The town of Elmswick had always been a place where nightfall carried a silence heavier than stone. Its cobblestone streets, narrow and twisting, were designed for a time when candles ruled over gas lamps and carriages ruled over motorcars. Even now, in the age of neon and concrete, Elmswick clung to its shadows.
On an October evening, as the last light bled into the trees, a stranger stepped off the midnight train. He was tall, wrapped in a coat too heavy for the mild chill, his pale hands gloved though no frost had yet claimed the air. His eyes, gray as ash, scanned the platform with a hunger that was not quite human.
He gave no name to the conductor, nor to the innkeeper who offered him a room. But in the quiet of his chambers, with the curtains drawn tight, he whispered it to the dark:
"Lucian."
And the dark whispered back.