numerous scholars.” 

Interesting. Anastasia had not often considered the world outside Barovia—there was enough to occupy her within the valley. She had assumed her father’s situation was unique, especially since she had never met another vampire who had not been created by him. Still, given the vastness of the planes and the nature of necromancy, it stands to reason there would be others. “Have you ever met one of these vampires?” 

“No, regrettably.” 

“Regrettably?” Anastasia tilts her head. “In my experience, most people are happy to never come face-to-face with nightwalkers.” 

He offers a small smile. “Most people are not me. The best way to study something is to encounter it.” 

“Verily.” His comment makes her skin crawl. The idea of being researched like an insect under a magnifying glass is unsettling. She clears her throat. “Tell me more about the vampires outside of Barovia.” 

“Well, what do you wish to know? Again, I can only speak on what I have read.” 

“Anything.” 

Aldric rests his fist under his chin and closes his eyes, thinking. “I have read that they are pale of skin and cold of flesh. Their heart does not beat as a man’s does, nor do they sustain themselves on cooked food as a man does. Rather,” he pauses, his eyes flashing, “they sustain themselves on the blood of man.” When Anastasia does not react, she swears she hears him sigh quietly. “They keep to the shadows, preferring to sleep during the daytime. The sun burns their skin, you see, and it’s one of the few ways to harm a vampire.” 

“What are the other ways?” 

“They are repulsed by radiant energy, as well as flowers of garlic—” 

Anastasia snorts. 

“I’m sorry, did I say something humorous?” 

“No, no. Please, go ahead.” Garlic. She wants to know how they reached that conclusion. 

Aldric continues, “...As well as the flowers of garlic. It is believed that vampirism is caused by a sickness in the blood—not unlike rabies.” 

“I see. How interesting.” It is rare for Anastasia to engage in such candid conversations with outsiders, and certainly not with commoners from Barovia—lest she wanted them to faint on the spot. It is fascinating to learn more about the perceptions of vampires, though she cannot say yet whether it’s from an unbiased source. This man speaks of them with almost a fervent energy… 

“It is interesting, isn’t it?” Aldric smiles and pushes the bridge of his spectacles up with his middle finger. “But enough about that. I hope I am not being too blunt, but you never did answer my question.” 

“Which one?” 

“About if you are undead.” 

Anastasia sets him with a scrutinizing look, unsure of how much she wants to share with these outsiders. On one hand, revealing her nature could earn her an added layer of respect, if not fear. But on the other, who’s to say that they wouldn’t fetch their pitchforks and tar with the aspiration of ridding this land of evil? Though she has her doubts this sage would do such a thing… “Hypothetically,” she begins, “what would you do if I were?” 

“Hypothetically? I’d ask you a few questions for my research. And take a certain smug satisfaction in being right.” 

“And if I were not undead?” 

“I’d be disappointed, but otherwise treat you the same as any other noblewoman.” 

“You should be treating me with the respect my title deserves in the first place—undead or not.” 

“Sure.” 

Anastasia sighs loudly through her nose. She can only hope she won’t regret this decision later… “Are you familiar with what is colloquially called a dhampir?” 

He shakes his head no. 

“A dhampir is a…” she pauses, searching for the right words, “half-blood. One half of their parentage is mortal, while the other is a vampire. In my case, my father was a vampire—the first vampire, to be precise—and my mother was a human. To answer your question, however… No, I am not technically undead.” 

Aldric’s jaw drops. He stares, mouth agape, like a fish out of water for several awkward moments before recollecting himself. “Dhampir...” He rolls the word around in his mouth like a marble. “Fascinating. Biologically speaking, it shouldn’t be possible... Did your father bite your mother when she was pregnant with you? Or did they have traditional intercourse?” He stops abruptly, catching himself. His cheeks flush. “Apologies. That is perhaps an inappropriate question.” 

Anastasia clears her throat. “Yes. It is. I never exactly asked my father about my conception.”  

