Too cold – even for a dark, nearly-uninhabited castle nestled deep within the wintery forest of Transylvania, it was just too cold. Never before had Graf von Krolock paid the temperature any mind – it wasn't that it didn't matter, but there had always been others to worry about things like that. Not for years upon years had Krolock even been able to feel the cold – his attire always consisted of heavy garments, and his bed was always swathed in layers of thick, soft blankets, but all this was for the sake of appearance and status. For the longest time, Krolock hadn't even thought about the cold. Eternal life couldn't be bothered by such a trivial thing.

That was how things had always been – but now, those trivialities immediately attacked his senses as he roused from his daytime slumber. There was the deep and terrible chill to the air – far, far too cold. The thought was more than worrisome, sending a burst of anger tempered with panic coursing through him – what were they thinking? He'd given them strict and specific orders–

Scowling, Krolock extracted himself from his bed in a flurry, cursing the fact that he'd even needed to retire to his chambers in the first place. If he'd had his way, he would have never even bothered… but this castle still housed a few of the living, and so the daytime was dangerous. Krolock only trusted his servants to a point – and after all, he knew perfectly well that the shared trust was based on nothing more than fear and power. Dawn sapped his power – and Krolock simply couldn't risk the possibility of waking up to the sensation of a stake being driven through his heart.

There was no way around it – he had to be cautious.

Now, though – now, that damned necessity drove a surge of frustration tearing through him, snapping at his heels as he marched through the cold halls of his castle. At a time like this, he found it almost impossible to even care about caution – what did it matter? Who cared about weakness and power, when every second that he spent locked away in his rooms could be one lost forever – one less he would ever get to spend with his beloved child? His heir and only family? His dearest son…

Herbert.

The name whispered through his mind, urging him to move faster – Krolock gritted his teeth and obliged, hurrying down what seemed like corridor after endless corridor as the deep silence and biting cold settled around him like a heavy, stifling blanket.

It had happened.

Ever since that crucial day, years ago, when Krolock had told Herbert the truth about himself – ever since Herbert had discovered why his father never went out during the day, never ate in company, and never seemed to worry about the frequent disappearances that plagued the local villages – ever since, Krolock had lived with a quiet, gnawing fear. Ever since that moment – when, after a few days of uncertain silence and frayed hopes, Herbert came to him and told him that one day, he wished to become the way his father was…he wanted to join him as a vampire.

Ever since then… Of course, his initial reaction had been one almost akin to joy, one full of rather stunned wonderment and relief that Herbert had chosen to forgive all the secrets, all the lies; Krolock hadn't hesitated to agree to Herbert's wishes then and there, hardly considering any other option. Why would he? What else had he ever wanted, than for his beloved son to never be parted from him? What else… but as time passed – as Krolock continued to watch his son live – that settling fear, the quiet stir of unease, only grew. There was a choice coming – and over time, Krolock came to a realization.

He'd never been a man who conformed to any sort of moral expectations – he'd always lived by his own rules, doing what he wanted; power had given him a kind of convoluted freedom of choice, even as it took away all other freedoms that mattered most. Before, he'd never paid it much thought – but this was his son, the only person in the world that he could still have love for. This was Herbert – and this, this choice, was one he never wanted to make. But now…it had happened.

Herbert had fallen ill.

It was just a week ago that it began – the fever set in quickly, grasping Herbert tightly in its clutches and refusing his release. For the past three days, Herbert had barely been able to maintain consciousness – he'd only tossed and moaned in pain whenever Krolock tried to speak to him, and no attempts to help did any good. The fever raged stronger, and Herbert grew weaker – the time was drawing near.

Krolock knew – and yet, the dread welling up within him only grew.

A soft murmur of voices met his ears as he turned another corner – boots clacking loudly against the stone floor, the Graf took even longer strides, letting the sound of his approach echo sharply off the cold walls. The voices cut off abruptly, leaving a tense hush in their wake. So…afraid, are we?

Standing before the large doors leading into Herbert's chambers were two of Krolock's faithful servants – they stooped and bowed, lowering their heads as Krolock stormed forth and towered over them. A few muttered words of humble greeting drifted up, barely heard over the sound of Krolock's impatient approach.

"Why is it so cold?"

The two servants flinched at Krolock's sharp words, shuffling back and hunching, if possible, even further. The brief moment of silence was tangibly frosty, as if the mere words preceding it were enough to bring the temperature down more than it had already been driven.

"I believe I made my demands perfectly clear – all the fires are to be kept burning at all times! Chop down the entire forest if you must – and why aren't one of you with him? You left him alone?"

His voice grew louder and angrier with each passing word – too loud, ringing about the hallway with an echo of unjust fury. He couldn't bring himself to care – if anything, why were his servants insisting on being so useless? And now, of all times – he scowled, fully intending on continuing his rant and getting some answers, one way or the other–

"Master, please! We did – we were just coming to tell you," interrupted one of them quickly, their voice small and pleading. "We kept the fires burning, but the castle won't be warmed. We kept watch over him all day…but…he…"

He...?

