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1.
She had been at the Blue Water Inn. Even now, months later, she can remember the exact conversation she’d been having, the exact expression on the Krezkite merchant’s face as he haggled with her for a better contract, the exact sound of the creaking door, the stumbling footsteps, the gasps for air before the woman that had come in announced in a shrill voice that the manor was burning. The panic in the woman’s eyes and the mirror of it in Ludmilla’s own.
Those are the last things she remembers from that night. When the dawn came, she was a widow, and a mother no longer.
She tells herself she’s let go of the guilt, by now. She’s a practical woman, after all, and she’s looked at things from every angle, examined everything that she knows about the night’s events, so she knows that, if she had stayed home on that night, the possibilities of her being able to do anything to help would be abysmal. Far more likely that she would have died along with her husband and daughter and, much, as sentimentality might insist that it might have been better that way, she knows that would not undo any of the tragedy.
The people of Vallaki are less lenient to her. A witch, they call her, whispering that it was her that brought this disaster here, even as she leads the efforts to rebuild the section of the city that had been damaged or destroyed in the fire. Even as she spends her days, and quite a few of her nights, meticulously working to keep Vallaki secure. She inherited her husband’s position, and it’s a burgomaster’s duty to make sure her people are safe, whether they like her or not.
And, if she dabbled in magic and ideas brought by the Vistani from other lands, that’s nobody’s business but her own. The lightning rods that she had installed might appear like witchcraft to some, but she knows they’re nothing of the sort, and if they can keep sudden summer storms from being a danger to the dried timber of Vallaki’s houses, then she figures people have no grounds to complain about it. Nor do they have grounds to complain about what she does in her own free time. The Art is no more witchcraft than the rods, she thinks, as she signs the contract with the workers set to install them, dismissing the foreman from her now-rebuilt office.
Ludmilla Vilisevic, burgomaster of Vallaki, stands up, cracking her back with an undignified huff, and drums her fingers on the desk surface in annoyance. The new manor house, more comfortable than the old one though it is, still feels empty, and frankly more like a workplace to her than a home. The only part of it she does enjoy is the library, full of books mercifully spared by the fire, painstakingly dragged out of the rubble of her old life. It had given her something to do, in those days, and she’s made a habit of commissioning the local Vistani to bring her more from their travels ever since.
She heads there now, considering what to do with her latest acquisitions. She’s already copied out their contents, of course, at least the parts that she deemed useful, which is to say all of the arcane incantations and diagrams. But she does have to admit that her previous dealings with the Lord von Zarovich were certainly not endearing her to the populace. She could hardly be faulted for them, if you ask her, as the Lord had made it very clear that any tomes pertaining to magic were of interest to him and it would be very foolish to get on his bad side. On the other hand, the average Vallakian is very foolish, Ludmilla has come to realize.
She is so, so tired of the average Vallakian. Even those who are relatively friendly expect her to give up her intellectual pursuits in time, to remarry, perhaps, and go back to living a normal life. As if one can live a normal life when the ashes of the previous one still threaten to choke them. Ludmilla has given up on that notion. Her future life, to her, looks like one of knowledge and power, for, while she understands there was nothing she could have done on the night of the fire as she was then, she’s also certain she would never forgive herself if she remained that powerless, frightened, ignorant fool that she was then. And, if she can turn Vallaki into a little bit less of a shithole while she’s at it, then she will do that, despite its people’s protests.
She stops at the threshold of the library, finally making up her mind about the books. Instead of stepping in, she turns on her heel and walks towards her room. She is expecting the Lord von Zarovich tonight, as part of the annual end of winter ball, and, by her estimation, if she promises the books, she may be able to get some decent conversation out of him. She walks past servants frantically taking care of some last-minute preparations, and shuts herself in her room, determined to put some effort into her appearance for the event, if she’s to maximize her chances of getting the Count to divulge any of his insights into magic.
2.
The celebration is notably more subdued this year than Ludmilla ever remembers it being. She supposes it’s only to be expected, considering it’s hosted by the late burgomaster’s still-grieving widow and fully a third of the guests are said burgomaster’s various relatives. Nicolai’s death has failed to bring her closer to any of them, she muses, as she greets yet another woman from some branch of the Ionelus family or other. A third cousin, she believes, but one can never be certain.
She’s saved from having to strike up a conversation with this tenth third cousin by the butler, who smoothly sidles up to her to quickly whisper a warning. “He’s here.” Ludmilla feels a chill run up her spine as she excuses herself and makes for the door. Part of her chafes at the fact that she’s still afraid of the Count. Another part thinks this is perfectly reasonable. Yet another one wonders whether the chill is a sign of fear at all, and not excitement. Most crucially, though, she’s aware that she’s only thinking all of these thoughts to distract herself from who —or what— is about to enter her home. Time for the atmosphere to turn even gloomier.