“I would love to be able to, hypothetically speaking, pick your father’s brains—” 

“My father is deceased. As is my mother.” 

“Ah.” Aldric’s posture sags, and he blinks. “I, ah, apologize. I didn’t mean to—” 

She waves a dismissive hand. “It is fine.” 

“Regardless, you have my condolences.” 

“Thank you. Though I do not wish to answer any more questions for now.” 

“Understood.” 

Silence fills the room. Anastasia’s attention returns to her book, but she finds herself needing to reread each paragraph several times. Occasionally, she notices from the corner of her eye Aldric glancing up at her from his own book, but unlike before, he doesn’t scrutinize her. She sighs, knowing she’s not going to be getting any reading done tonight. Her book snaps shut.  

“Tell me about Waterdeep,” Anastasia says. Her father had mentioned it a few times when recounting his days as a soldier, but none of her books had provided much detail. She’s never stepped foot outside of Barovia—the mists had, for the majority of her life, prevented her from exploring other cities—and she can’t help but find other cultures fascinating. Alien, even.  

“About Waterdeep?” Aldric hums. He shifts his posture to prop himself up on his elbow. “There really isn’t much to say about it. They call it the City of Splendors, or the Crown of the North. It’s a nice enough place, I suppose, though I haven’t been there in some time. Like any city, it has its fair share of both shitholes and luxury estates. The poor get poorer while the rich get richer.” 

She scoffs. “That gives me nothing of substance.” 

“Sorry to bore you. Let’s see—something interesting I could share…” He rubs his chin. “Rumor has it that the city was built atop a thousands-year-old dungeon.” 

“Now that is interesting! Why did they go and do that?” 

“Don’t know. I never had the chance to look too much into it, what with the citizens refusing to talk to me and all.” 

“Why did they not want to talk to you?” Though she has her fair share of guesses.  

A flash of discomfort crosses Aldric’s face. His left leg begins to bounce. “...Gisela would prefer I don’t talk about that.” 

“I entrusted you with my story, did I not?” 

His lips press into a flat line. He waits before replying, “The… people feared that I was pursuing the path of lichdom.” 

Liches. Masters of the undead. Her father had spoken of them, citing the time he’d collaborated with a lich that had accidentally wound up in Barovia. From her understanding, they are incredibly dangerous beings, focused solely on growing their power and manipulating the line between life and death. She swallows heavily. “And are you?” 

Aldric scoffs. “Becoming a lich is no simple task. If information on how to become a lich were readily available, every wizard in Faerun would be one.” 

It’s not a no, Anastasia notes. She will have to keep an eye on this one. The last thing she needs is someone collecting souls in her guest quarters. 

He continues, “But let me clear up any misunderstandings: just because someone studies necromancy does not mean that they desire to become a lich. Or to hurt innocent people. It’s an art form, no different than an interest in biology, or-or carpentry.” 

“Carpentry does not entail infusing a recently deceased corpse with life.” 

“...Perhaps not. A better metaphor, then: necromancy is no different than conjuration or abjuration magics. They are all schools of magic with the potential to be used for both good and evil.” 

Anastasia smirks. “Again, conjuration magic will not have someone’s deceased grandmother dancing like a puppet on strings.” Aldric frowns, and Anastasia chuckles. “I am hardly one to judge one’s arcane preferences. My late father had had several zombies under his employ. I can understand the usefulness of necromancy.” 

“You're a rarity, then.” 

“Keep your minions to yourself, do not disturb my familial catacombs, and I do not foresee us having any issues. But in any case, I wish to read in peace free of your constant questions.” She flicks her hand. ”Leave.”  

“But I was here first—” He catches himself. ”Apologies. Enjoy your studies, Your Ladyship.” Without another word, Aldric stands, bows his head, and leaves the study. 

“So, does it rain here every day?” 

Anastasia chuckles. “More or less. Believe it or not, Barovia experienced far more rain and fog less than a year ago. There were days when mist would stretch all the way from Barovia Village to Krezk. Somehow, this,” she gestures toward the faint sunlight breaking through the clouds, “is the most sun we've seen in quite some time.” Or ever, she thinks to herself. For better or worse. 

