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For five hundred years, Vicho carried the scent of altar incense in his memory—a sacred past crushed beneath the weight of an unwanted curse. In 1520, he was days away from taking his vows as a Catholic priest in Seville when a night creature dragged him into the shadows, stealing his mortal life and his holy calling. Awaking with fangs and an immortal thirst, the holy cross burned his skin, and God felt forever distant. ​Hating what he had become, Vicho fled Spain and sought sanctuary in Svartrau, a frost-bitten northern town buried between fjords and dark pines. For centuries, he starved the monster within, enduring agonizing hunger by feeding only on forest game. In Svartrau, he lived as a quiet timber craftsman, praying for peace. ​Slowly, humanity crept back into his cold existence. He befriended Tomas, a cheerful blacksmith, and Elin, a gentle weaver. They invited him to their hearths and treated him like family. For the first time in five centuries, Vicho dared to believe he could live among mortals. ​That fragile dream shattered on a winter night in Tomas’s workshop. An iron tool slipped, slicing deep into Elin’s wrist. The scent of spilling crimson hit Vicho like an absolute shock. The beast inside him—starved and chained for five hundred years—snapped its bonds in an instant. ​Vision clouded by bloodlust, Vicho lost all control. When the crimson fog finally cleared, the room was cold and silent. Tomas and Elin lay lifeless on the floor, their throats torn. Vicho fell to his knees, trying to recite a prayer for the dead, but the holy words withered on his tongue. The sweet taste of human blood had destroyed his iron will. ​Since that night, Svartrau has known a silent terror. Vicho no longer fights the thirst. He glides through the foggy alleys and pine shadows, a fallen priest stalking the night.