Chapter 1: Winter only a month away, the chill already whispering through the vast castle that loomed like a colossal sentinel over the valley. Its spires and battlements pierced the crisp autumn sky, stern and unyielding. Encircling the fortress was a deep, mist-veiled basin where ancient forests stretched endlessly, their canopies fading into hues of copper, beige, and brown. Leaves drifted down in steady showers, carpeting the earth in a rustling tapestry of decay as the trees surrendered to the coming cold.
Nestled against the castle's formidable walls, the bustling town thrived like a living extension of the stronghold. Timber-framed houses and thatched roofs crowded along cobblestone alleys where merchants barked from their wooden stalls, children darted between legs with shrill laughter, and blacksmiths hammered in open forges, each strike showering sparks into the dimming air. Muddy roads twisted through the town, churned into sucking quagmires by the boots of countless villagers and the rumble of carriages whose wheels creaked and splattered grime across the crowd. Beyond the gates, a single main road paved with uneven stones wound its way out of the valley, slick with mud and scattered leaves, leading toward distant horizons.
Inside, the castle's halls rang with revelry. A grand gathering was underway to bid farewell to the king. Four immense oak tables, each capable of seating sixty men shoulder-to-shoulder, sagged under the weight of roasted venison, steaming loaves of crusty bread, and heaps of glazed root vegetables passed eagerly from hand to hand. Maids in crisp linen aprons moved like industrious bees through the throng, their skirts brushing against the flagstones as they balanced trays heavy with frothing ale in pewter mugs and deep red wine in crystal goblets. Laughter, toasts, and the roar of many conversations blended into a warm, boisterous hum that reverberated against the vaulted stone ceiling.
At the head of the hall, the queen and king sat in their customary places facing the grand doors. The king occupied an imposing throne carved from ancient walnut, adorned with golden leafwork depicting rearing bears—symbols of his line. The queen sat beside him on a more delicate chair of black lacquered wood inlaid with red floral whorls that gleamed in the firelight. Her gown, black silk embroidered with crimson thread, shimmered like bloodied water, while his robes, rich with golden filigree, were clasped with a heavy chain of office.
She idly sipped from an ornate silver goblet, the liquid within a deep crimson that clung too thickly to the rim. When she lowered the cup, her lips lingered in the faintest smile as she drew her tongue across them.
The princess, however, was absent from the feast. She had slipped away into the gardens just beyond the great hall, where dew still clung to the petals of late-blooming flowers under the waning afternoon sun. Dante trailed behind her, his polished plate armor clinking softly with every measured step. The sound, though steady, seemed jarring amid the serene hush of the garden. He carried his freshly buffed helmet beneath one arm, its black-and-gold engravings of the royal bear crest gleaming like a mirror, while the ornate sword at his hip swung lightly with his stride. To a passerby, he might have appeared alone, for his broad shoulders and looming shadow nearly swallowed the slender figure of the princess ahead of him.
Monica's fingers trailed idly over the plump orange pumpkins that dotted the garden beds, their tangled vines twisting like serpents across the soil. Already they were fewer in number than the day before, for the servants had harvested armfuls to prepare pies. The faint, spicy scent of nutmeg and cinnamon still drifted through the air, carried from the kitchens where the baking had yet to cease.
Back in the hall, the king's expression soured. Beneath the weight of his jeweled crown, his bushy brows furrowed. With a flick of his ringed hand, he summoned a servant to his side. The four knights stationed nearby—clad in chainmail and tabards bearing the royal sigil—shifted with the scraping of boots on stone, parting just enough to allow her unobstructed passage.
"Your Highness, where is she? Go and find her," the king commanded in a low, gravelly voice that carried the weight of authority, his face flushed like he was seated next to a roaring campfire, illuminated by the warm glow from all six ornate chandeliers dangling from the vaulted ceiling like constellations of crystal and brass, alongside countless flickering torches mounted in iron sconces and beeswax candles sputtering in silver holders that bathed the entire hall in a golden, dancing light—necessary since the grand hall had no windows to admit any natural daylight.
"Right away, Your Highness," she replied with a quick curtsy, her voice steady despite the haste, as she rushed off toward one of the side doors flanked by two stern knights. Their poleaxes—long shafts topped with razor-sharp blades and spiked heads—clanged sharply against the stone as they swung the heavy portal open, its big, blocky frame reinforced with wrought-iron bands and studded hinges creaking in protest. She slipped through the metal-laced door, which thudded shut behind her with a resonant boom.
