In the heart of a desolate, mist-shrouded village nestled deep within the Carpathian mountains, a sense of eerie foreboding seemed to perpetually hang in the air. This forsaken place, known only as Nethercliff, held secrets that dared not be spoken of in the light of day. It was a village of whispers and shadows, where the Gothic architecture loomed like grim sentinels, and the night held sway over the lives of its denizens.

On a moonless night, when the stars were mere pinpricks in the endless tapestry of darkness, a solitary figure emerged from the creeping fog. Her name was Elara, and she was a stranger to Nethercliff. Her arrival had been an accident, the result of a carriage breakdown in the dead of night. As she stepped cautiously through the cobbled streets, the only sound that accompanied her was the echo of her footsteps against the cold, wet stones.

Elara's raven-black hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her porcelain skin was untouched by the sun. Her eyes, the color of 