The trembling words faded away into the frigid quiet – a silence that felt as thin as a pane of glass, clear and sharp like ice as it slowly stiffened and grew brittle, ready to crack and shatter. Cold, so cold... but only now did he notice. Only now, when it might be too late.

Too late.

"Make yourself clear," said Krolock coldly, peering down at his servants through eyes narrowed to near-slits. "What are you trying to say?"

A towering stance, a cool voice, an almost-sneer - enough to seem uncaring, distant and cruel. A mask that held no place here, truly - the world should be swirling with panic, echoing with despair and irrevocable agony, an abyss of irreparable depth. But no - the moment's wait for a response was ever sharper, ever colder, all tasteless wrong as the uncertainty grew. He would rather rage, rather tear everything down and make his own truth from the destruction than he would hear the words that were sure to come. But not yet - surely, not yet - it wasn't time, there hadn't been enough, there was still so much left to do -

The words came anyway. "You must go to your son... before it's too late."

Xxx

The room was dark – an orange fire did flicker weakly, despite the opaqueness of the air; tightly-drawn drapes and a black aura of finality seemed to lock these four walls in place, crafting a together a quiet sense of despair. The room felt wrong – almost as if a crowd stood watch there, waiting and yearning for the moment when everything would change. They were surely there, tearing at the walls and snapping at one another's necks; desperate for a spectacle - a feast - they would creep closer, snarling and vying for just one taste of the sweetness of human blood -

The thought broke away as Krolock clenched his jaw, snatching his gaze back from the walls that suddenly resembled that of a prison.

There was only one purpose here, and yet Krolock hesitated - he slowly turned his eyes towards the extravagant four-poster bed in the center of the room, nearly hidden away in the gloom. The blur of darker colors was only broken by one thing - the pale, gaunt face of Herbert, surrounded by a halo of silvery hair. The image was almost peaceful – he was so still, so deep in rest… like an angel, set adrift upon the benevolent sea of dreams. And now – to save him…I must turn him into a monster.

There was no other way – he must. Now – or never –

–but not yet. Krolock tore his gaze away from the sleeping figure, spinning away with a snap of his cloak. Scowling, he strode away a few paces, approaching the fireplace – it was indeed alight, crackling and roaring despite the biting cold that seemed to permeate the room. Drawing closer, he could feel its burning warmth – but not enough; with a terse shake of his head, he stooped to stoke the fire, ignoring how the intense heat seemed to char his cold skin.

Always, a choice – but never before had Krolock cared; never before had he let it give him pause. Never before had it mattered…This indecision should not be – and yet Krolock remained there, crouching beside the raging warmth of the fire, unable to bring himself to get up…to go to his son…to finally make this choice permanent. It's already been made.

It was time.

But now – when Krolock stood, still scowling, gripping onto the edges of his cloak with pale and clenched fingers as he turned deliberately, making to go to Herbert's side – something else stopped him.

Someone else.

Where a moment ago there had been nothing except the bed and Herbert lying in it – only shadows surrounding, secretive and silent in what they'd been hiding – now, something new had emerged. Bold, quiet – Krolock took a step back in surprise, left momentarily speechless. Now, sitting on the bed beside Herbert – was the figure of a man. All stark contrast, dark and light – the stranger wore all black, simple attire that still seemed to reflect some stray glow from the abyss of shadow. He sat so close, leaning over Herbert - the head was bowed slightly, looking down on the slumbering face of the bed's occupant. Pale face, pale hair – a pale, graceful hand that was carefully extended, running delicately through Herbert's fine hair, trailing lightly down the side of his face –brushing slowly, deliberately, across his lips –

The scene left Krolock wordless and startled, his mind momentarily stunned – he stood there in an endless second, staring and silent. Or, silent he thought – but he must have made some noise, some hint of protest. In an instant, the stranger paused – for a long moment he remained frozen, one hand hovering almost possessively against Herbert's smooth cheek. And then, with movements that were somehow both graceful and abrupt – a soft façade, giving way to just a glimmer of the harshness beneath – the stranger relented, leaning back from Herbert and snatching his hand away sharply.

He paused there for only a moment – and then, the stranger slowly lifted his gaze. A chilling, captivating stare – glittered eyes, light or dark or both – Krolock could not tell either way. The moment was an eternity – and then, as their eyes met, the stranger tilted back his head with a smirk, his expressionless face shifting into one of wry amusement.

"So that's it…how unexpected," murmured the stranger – his voice was quiet and soft, and yet it somehow rang out clearly into the room, filling every space. His amused smile grew, twisting cryptically – and all the while, his eyes remained sharp. "What a pleasure it is to finally speak with you, esteemed Graf…you have no idea."