The next evening, I was escorted to Dracula's study.
It was… impossible not to pause at the threshold.
Bookshelves climbed to the vaulted ceiling like the ribs of some cathedral built in honor of knowledge itself. A single desk—massive, dark wood, carved with inlaid sigils—sat before a panoramic window overlooking the night. Outside, lightning threaded through distant stormclouds, illuminating the silhouette of endless forests and jagged peaks.
Dracula stood near the desk, one hand resting casually on its surface, a crystal decanter of wine to his side. He looked like a painting of power itself—calm, eternal, and faintly bored by the universe.
"Sit," he said.
I obeyed, the chair creaking softly under me.
"You asked about Forgemasters." His voice carried easily, like a bell tolling in a cavern. "There are two in particular who warrant mention."
He lifted his gaze from the desk and fixed me with that unblinking stare.
"The first is Hector. Young, by my standards. Brilliant, but soft-hearted. A man of creation above destruction—he prefers to build rather than to harm, though he can command the dead like few others alive." Dracula's tone was almost… fond. "He works metal as if it were clay and is, to my knowledge, loyal to none but his own conscience. If you find him, you may find a craftsman rather than a soldier."
I nodded faintly, filing the description away.
"The second," Dracula continued, voice dipping almost imperceptibly lower, "is Isaac. Older, tempered by hardship. He is disciplined, relentless, and entirely unflinching in his purpose. A true Forgemaster—warrior and artisan both. He does not waste time on moralities. He believes in results. In loyalty earned, not demanded."
I kept my face neutral, but my thoughts were anything but calm.
Hector. Isaac. Two names I already knew, because I've seen where they end up. Hector—tragically naïve, brilliant but manipulable. Isaac—one of the most dangerous men I've ever watched unfold on-screen, who turned pain into unwavering strength. And here they are… alive, unwritten, still becoming who they'll be.
Which one did I trust more?
Hector could help me craft things, sure—enchantments, weapons, maybe even repair the Chalice if it ever broke. But Hector's Achilles' heel was always his soft heart. Get him cornered, get him pressured by the wrong people, and he'd cave. I couldn't afford someone who might collapse because I asked for something ugly.
Isaac, though… Isaac was different. Sharp. Cold steel where others were glass. He didn't just survive—he carved his way through anything in his path. If I wanted an ally who wouldn't hesitate, who'd understand when necessity demanded blood on our hands, it was him.
Isaac, I decided silently. I need Isaac.
I met Dracula's gaze, steady now, anchored by my choice. "Both sound… formidable. Do you know where they are?"
Dracula's mouth quirked minutely, as if he'd caught the subtle weight in my question. "Perhaps. Hector drifts. He values solitude in his work. Isaac…" He paused, swirling the wine in his glass. "Isaac is… harder to miss. He has a way of leaving his mark on the world."
I almost smiled at that, imagining the scorched earth Isaac's future self would one day leave in his wake.
"Then I'll need to find him," I said simply.
Dracula regarded me for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he inclined his head in what might have been approval. "I will provide you with what I know tomorrow. Maps. Names of places to begin. Do not squander them."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I replied, deadpan.
For just a heartbeat, something like amusement flickered in his crimson eyes. Then he turned to the window, the conversation—at least for tonight—over.
I rose quietly, bowed slightly out of reflex, and left the study.
Behind my composed exterior, my mind was already a whir of plans and contingencies. Isaac. The Chalice. Energy. Every move from here on had to count.