Gisela squints up at the gray sky, the occasional raindrop plopping onto her forehead. “I’ll take your word for it, Your Ladyship.”  

“You get used to it.” Pulling up her red skirts, the noblewoman carefully steps around a puddle of mud. Perhaps it's time to consider paving more of the trails around Barovia—more accessible for trade and horse-drawn carts. Rahadin would certainly appreciate that. 

Gisela pulls her cloak tighter to her frame, rain-soaked strands of loose, blonde hair clinging to her face. “Forgive me, Your Ladyship, but could we not wait until the rain has cleared before hunting something as dangerous as an owlbear? I have concerns about us losing our footing in the midst of combat, as well as losing sight of our target.” 

“This is an ideal time. Owlbears, like most creatures, avoid going out in the rain. We will be more likely to find it in its den.” 

“Yes, where we’ll be in confined quarters with only one exit.” When Anastasia turns to raise a brow at her, her expression stone, Gisela bows her head. “Apologies, my lady. I have my concerns, but I trust your prowess in battle.” 

Good,” Anastasia replies coolly, but there’s a flicker of tension. Behind her, she hears Aldric sloshing through puddles. The necromancer has been largely silent on their trek, offering his thoughts only when Gisela asks. Anastasia suspects he’d rather be studying in the comfort of a library than trudging through mud to hunt a beast, but she’s grateful for his company. A wizard is a powerful ally, especially when facing something as strong as an owlbear. 

It was Rahadin who first spotted the beast—not the beast itself, thankfully, but a trail of half-eaten deer and tracks far too big to be those of an average bear leading into a small cave in the Svalich Woods. It’d been some time since Barovia had to deal with such a creature. Anastasia can only assume it had wandered its way into the valley after the mists had cleared. She can’t fault the owlbear, but she knew from her studies that their voracious appetites often caused an unbalance in the forests they called home. The last thing she needed was for Barovia Village to be thrown into a panic-fueled tizzy—or for its villagers to be, well, eaten. As such, rather than risk the life of her chamberlain, capable as he may be, she had volunteered herself and her two new allies to deal with the threat.  

Anastasia comes to a sudden halt when she catches the sweet smell of blood in the air. She inhales deeply. It’s fresh, perhaps a few hours old. Non-humanoid. Her gums ache, but she does her best to ignore it. With her hand on the hilt of her sword, the dhampir creeps forward.  

Lying beneath a large fir tree, she finds the mangled body of a she-wolf—its head and one leg the only remains. The pack is nowhere to be seen; they’ve likely fled. “We’re close,” she calls out, her voice carrying above the rustling leaves. “Stay alert.” 

The three adventurers continue down the winding path through the Svalich Woods, their boots sinking into the mud with each step. The rain drizzles in an almost hypnotic rhythm with the occasional rumble of distant thunder. Behind them, Anastasia hears Aldric muttering occasionally to himself, reviewing arcane incantations under his breath. She can almost hear the static crackle of the Weave around him. 

Suddenly, Aldric speeds up to close the gap between them. “Your Ladyship,” he says, his voice low and deliberate, “allow me to make things a bit easier on you.” Before she can respond, he touches her shoulder. Aldric murmurs the last words of a spell—a flourish of magical syllables that she barely catches. 

“Shit!” She jumps, instinctively swatting his hand away. “What did you do?!” 

“A harmless, protective spell to enhance your abilities.” 

Anastasia feels a rush of warmth settle into her muscles and sinew, an unexpected, exhilarating sensation that spreads from her jaw to her fingertips. A surge of strength flows through her, the rain-slick mud beneath her feet seeming far less treacherous. “A little warning next time!” she hisses, baring her fangs. 

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “Apologies. Consider it my way of… showing support.” 

Anastasia feels her anger defusing but reins it in. “Very well. Just… Be ready when we get there.” 

