Scene 1: Dusk over Valerious Village
The sun bled into the jagged teeth of the Carpathians, painting the sky in bruises of crimson and indigo. Fog rolled thick from the pine-choked valleys below, swallowing the narrow road that snaked up to the village of Valerious like a serpent returning to its nest. The air carried the metallic tang of coming snow and something fouler—fear, old and sour, baked into the timbers of every house.
The village itself crouched low against the mountainside: a cluster of steep-roofed cottages huddled around a central square dominated by a blackened stone well and a small, crooked chapel whose bell had not rung in months. Torches sputtered along the outer palisade, their flames weak against the encroaching dark. Doors were barred, shutters nailed tight. No children played in the lanes; no smoke rose from most chimneys. The people of Valerious had learned that firelight only drew worse things than wolves.
From the battlements of the ancient keep that overlooked the village—once proud, now crumbling like old teeth—Elizabeth Richard watched the road. She stood motionless, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of the short sword at her hip, the other gripping the hilt of the longer blade strapped across her back. Her dark hair whipped free from its braid in the wind, strands lashing her cheeks like tiny whips. Leather armor hugged her frame: tight bodice laced over a linen shirt, breeches tucked into high boots, all worn soft from use and stained with things best not named.
She was twenty-six, the last true heir of the Valerious line, though the title felt like a noose. Her brother William had been gone three weeks—hunting the beast that had taken their father, then vanished into the same forest. The villagers whispered that the curse had claimed another. Elizabeth refused to believe it. Not yet.
Her eyes narrowed as movement caught the last light on the road below.
A lone rider emerged from the mist.
He sat tall in the saddle, broad-shouldered beneath a long black coat that billowed like raven wings. His horse was a massive black stallion, muscles rolling under a coat glossy with sweat despite the chill. The beast moved with the deliberate grace of something trained for war, not farm work. The rider wore no obvious holy sigils, yet something about him screamed Vatican—old power, older scars.
Elizabeth's breath hitched. Unwelcome heat bloomed low in her belly, a traitor pulse between her thighs. She clenched her jaw, furious at her body's response. She had not felt desire in years—not since the night the first bride descended and tore her betrothed apart in front of her eyes. Lust was a luxury the cursed could not afford.
Yet here it came anyway, sharp and insistent, as the stranger drew nearer.
(The village of Valerious at dusk, fog curling through the clustered roofs like ghostly fingers, the keep rising dark and watchful above.)
Scene 2: The Stranger Enters
Frederick Thomas reined in at the edge of the palisade gate. The stallion snorted, steam pluming from flared nostrils. He scanned the barricade: sharpened stakes, iron chains, a crude effigy of twisted branches meant to ward off the night things. It had clearly failed.
A narrow slit opened in the gate. A rifle barrel poked through, followed by a trembling voice.
"State your business, stranger. We've no welcome for travelers after dark."
Frederick's voice carried low, calm, edged with gravel from too many screams swallowed. "I come from Rome. Sent by Cardinal Jinette. I seek the last of the Valerious bloodline."
Murmurs rose behind the gate. A woman's voice—older, sharp—cut through.
"Prove it."
He reached inside his coat and withdrew a sealed parchment, the Vatican dragon crest pressed into red wax. He held it up to the torchlight.
The slit closed. Bolts scraped. The gate groaned open just wide enough for horse and rider.
Frederick urged the stallion forward. Hooves clopped on cobblestones slick with evening dew. Faces peered from cracked shutters: hollow-eyed women clutching children, men gripping pitchforks like they might actually use them. He felt their terror like heat from a forge.
At the square he dismounted, boots striking stone with deliberate weight. He looped the reins over a post and turned slowly, letting them see him fully: tall, perhaps six-foot-three, broad through the shoulders from years of swinging silver and steel. Scars crisscrossed his forearms and the side of his neck—pale lines against tanned skin. His hair was dark, cropped short, streaked with premature silver at the temples. Eyes the color of storm clouds scanned every shadow.
A figure detached from the chapel steps.
Elder Marta, the village matriarch, approached with the caution of someone who had buried too many kin. Her shawl was threadbare, her face a map of grief.
"You are the one they call Van Helsing's heir?" she asked.
"Frederick Thomas," he corrected quietly. "The Order sent me. Where is Elizabeth Valerious?"
Marta's eyes flicked upward to the battlements. "Watching you. As she watches everything."
Frederick followed her gaze. A silhouette stood outlined against the dying sky—lithe, armed, unmoving.
He felt it then: a prickle along his spine, not fear, but recognition. Something ancient stirred in his blood, answering the unseen gaze.
Scene 3: From the Battlements
Elizabeth's fingers tightened on the stone parapet until her knuckles whitened.