The butler opens the door. A ripple of stillness passes through the room, starting with those guests that are closer to the entrance, those that can see the black carriage looming right there on the manor grounds. Before the ripple has had the chance to reach the end of the room, the driver leaps down from his perch with the practiced agility that most would associate with the dusk elves and matter-of-factly opens the carriage door. Ludmilla catches herself holding her breath.
There he is. Count Strahd von Zarovich. He always cuts an imposing figure, Ludmilla notes, watching him exit the carriage. There’s something unsettling in the way he extends his long legs out the door and draws himself up to his full height, in the juxtaposition between an almost lazy ease to his movements and the impeccable soldier’s posture he adopts.
Lord Strahd’s dusk elf chamberlain —Rahadin is his name, Ludmilla knows this— walks ahead to announce his Lord’s coming. Without much fanfare, he walks through the open door and takes his position to the side, opposite of Ludmilla’s butler.
“Count Strahd von Zarovich the Third, Ruler of all Barovia and Vanquisher of its enemies.” Rahadin’s voice rings out in the silence that has fallen over the hall. Ludmilla knows this song and dance.
“Be welcome, Count von Zarovich,” she responds with a deep curtsy. “Partake of our hospitality as you wish.”
Now standing in the light spilling out from the door, the Count is even more striking. The warm light somehow fails to make his pale skin look any less cold and the fine red detailing on his attire glistens like fresh blood.
Lord von Zarovich smiles a smile that does not show teeth. “My thanks, Burgomaster Vilisevic. Your hospitality has always been exceptional.” He enters the manor with a light step, taking Ludmilla’s hand in his and bending down to kiss it. Cold lips press on her skin and she supresses a shiver at the sudden shift in temperature but holds her ground.
“My condolences once more for the tragic loss of your family, Burgomaster.” Strahd continues in a smooth voice as he rights himself, unbothered by the stares of everyone in the room. It’s only natural. The Count does not make public appearances often. Even after the fire, he had only sent a letter, carried by Rahadin, to offer his sympathies and his blessing for the new burgomaster.
“You are most kind, Your Excellency.” Ludmilla inclines her head, her expression schooled into picture-perfect politeness, mirroring Strahd’s own. “I know your duties must weigh heavy upon you. Please, enjoy the night!”
With that, she claps her hands lightly and the musicians at the back of the great hall, who had at some point stopped playing to join in the gawking, hastily pick up their instruments and resume. This, finally, breaks the spell of stillness that had fallen over the room, and other guests begin drifting closer to greet the Count. Ludmilla takes this as her cue to step back into the crowd. She will have her chance to speak with the Lord later.
And so she spends the next hour or so waiting for such an opportune moment, watching Strahd von Zarovich carefully. There is food, there is drink, and there is dancing, but von Zarovich does not partake of any of these. Instead, he hangs back, observing, occasionally speaking with one boyar or another. He seems largely disinterested in the actual celebration, which Ludmilla cannot blame him for.
Still, she needs to find a way to speak with the man, so when the next tune starts up, a waltz, of all things, she seizes the opportunity and boldly steps up to him.
“Would you honor me with a dance, Your Excellency?” She asks, meeting his gaze.
“A dance?” Something like amusement dances in von Zarovich’s eyes, a glint that makes them appear almost red in the light of the chandelier. “And why not?” He extends a hand towards Ludmilla, who takes it before she can double-guess her decision.
Strahd von Zarovich is an excellent dance partner, though his hands bear a chill that feels like it seeps into Ludmilla’s very bones as they dance. It’s not unpleasant, despite that, as the Count moves with the grace of someone who’s been born and raised in royal halls and could perform the steps in his sleep.
Ludmilla thinks to tell him so, but she imagines he’s had quite enough of obvious compliments tonight. Instead, she asks, “What did you think of the tomes I had sent to you, Lord von Zarovich?”
As she expected this pulls at glint in his eyes even further to the forefront. “I thoroughly enjoyed reading them,” he replies, a smile playing at his lips. “A most curious collection, I must admit. Not that much of practical use, but on a theoretical level…” The Count trails off.
“That was my impression as well,” Ludmilla nods, pausing as von Zarovich leads her in a twirl.
“So, you’ve read them yourself?” The Count inquires.
“I have.” Ludmilla faces him again, watching for any changes in his expression at that.
“A learned woman, then.” His almost imperceptible smile widens just a bit. A victory for Ludmilla.
“I am always interested in learning more of this world, My Lord.”
“So I can see. I couldn’t help but notice the construction taking place outside. Rods to safely conduct lightning, I presume?”
Ludmilla nods again. “They should be ready soon enough.”
“Very good. And what of the Art? How much do you know of it, Burgomaster?”