"Don't you think this is such a beautiful day, Dante?" Monica chirped, her voice light and melodic like a songbird's trill, as she paused to tilt her face toward the sky, her silver curls cascading over her shoulders.
"Most definitely it is, Her Royal Highness," Dante responded with a respectful nod, his deep baritone laced with a hint of warmth, though his posture remained rigidly formal.
"Haven't I told you to call me by my name when we are alone?" she teased, her emerald eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Yes, Princess Monica. I guess it's almost there," she conceded, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his scarred lips beneath his neatly trimmed beard.
She smiled back at him, making a witty face by wrinkling her nose playfully, her laughter bubbling like a gentle stream. Vilma's presence was noticed abruptly when she tripped and ate shit face first around the garden's manicured edge, her skirts tangling in the underbrush as she sprawled amid the fallen leaves. Her face flushed a deep crimson, the color blooming across her cheeks like spilled wine, adding even more rosy hue to her already freckled skin. She quickly scrambled to her feet, brushing off bits of soil and twigs with hurried hands.
"Sir Dante, Her Royal Highness, Your Highness has summoned you," Vilma panted, out of breath from her mishap and the sprint across the grounds, her apron askew and a stray leaf caught in her braided hair.
Monica rolled her eyes dramatically, a sigh escaping her lips. "But I'm not hungry," she moaned, her tone petulant as she idly flicked one of the broad, veined leaves on a nearby bush, watching it flutter to the ground. The red stripes adorning her flowing black dress—silk that whispered with every movement—sparkled brilliantly in the sunshine as she spun in a lazy circle, the fabric catching the light like threads of captured starlight.
"I think Your Highness wants to make an announcement and wants you present," Vilma insisted gently, smoothing her attire with composed dignity.
Monica didn't move at first, her arms crossed defiantly. Another exaggerated moan escaped her. "Fine."
On the way back, the princess noticed the king. He sat upon his throne, his advisor whispering something into his ear. Whatever it was, it brought a rare smile to the king's face.
"Not something you see every day," murmured Monica to Dante.
He nodded in agreement.
The princess ascended the five steps between the parting knights and seated herself beside the queen. Dante, however, stopped short of the steps, falling into quiet conversation with Lirk—the king's left-hand knight, and perhaps one of Dante's only true friends.
The advisor gave a final nod to the king. The king returned it, then cleared his throat. The sound rumbled like distant thunder, resonating through the stone floor until it rose into the very chests of those present.
The hall fell silent. Forks and chalices stilled.
Rising from his great throne, the king lifted the gilded chalice resting by his seat. His deep, powerful voice carried across the chamber.
"Hear, hear!"
Men and women raised their glasses.
"I appreciate all the great work each of you has done in preparation for my departure. You have been wonderfully helpful, and for that, I give my thanks. To success and prosperity!"
Cheers erupted. Voices—some steady, some thick with too much wine—rang out in celebration. The sound of applause and clinking cups echoed across the hall, spreading like wildfire, until excitement and joy consumed the evening.
After the feast, the court spilled into the town to continue the festivities. Laughter and song filled the streets as taverns overflowed with merriment. This night came but once a year, and everyone intended to enjoy it before the bone-chilling winter descended.
Darkness had already fallen when the princess returned to her chambers. She quickly changed out of her gown and into a plain woolen dress that looked more fitting for a peasant. Slipping her hood up, she eased her door open, the hinges creaking softly.
"Princess?" Dante's voice came from the shadows. He straightened at once, suspicion in his tone. "Where are you off to at this hour?"
She bit her lip. "Please don't tell my father. I just wanted to go to town… to see the puppet play."
"Princess, it can be dangerous at night—"
"I know, I know," she interrupted. "Why don't you come with me, and protect me? Like you're supposed to."
Dante sighed, reluctant. But he could see the determination in her eyes. "Very well. But first, let me change. I won't have us drawing attention."
When he returned, Dante too was cloaked like a peasant, his hood pulled low. The only difference was the hidden weight of his sword, carefully wrapped and tied across his back beneath the cloak. Together, they slipped through the castle halls, moving like shadows past the countless guards.
At the outer wall, Dante knelt. Monica climbed onto his back, and with surprising agility for a man of his size, he lifted her easily over the stones. She landed lightly on the other side, grinning with excitement.
The two made their way into town. Revelers parted around them, though many could not help but stare.
"Look at the moving mountain," a drunk whispered to his companion.
"Holy hells, he's massive," another muttered.
