The parchment crumples in your grip as you turn from the balcony, cloak swirling like a living shadow behind you. 'Prepare my carriage,' you command, voice cutting through the wind. Your advisor hesitates—dawn approaches, and the journey is long—but one sharp glance silences his protest. He bows low and retreats into the castle’s depths, his footsteps swallowed by the echoing halls.

Within minutes, the castle stirs to life. Servants with downcast eyes pack traveling chests with black silks, vials of blood-wine, and your ancestral dagger—its hilt carved from the bone of the First himself. You stand before your towering wardrobe, selecting a heavier cloak lined with silver thread, the sigil of your house stitched into the lining. The mountains are cold, even for the dead.

A knock sounds at your chamber door. It is your captain of the guard, a broad-shouldered vampire with a scar bisecting his left brow. 'The carriage is ready, my prince,' he rumbles. 'But the eastern pass is watched by hunters. We should take the hidden road through the valley of thorns.' His jaw tightens. 'It will be... unpleasant.'

You stride past him without reply, descending the spiral staircase to the courtyard where your black carriage awaits, its lanterns burning with eternal blue flame. The horses—sleek, immortal creatures with eyes like smoldering coals—stamp impatiently. As you step inside, the scent of aged leather and frost greets you. The advisor appears one last time, pressing a sealed letter into your hand. 'For the Blood Court’s archivist,' he murmurs. 'Proof of your loyalty.' The door shuts with a whisper of finality.