A few minutes later, the thick, misty woods open up to reveal a rocky cliffside, nestled at the base of which is a jagged cave entrance. The coppery smell of blood is stronger, mixing with the damp scent of moss and stone. The air feels thick with danger. 

Gisela draws her weapon, and Aldric’s fingers twitch with energy. They exchange a nod, and then, with Anastasia leading the way with her own blade drawn, they step quietly into the maw of the cave. 

It takes a moment for Anastasia’s eyes to adjust to the deep darkness of the cave. Overhead, she hears water dripping through cracks in the ceiling, pooling into shallow puddles along the cavern floor. Her ears strain, listening for growling or any signs of aggression. She sighs in relief when she hears nothing.  

Gisela whispers something, and a ball of bright blue light flickers to life at the tip of her finger.  

“Extinguish that,” Anastasia hisses.  

Her voice is calm when she replies, “I need to be able to see where I’m going. Besides, the owlbear will smell us long before it sees us.” 

Frowning, Anastasia ultimately relents. She leads her companions deeper into the cave. The smell of blood grows stronger. It’s accompanied by the foul stench of droppings now, and she spots several bones: the skull of a small carnivore, a femur, a pelvis belonging to what she can only assume to have been a humanoid. If the grisly sight bothers the siblings, they don’t say anything.  

Anastasia holds up a hand, signaling for them to stop. She can hear it now—the heavy, plodding sound of footsteps, followed by a low growl, punctuated by a whistling noise. Gisela pivots her light to reveal the hulking form of an owlbear, its brown-feathered body looming in the dim glow. Its glowing yellow eyes fix on them, adding to its intimidating presence. She hears Aldric swallow.  

The owlbear stands on its hind legs. A warning. Like this, it lumbers over eight feet tall. Anastasia steadies herself, eyes locked on the towering creature before them. She tightens her grip on her sword, feeling the weight of the impending clash settle into her bones. Her muscles are still humming with the effects of Aldric’s spell. Every instinct warns her of the sheer power packed in those feathered limbs, the deadly curve of claws that could tear a person in half. But she pushes down her hesitation. As the owlbear roars, feathers ruffling in a display meant to terrify, she raises her hand and summons a crackling firebolt. 

Before she can release the spell, Gisela steps forward, her blue light casting harsh shadows on the cave walls. She begins to whisper a prayer to her deity, her voice barely audible. In a swift, practiced gesture with two fingers, she calls down a shimmering shield of deep purple energy that wraps around the three of them—a blessing of protection, if Anastasia had to guess. 

Empowered, the dhampir hurls the flame forward, striking the owlbear squarely in the chest. It screeches in pain and staggers back, the feathers on its chest smoldering where the spell hit. Taking advantage of the distraction, Aldric begins muttering a dark incantation under his breath. From the ground beneath the owlbear, bony skeletal hands claw their way through the rock, grabbing onto its legs, pulling and anchoring it in place. The owlbear snarls and snaps at the ethereal bones, but they hold fast, slowing its movements. 

“Now!” Anastasia commands, her voice sharp. She moves in, her blade flashing as she takes advantage of the creature’s distraction. She darts to the side and slashes across its flank, her sword slicing through hide and feathers. The owlbear squawks in rage and pain, swinging a massive paw in retaliation, but she ducks, narrowly avoiding the claws. 

The beast struggles, yanking one clawed leg free from Aldric’s skeletal grip. It swipes at Anastasia with a force that sends her stumbling back, just barely managing to avoid the deadly claws. She recovers quickly, her eyes narrowing as she raises her sword and charges forward, slicing at the creature’s flank. Her blade connects, cutting deep into muscle and fur.  

The owlbear lets out a furious shriek, rearing back as it tries to shake off the attackers. It slashes out in a frenzy. Its claws graze Anastasia’s arm; a streak of purple light radiates from where the claws had connected, seemingly lessening the blow to where it only slashes through her coat. She stumbles back, safe but surprised. Aldric raises his hand again, shadows swirling around him as he channels a wave of necrotic energy directly into the beast’s chest. The energy saps the creature’s strength, darkening the feathers where it lands, and its roar falters, replaced by a low, guttural growl. 