Dante paid them no mind. His focus remained on the princess, who pushed eagerly through the crowd until they reached the square where rows of benches had been set. Five neat rows, each with a dozen or more townsfolk, faced a wooden stage draped with a crimson curtain.
The crowd hushed as the puppet show began.
From behind the curtain, a puppet with a hat and monocle sprang up. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" it declared in a shrill, comical voice. "Tonight, we tell the story of our great king."
The puppet bowed low and vanished. In its place, a figure of a beautiful woman and her two children rose upon the stage.
"Long, long ago," the narrator intoned, "a mother lost her child in the woods. The king sent out a search party, but they were too late. A great bear found the child first. Overcome with grief, the mother sought someone to blame. She cursed the king for not saving her child, condemning him to bear's form until he should find true love."
The curtain swayed as a towering bear puppet emerged, clad in scraps of armor, its claws painted red.
"This curse, however, proved a terrible mistake. For as a great bear, the king was a fierce warrior. He crushed his foes on the battlefield, scattering them like dry leaves."
The story shifted. Another puppet appeared—this time a pale, fanged figure with crimson eyes.
"But the curse was not the only shadow upon the land. Vampires plagued our forests. The king and his soldiers fought night after night, until they faced the count and his wife, rulers of the undead."
The bear puppet surged forward. Then, with a flash, it transformed back into the puppet of a man.
"For in that battle, the king saw her—his first and truest love. A vampire, as beautiful as the moonlit night."
The puppets of the king and queen leaned toward each other, almost touching.
"Together, they slew the count. Together, they became inseparable. And so the king married a vampire. Yet when the first winter came, many thought him dead, not knowing he merely hibernating, a trace of the curse still lingering."
The bear puppet returned one last time, before bowing and vanishing behind the curtain.
"And so, every winter, we celebrate not only the king and queen's love, but also the breaking of his chains."
The crowd erupted into applause and cheers.
The princess smiled, warmed by the sight of her people so joyful—though more than a little drunk.
As she and Dante made their way back toward the castle, Monica's gaze caught on a small wooden shack wedged between two darkened houses. Purple curtains sagged in the doorway, and jewelry glittered faintly on a crooked wooden table outside. Among the tarnished trinkets lay a glowing red sapphire, cut into the shape of a bear.
"How much for the necklace?" Monica asked, stepping closer.
The old woman behind the table raised her head. Her skin was paper-thin and stretched too loosely across her bones, her eyes clouded yet sharp, glinting like candlelight reflected in black water. A grin spread slowly across her lips, revealing teeth yellowed and sharp in odd places.
"The bear is free, child… free with one condition."
Monica hesitated. "And what is that?"
The woman's long, twisted fingers trailed across the table, tapping the sapphire once. The air seemed colder near her touch. "I will read your future." Her voice rasped, low and broken, yet every word carried clearly, as if the night itself bent to let her be heard.
Monica glanced back at Dante. His brow furrowed, suspicion plain in his eyes.
"So if you tell me my future, the necklace is mine?" Monica pressed.
"Yes, my child. Yours… and his." The woman's finger, curved and nail-like a claw, rose and pointed straight at Dante. Her smile widened, impossibly, until it seemed to stretch too far across her gaunt face.
"Please?" Monica whispered to Dante, tugging at his sleeve like a child begging for a sweet.
He sighed through his teeth. "Fine. But make it quick."
"Come, then. Come inside," the woman whispered.
She vanished behind the curtain without a sound, moving with unnatural smoothness.
Dante pushed the curtain aside and stepped in first, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space. Monica followed, the air growing heavy and damp as she entered.
Inside, the shack smelled of burnt herbs and mildew. Strange bundles of dried plants hung from the rafters, some tied with red thread, others with hair that looked disturbingly human. A single candle flickered on the table, its flame greenish, dripping wax that hissed when it hit the cloth.
The woman was already seated, though neither of them had seen her sit. A red tablecloth spread across the low wooden table, and upon it rested a deck of cards—blackened at the edges as though they had been pulled from fire.
"Sit, children," she said softly, her voice rasping like leaves dragged over stone. Her pale hands hovered above the cards, never quite touching. "Let us see what the fates whisper tonight."
The witch scattered the cards across the table with both hands, her long fingers moving like pale spiders. She gathered them again with a slow, deliberate sweep, then split the deck into two uneven stacks.
"Choose one," she rasped, her voice low.
Monica glanced at Dante, then back at the cards. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the stack on the right.