He was larger close up. Dangerous in a way the local wolves never were. The way he moved—economical, predatory—reminded her of the thing that had taken her father. Yet there was no red glow in his eyes, no feral grin. Only quiet certainty.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Between her legs, the unwelcome heat had become a steady ache. She shifted her stance, thighs pressing together, trying to quell it. It only made it worse.
"Damn you," she muttered under her breath.
She turned and descended the narrow stair inside the wall, boots ringing on stone. She would meet this stranger on her ground, not skulking like a frightened girl.
Scene 4: Confrontation in the Square
By the time Elizabeth emerged from the keep's sally port, Frederick had already drawn a small crowd. Villagers kept their distance, but curiosity outweighed terror for the moment.
He was speaking low to Marta.
"…the brides have been sighted as far south as Brasov. The attacks are increasing. They're testing defenses. Your village is next unless we act."
Marta's face crumpled. "We have nothing left to give. William is gone. The old count—"
She broke off as Elizabeth stepped into the torchlight.
The square fell silent.
Elizabeth moved with the lethal grace of someone raised on sword and sorrow. Her eyes—storm-green—locked on Frederick's. She stopped ten paces away, one hand resting casually on her sword hilt.
"You speak of my family's business as though you know it," she said. Her voice was low, controlled, but carried the bite of winter steel.
Frederick met her stare without flinching. "I know enough. The Valerious vow. The curse. The vampire who waits in the mountains. And I know your brother has not returned from hunting the werewolf."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Elizabeth's jaw tightened.
"You know too much for a stranger."
"I am no stranger to monsters." He took one step forward. "Or to the price they demand."
Their eyes held. Something crackled between them—electric, dangerous. Elizabeth felt it coil low in her belly again, hotter now, insistent. Her nipples hardened beneath the leather bodice; she prayed the torchlight hid it.
She forced her voice steady. "If Rome sent you, prove your worth. Words are cheap in these mountains."
Frederick's lips curved—just a hint, not quite a smile. "Then show me the keep. Show me what remains of your defenses. And tell me everything you know about the creature that calls itself Nicolas."
Elizabeth studied him a long moment. Then she jerked her head toward the keep.
"Follow."
Scene 5: The Ascent
They walked in silence up the winding path to the keep. Frederick's stallion trailed behind, led by a boy who looked ready to bolt at any second.
Elizabeth felt the stranger's presence at her back like heat from a banked fire. Every step made her aware of her own body: the sway of her hips, the brush of leather against sensitive skin. She hated it. Hated him for waking something she had long buried.
At the main gate she paused.
"Leave your weapons at the door," she said. "Tradition."
Frederick arched a brow. "And if tradition gets us both killed?"
"Then we die armed," she replied. "But not inside my house."
He unbuckled his bandolier of silver stakes and holy-water vials, laying them on a stone bench with careful reverence. His coat followed, revealing a black shirt stretched tight across muscle scarred by claw and fang. A heavy silver cross hung at his throat—old, worn smooth by years of touch.
Elizabeth's gaze lingered on the line of his throat, the pulse beating there. She swallowed.
Inside the great hall, fire crackled in the massive hearth. Tapestries hung ragged on the walls: scenes of Valerious ancestors battling winged horrors. One showed the original vow—Valerious the Elder kneeling before a shadowy figure, dragon crest gleaming on his ring.
Frederick studied it.
"Your ancestor's bargain," he said quietly.
"My prison," Elizabeth corrected. She crossed to a table laden with maps and half-burned letters. "William took the last silver bullet we had. He swore he would end the wolf or die trying."
"And you think he failed."
"I think he's alive." Her voice cracked on the last word. She turned away, fists clenched. "I will not lose him too."
Frederick stepped closer—close enough that she could smell leather, horse, and something darker, like gunpowder and old blood.
"Then we find him," he said. "Together."
Elizabeth spun back. Their faces were inches apart. She could see the faint scar running through his left eyebrow, the storm in his eyes.
"You presume much, hunter."
"I presume nothing." His voice dropped. "But I see a woman carrying a war alone. And I know what that costs."
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then Elizabeth stepped back, breaking the spell.
"Rooms are prepared. Eat. Rest. Tomorrow we speak of plans."
She turned to leave.
"Elizabeth."
She paused at the archway.
Frederick's gaze burned into her back.
"If the brides come tonight," he said, "call for me. I do not sleep deeply."
She did not answer. But as she climbed the stairs to her chamber, the ache between her thighs had become a steady throb.
In her room she barred the door, stripped off her armor with shaking hands, and stood naked before the small mirror. Torchlight gilded her skin—firm breasts, flat stomach scarred from old fights, dark curls at the apex of her thighs already damp.
She touched herself once—lightly, experimentally—and gasped at the jolt.
"God help me," she whispered.
Outside, the wind howled like a lover denied.
And in the hall below, Frederick Thomas sat by the fire, staring into the flames, already knowing this hunt would cost more than blood.