It’s wounded, but desperation makes it even more dangerous, Anastasia knows. The owlbear swings one massive paw down in an attempt to swipe her away. She sidesteps just in time, feeling the rush of air as the claws graze past her armor. Without hesitation, she follows up with a swift upward slash, her sword biting into the beast’s side. The owlbear stumbles, its footing momentarily lost in the struggle against Aldric’s necrotic restraints. 

The beast, enraged and desperate, lashes out with a wild swipe that finally connects. The impact sends Anastasia stumbling backward, pain flaring through her side where the claws tore through her coat. She grits her teeth, ignoring the sting as she raises her sword once more. Her head swims, but the thrill of the fight steels her nerves.

“Anastasia!” Gisela’s voice cuts through the chaos, casting a burst of healing energy toward Anastasia to mend the worst of her wounds.

With renewed strength, Anastasia charges forward again, her blade flashing in a deadly arc. She strikes the owlbear’s shoulder, then pivots and drives her sword down into the creature’s side, feeling the blade sink deep between bone and muscle. The beast lets out a choked roar, struggling to throw her off, but she holds her ground, her grip unyielding. She takes a deep breath, channels another firebolt with a free hand, and drives the flame directly into the owlbear’s face, aiming for its eyes. The creature shrieks, blinded and disoriented, its paw clutching at its burned, bleeding face. 

With a final shout, Anastasia pulls her blade free and, with all her strength, brings the hilt down onto the owlbear’s skull. There’s a sickening crunch, and the creature collapses, its body heaving once before finally going still. 

The cave falls silent save for their heavy breathing. Anastasia lowers her sword, glancing around to confirm they’re alone. Aldric lets out a shaky breath and closes his spellbook as the necrotic energy dissipates around him. 

“It is done,” Anastasia murmurs, pressing a hand to her injured side. Gisela nods, relief mixing with exhaustion. When the dhampir pulls her hand away, her fingers are coated in dark, viscous blood. As the adrenaline of combat begins to wear off, she begins feeling the full brunt of the thrumming pain. 

“That should have healed, but it looks like you’ve reopened the wound,” Gisela murmurs. “Let me help.” Taking a step forward, the cleric hovers her hand over the bleeding cuts. Purple-tinged energy radiates from her hand, sending a feeling of warmth through Anastasia’s body.  

“I didn’t know you were attuned to the Weave, Anastasia” comments Aldric. He pushes his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger. “The, um, evocation magic.” 

“Indeed. I have been tutored in the ways of the Weave since I was young.” 

Aldric smiles. “I’m beginning to think you and I have more in common than I’d originally thought. I can’t, um, swing a sword like you can—I think my arm would fall off if I even tried—but the point still stands.” 

“If you say so.” Though… perhaps. It’s a nice change of pace to be in the company of those with an appreciation for the arcane rather than an outward fear. She directs her attention back to her wound when she feels a tugging sensation around it. Before her very eyes, the flesh begins to weave itself back together until all that remains is reddened skin and her tattered, blood-soaked clothing. 

Anastasia rolls her shoulder, testing the movement. The wound still stings a bit, but it’s nothing compared to how it felt moments ago. Though, she thinks with a grimace, I’ll need to replace one of my favorite coats. She glances at Gisela and Aldric. “Well done, both of you,” she says, a rare, fleeting smile breaking through her usually steely exterior. “Today, we’ve made Barovia a little safer. The hunters will be relieved not to have an owlbear prowling the woods anymore.” She clears her throat, the smile fading into something more serious. “But in any case, let us leave this place. The smell of owlbear droppings is starting to give me a headache.”

Together, the three of them make their way out of the cave, leaving the slain beast behind as the forest begins to reclaim its temporary peace. A small part of Anastasia feels grateful for the company as they head back toward Castle Ravenloft. Toward home.