23rd September, 184556Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqEbQkODnD1
I arrived in Drachenwald one crisp morning in late autumn. The air was sharp, scented with pine and wet earth, and a fine mist clung to the cobblestones like silver dust. From the carriage, I could see smoke curling lazily from chimneys, and the faint glow of hearth fires in small, neatly arranged houses. The town had a rhythm that felt almost timeless — children ran along narrow streets, merchants tended their stalls, and the distant toll of a bell echoed from the Gothic church at the town’s center.
I stepped down from the carriage and felt the frost crunch beneath my boots. The castle loomed above the town, perched on its cliff like a sentinel. Its spires were dark against the pale sky, windows tall and narrow. Despite its size and sharp angles, it felt… peaceful, somehow dignified. I found myself admiring the craftsmanship: ivy curling around stone gargoyles, intricate carvings along the battlements, the way the morning mist made the towers seem to float.
Villagers glanced my way as I walked through the square. Their stares were curious but polite, not hostile. A baker waved from his doorway, and I returned the greeting, noting how carefully the mist softened every edge of the town, giving everything a quiet, almost dreamlike quality.
I spent the morning wandering, notebook in hand, sketching the architecture and jotting down observations of local customs. A child pointed to a small wooden cross outside a home and whispered something to her mother. The mother shushed her gently. I assumed it was a memorial for a lost relative—common enough in small towns. Nothing about it struck me as alarming; the town seemed full of life, of ordinary human stories.
By afternoon, the mist thickened, curling around lamp posts and the twisted branches of bare trees. I paused to observe a small fountain in the square, its water half-frozen, glinting in the soft sunlight. That was when I noticed something unusual: the shadows of the castle seemed to linger differently on the streets than they should, stretching slightly too long, folding oddly around corners. I shook my head. Perhaps it was the angle of the sun, or fatigue from the journey.
As evening fell, the town grew quieter. Smoke from hearths thickened in the cooling air, and the castle darkened to an almost black silhouette. I returned to the inn, noting that some houses were shuttered, doors tightly closed. The streets, once lively, were now silent save for the occasional dog’s bark or the wind shifting through the alleys.
From my window at the inn, I looked up at the castle. It had changed subtly, though I could not say how. The towers seemed sharper, more pronounced, and the shadows moved as if alive. I told myself it was my imagination — the wind, the mist, fatigue. And yet, as I turned to prepare for bed, I could have sworn I heard a faint whisper in the fog outside, almost like someone — or something — was calling my name.
I tried to laugh it off. Drachenwald was still beautiful, still calm, still welcoming. But somewhere in the distance, beneath the mist, I felt that something ancient and patient had begun to stir.
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