You turn away from your sibling without a word, their bitter question dissolving into the cold air behind you. The harpsichord's mournful notes resume as you step back into the corridor, the sound growing fainter with each stride. The castle's stone whispers grow louder here, voices of the past murmuring of forgotten treaties and buried betrayals. Your fingers trace the grooves in the wall where your great-grandsire once clawed in fury, the stone still bearing his mark centuries later.

A draft carries the scent of aged parchment and dried herbs—the archives. The heavy oak door stands slightly ajar, a single candle flickering within. You push it open to find the castle historian, a wizened vampire with ink-stained fingers, hunched over a crumbling tome. He does not look up as you enter, but his voice rasps like turning pages, 'The southern lords have begun to question your silence, my prince. They whisper that you are... distracted.' His quill pauses mid-sentence, leaving a blot of black ink that spreads like a tiny shadow across the parchment.

Beyond the narrow window, lightning splits the sky, illuminating the rows upon rows of leather-bound volumes—the written history of your immortal lineage. Thunder rumbles through the stones, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat. The historian's candle gutters wildly, casting monstrous shapes upon the walls before steadying once more.