Two Monsters in Castle Dravenstone

Though it wasn't the typical upbeat conversation that filled the air on market days or warmed the pub on chilly evenings, Valtara was humming with rumor. It was a low, apprehensive whisper, the sort that crept through doors and lurked in dark corners. The peasants' eyes darted anxiously toward the far-off Castle as they murmured in low tones. Perched atop the hill, Dravenstone's angular outline stood out against the sky. The air was heavy, oppressive, like though it held secrets too dangerous to speak out loud.

Three days prior, at dusk, it had all begun when Rosamund, a rural girl who had just moved in to live with her uncle and aunt, disappeared without a trace. Her bed was empty when her guardians woke up, the rough woolen blankets tucked and straightened as though she had never been under them. Nothing untoward was suggested by the few tiny, scarlet drops of blood on her pillow. The word quickly spread like wildfire across Valtara after the finding put a chill through the home. The villagers whispered of untamed animals, spiteful ghosts, or terrible accidents, but nobody dared to reveal the reality they all suspected, as though doing so might call forth the evil they feared.

On that same evening, the cobbler's wife went outside her small house to hang the day's washing as the sun set and the sky turned amber and violet. The cool dusk air swept over her cheeks as the damp linens hung heavy in her hands. She pinned a shabby shirt to the line, following the honed beat of ritual, when her eyes strayed up toward Castle Dravenstone. In the distance, its stone walls stood like a quiet guardian over Valtara, icy and unyielding. Then she noticed it: a person standing on the tallest turret's balcony. The material fell from her fingers and landed in a heap on the grass that was soaked with dew as her heart lurched.

The woman's breath was rapid and shallow as she looked through the waning light. There was no doubt that it was not Count Ivar. Wearing a flowing white robe that gleamed dimly in the twilight, the form appeared smaller and more fragile. She was overcome with panic, and she quickly turned and rushed to her neighbor's house down the uneven cobblestone walk. The sound of her knuckles striking the wooden door reverberated in the quiet evening air.

When the blacksmith's wife saw her agitated neighbor, her wide face was marked with worry as she opened the door. "Ingrid, what's wrong?" Her voice was tight with anxiety as she inquired.

The cobbler's wife stumbled, her words leaking out in a gasping flurry, "I was just hanging the washing when I looked up—there, on the Castle Dravenstone balcony! She is still visible! Look! Her other hand twisted anxiously in the folds of her apron as she thrust a shaky finger toward the far-off tower. "A beautiful woman with dark hair, dressed in a white bridal gown. You see what it means, don't you?

The wife of the blacksmith moved forward and looked out into the deepening shadows. When she saw the figure, her eyes widened, and she suppressed a gasp by putting a palm to her mouth. With a trembling voice, she muttered, "Poor, poor Rosamund." "Her destiny is now evident. What a horrible thing to happen to such a lovely girl!

The two women were standing next to each other at the window, staring at the far balcony. In sharp contrast to the immaculate white of her gown, the woman's dark hair cascaded in gentle waves over her shoulders as she stood erect against the railing. Although she exuded elegance and an almost ethereal beauty, her posture—a slight droop of the shoulders, a subtle strain in her body—suggested uneasiness, possibly even despair. Then a darker shape, its form vague but dominating, emerged from the darkened chamber behind her. The woman turned, moving slowly and hesitantly, as though pulled by an invisible force, then entered and disappeared.

The thirteen-year-old daughter of the blacksmith, who was wiry and had a few freckles on her nose, had infiltrated the room without anyone noticing. Her startled eyes darted between the window and the women as she hovered close to the threshold. She questioned, her voice shaking with a mixture of terror and wonder, "What happened to her, Mother?" "Why is a lady in Castle Dravenstone so terrible? Is Rosamund the one you mean?

A expression of mutual understanding weighed heavily on the cobbler's wife's face as she looked at the girl's mother. "Count Ivar now has a Countess," she stated in a somber and composed voice. "He married the impoverished girl."

The girl's freckled cheeks paled as her palm shot to her mouth. Her voice was scarcely heard as she murmured, "But how could she live with him?" "Does she not fear that he will murder her?"

With a tremor running through her strong body, her mother answered, "He's made her like him." The finality of the words chilled the air as they fell into the still room like stones.

The girl's young mind struggled with the tragedy of it all, and her face crumpled into dismay. She had listened to the stories—the hushed rumors of Count Ivar's strange life, his bloodlust, and the weird silence that hung over Castle Dravenstone like a shroud. However, it was too horrible to consider Rosamund, the kind girl who had once smiled shyly at the well with her, now stuck in that nightmare.

The cobbler's wife broke the stifling silence by saying, "We must tell Olaf." Her hands were still twitching with her apron, but her voice was solid. She is his niece. He is entitled to know.

With her face losing what little color she still had, the blacksmith's wife shook her head. With a hint of anxiety, she added quickly, "You can do it, Ingrid." "For heaven's sake, I wouldn't dare tell him."

The cobbler's wife nodded, but her eyes were dark with fear. Rosamund's uncle, Olaf, was a rough, stern guy who was fiercely protective of his family and easily enraged. It would be a difficult assignment to give such news—to validate the loss he had undoubtedly feared. However, it was unavoidable.

With a voice full of dread, the cobbler's wife said, "There are two monsters in Castle Dravenstone now." With her fingers tracing the sign to ward off the Evil Eye, she crossed herself twice and raised her gaze to the heavens. "May God bless us all."

The motion was echoed by the blacksmith's wife, who made a quiet plea with her lips. The girl did the same, crossing herself with shaky little hands. Under the shadow of Castle Dravenstone, Valtara had always lived uncomfortably, but now that two monsters of darkness were inside its walls, the long-simmering fear threatened to overwhelm them all.