“I am far from an expert,” Ludmilla admits, “though I strive to learn more. In fact, I’ve come into possession of a few more volumes that I found rather interesting…” She lets this information hang between them as they make their way around the ballroom.
There’s a flash of teeth in Lord von Zarovich’s smile then, one that tells Ludmilla she’s both on the right track and vaguely, distantly, in some kind of danger. “Is that so?” Von Zarovich’s voice drops low, to nearly a whisper. “Might you be persuaded to part with them, Burgomaster?”
And there’s her opening. “Of course, Your Excellency. Though I must admit…” Ludmilla draws her brows together, as if considering something, though in truth she’s practiced what she’s going to say a million times over in her head. “There are certain things in these volumes that I struggle to grasp. Forgive me if this is insolent of men, but could I prevail upon Your Excellency to shed some light on them, by way of recompense for the books?”
A low rumble of a laugh runs through von Zarovich, and the danger Ludmilla felt before is suddenly not so distant at all. It’s only by sheer muscle memory that she doesn’t miss the next step.
“It is a touch insolent, yes,” the Count says, no, almost purrs, and Ludmilla feels blood rush up to her cheeks despite herself. “But I do appreciate your… directness in asking. Perhaps I could be of assistance, yes.”
A breath Ludmilla didn’t realize she was holding shakes out of her. “Thank you, Your Excellence.” And then, emboldened by her success —the Count did say he appreciated directness, did he not?— she adds, “Since you find yourself here now, you could have a look after the celebration’s close.”
“Not one to keep a man waiting, then, hm?” Von Zarovich’s voice retains that quality that so reminds Ludmilla of Nicolai’s old cat when she spotted a tasty morsel of food for her taking. “That sounds very much agreeable. We have a deal.”
Ludmilla offers a smile of her own, by way of response, and spends the final part of the dance silent under von Zarovich’s decidedly hungry gaze. It’s not that she’s unused to men looking at her with hunger in their eyes, but this feels altogether different. Perhaps the difference is that Strahd von Zarovich’s interest lies deeper than her skin.
As the waltz draws to a close, the Count dips her low, to the scandalized gasps of a few of Nicolai’s cousins. Ludmilla does suppose it’s not quite proper to be dancing with a man like this not even a year after her husband’s death. Still, this is the Lord of the land. What are the Ioneluses going to do? Chastise her for offering him a dance? She thinks not.
She thanks von Zarovich for the dance and excuses herself to grab some chilled wine. She doesn’t normally drink all that much, but this feels like a special occasion. She feels the Count’s eyes follow her as she goes.
3.
The rest of the celebration passes in a blur for Ludmilla. She performs her duties, of course, even gives a speech, but her mind is elsewhere. All of this feels so mundane, so pointless, compared to the mysteries she could be unlocking, will soon be unlocking, and the power they will yield.
When Lord von Zarovich shows no signs of intending to leave, even as the night draws to a close and the other guests begin to file out, whispers abound, and Ludmilla knows her reputation has taken yet another hit. It’s for a worthy cause, she reminds herself, sending the last of them on their way. Castle Ravenloft’s chamberlain seems undisturbed by the fact that his master will not be returning to his home quite yet, though when Ludmilla offers him a guest room to rest, he quickly declines. She supposes elves truly don’t need to rest for as long as humans do.
The Count himself does not appear tired at all either. Quite the opposite, in fact. There is an undeniable energy about him as he patiently waits for Ludmilla to send off her guests.
It gets to her, despite the late hour. The moment the last guest is out the door, she breathes a sigh of relief.
“Shall we?” Comes the Count’s voice from where he’s been standing, leaning casually against the wall as if he owns the place. Ludmilla supposes she did extend him her hospitality. Her home is his for the night.
“We shall,” she smiles, approaching and gesturing him towards the staircase. “The library is upstairs. After you, My Lord.”
Von Zarovich leads the way, casting a glance and a crooked smile towards Ludmilla as he passes her. The whole affair has an inexplicable feeling of doing something illicit, and the Count’s expression is definitely not helping. Neither is the late hour. No matter, it’s too late to change her mind now.
Ludmilla directs the Lord into the library. The fire is burning low in the fireplace and Ludmilla makes to summon a servant to tend to it, when Lord von Zarovich interrupts her with a quickly whispered word and a casual practiced gesture. The embers immediately leap back to life, the flames casting a warm glow about the room.
Of course, Ludmilla thinks as she shuts the door behind them, she herself knows how to do this, it’s little more than a magic trick really, though the ease with with von Zarovich does it and the lack of any hesitation speaks of a man so accustomed to magic that it’s become second nature. Something inside her burns with jealousy, hotter than the fire does. One day, this will be her, she tells herself. One day, she will not be afraid.