"Very good," the witch whispered. She slid the left-hand stack toward Dante, and the right before the princess.
The crone closed her eyes, hovering her hands over the decks. Her lips moved soundlessly, muttering words in no tongue either of them knew. When she opened her eyes again, only the whites showed, gleaming like milk in the flickering candlelight. Her voice, when it came, was no longer cracked and ragged but clear, distant, and heavy with power.
Her head tilted sharply toward Dante, the motion jerky, unnatural. One crooked finger lifted and pointed at his deck.
"Flip one."
Dante hesitated, then obeyed. The card revealed the painted image of a small girl.
"You have lost what was dearest," the witch intoned, her sightless gaze locked on him. "But not forgotten. You must protect her."
Her finger swung like a compass needle, now indicating Monica's cards.
The princess swallowed hard and, with a shaking hand, turned one over. The illustration was of a little girl standing barefoot in a pool of blood.
"You are in great danger," the witch whispered, her voice chillingly calm. "But all may not yet be lost."
Monica's eyes darted to Dante. His face had gone pale, paler than she had ever seen it. She had only seen that expression once before—long ago, when she was a child. She was never told what had been said to him that night, eight years past, when Lirk had come running through the storm and whispered something into his ear in the great hall.
The witch's head tilted again, sharper this time, her finger stabbing once more at Dante's deck. His hands shook as he turned the card. A devil grinned up at him, its teeth impossibly wide, a puzzle half-assembled at its feet.
"Only you can prevent the inevitable."
The words slithered into his bones like ice water. Dante surged to his feet, his chair scraping violently against the floor. He lunged across the table and seized the old woman by her tattered shirt.
"You tell me," he growled, voice trembling with fury. "You tell me now."
Her eyes snapped back to normal, cloudy but human once more. Slowly, unnervingly, her lips spread into a wide grin.
"If you wish to know so badly…" She reached down and drew the last card from his stack, flipping it face-up.
It showed a folded letter, its seal pressed in red wax. A goat's head and two quarter-moons faced outward from the center.
The smile slid from the woman's face, along with the color from her skin. Her mouth twitched soundlessly before she stammered, "N-no… no, it cannot be…"
Fear crept into her voice for the first time. Her hands shook as she wrenched herself free from his grasp. She staggered toward a great leather chest in the corner, throwing back its lid. She rummaged wildly, tossing objects aside—a book, a cracked doll, a bundle of bones—until her movements became frantic.
"There," she gasped at last, her voice breaking between terror and relief. She rose stiffly, clutching the card as though it burned her. Her cloudy eyes darted toward Dante. "In order for the letter to be opened, certain steps must be followed."
Dante's voice was a harsh whisper. "I'm listening."
"Alone. You must be alone. Past midnight. The room must be pitch black—save for three candles. One to each side. One before the letter. Only then may the seal be broken."
She bent at the waist, lifting both hands above her head. Her lips moved in some guttural chant, too low and strange to understand. The air seemed to thicken, the candlelight flickering as though straining to survive.
Without waiting, Dante tore the card from her hand, seizing Monica by the wrist with his other. The two fled the shack, bursting into the night. They ran the same hidden route they had taken to escape the castle, Dante pulling her over the wall with the strength of desperation.
Back inside, he stopped in the shadows of the corridor, his breath ragged. "You must not leave your room. Speak of this to no one."
Monica, wide-eyed, could only nod.
Dante turned away, his jaw set. He found Lirk and, with only a few strained words, ordered him to guard Monica's door until morning. Lirk did not ask questions.
When Dante reached his chambers, the castle felt oppressively silent. He lit three candles, setting them carefully: one to his left, one to his right, and one directly before him. The letter lay on the floor at his feet, its wax seal glowing faintly in the unsteady firelight.
Even looking at it filled him with dread. The goat's head seemed to shift in the shadows, its crescent moons pulling his gaze toward the center.
"How could she have known?" he whispered hoarsely. "How could she know about… her?"
The thought of losing Monica as well wrenched at his chest, and a single tear slid down his cheek. His face remained stone, but his heart quaked at how much more he stood to lose.
He knelt, his hand steady now. With deliberate care, he peeled the wax seal free. Slowly, he unfolded the letter.
Inside was a fragment of parchment, ancient and brittle. He spread it flat on the floor. In order to see at each corner a star with a circle around it. Two word had been scrawled in bold, jagged ink: Blood Contract
PS:Im only doing this for fun but if someone likes it might make me write for a different purpose :)