“Please, sit, I will fetch the books.” Unable to resist the urge to show off a bit of her own magic, here in the privacy of her library, she whispers an incantation of her own, summoning a spectral hand that promptly flies off to grab the tomes from a shelf one would normally need a ladder to reach. When she sits down in the chair next to the one the Count claimed, the books hovering gently in place on the desk in front of her, she tries her best not to look too self-satisfied at von Zarovich’s responding smile and raised eyebrow.
They get to work with little preamble. Ludmilla gives a concise summary of the books’ contents, pointing out the contents that most piqued her attention. The Count listens attentively, only occasionally interjecting to ask questions about the books’ provenance, their authenticity, and what Ludmilla makes of the spells described within them. He’s a good listener and, though Ludmilla is well aware that his own understanding of magic is very likely leaps and bounds ahead of her own, he never once makes her feel self-conscious, or as if what she’s saying has no value.
From there follows a period of silence, punctuated by the rustle of pages turning. Von Zarovich looks through each of the three volumes with great interest, lingering on the parts that Ludmilla previously talked about. Despite her anticipation, Ludmilla slowly feels the weariness of the day sink in while she watches the man. She hasn’t even changed to something more comfortable after the ball, she realizes, still sitting there in her best dress.
She’s shaken out of her drowsiness when von Zarovich clicks his tongue and abruptly shuts the book. Her eyes flit up to meet the Count’s, tinged by the same glint of amusement she’d spotted earlier. She’s still not sure if the red in them is a trick of the light.
“Growing tired, Burgomaster?” He asks, and Ludmilla draws herself up to a straighter posture at the sound of his voice.
“It is late, Your Excellency. But be assured, I am looking forward to hearing your thoughts on all this.”
“I wouldn’t dream to renege on our deal. But…” She can feel the Count’s eyes examining her face. “I rather tire of the formalities. Call me Strahd.”
This catches Ludmilla off guard. Yes, they are alone here, but the matter they are discussing is hardly so personal as to warrant such an informal mode of address. Who is she to argue, though? “Very well… Strahd. I expect you’ll be addressing me similarly, then?”
“If you’ll allow.” Comes the Lord’s —Strahd’s— response, tone almost conspiratory, leaning in ever so slightly closer.
“No objections.” She does wonder about his intentions here, however, for the first time this night. She probably should have wondered sooner. This could get very awkward.
Strahd does seem to pick up on the traces of her wariness and leans back in his chair, grabbing the first volume from the pile. “Very well, Ludmilla. Which part would you like to discuss?”
Thankfully, blessedly, the atmosphere pulls back from that odd bit of intimacy, as Ludmilla takes the book. Not that Lord von Zarovich is an unattractive man, not by a longshot, but that’s simply not what she’s after at the moment. So she shakes the thought loose from her mind and takes her turn asking questions, turning to this page and that, at some point grabbing a piece of parchment and a quill to make notes, to puzzle things out.
By the end of the conversation, she feels like she’s on the verge of reaching out and grabbing onto a whole new world, a world of possibilities. Part of it is the sleep deprivation, admittedly. The hour has grown very, very late. She puts down her quill, glancing at Strahd, who looks no more tired than when he walked in the door hours earlier.
“Will that suffice, then? You’re an intelligent woman, I would hate to leave you without any part of the puzzle to put together on your own, and I do trust that you can…” Strahd smiles an easy smile. Oh, but he is charming.
No, that’s the sleep deprivation speaking again. Ludmilla nods and looks away before she has a chance to blush at the compliment. “Yes, I believe so. Thank you for your aid. It has been most enlightening.”
“My pleasure.” The scraping of the chair legs on wood makes Ludmilla turn back to Strahd to see him standing up. “It’s not often I get to discuss the intricacies of the Art with one who is such a quick study.”
There he goes again with the compliments. “You flatter me,” Ludmilla deflects.
“Not at all. You will make a fine practitioner,” Strahd insists, placing a hand on the back of her chair. She can almost feel the chill of it on her bare shoulder beside it. Though not a superstitious woman, she’s forced to admit there must be something to the rumors circulating among the populace about the Count.
That is neither here nor there, however. Ludmilla pushes her own chair back gently to stand. “That is my hope. I will be keeping an eye out for any other materials.”
“If you do come across any, do not hesitate to call upon me. This has been far too much fun to not repeat, yes?” Strahd does not give her a chance to respond, which is both a good thing and a bad thing. A good thing, because she does not trust her voice to not sound too hopeful. A bad thing because he instead takes her hand once more and bends down to kiss it and that does not help Ludmilla’s sleepy, foggy brain in the slightest.
“Now,” Strahd continues, “I’m afraid I must go find my chamberlain and check if he has not died of boredom. I wish you a good evening, Ludmilla.”
“Good evening,” she manages to get out, and then she watches Strahd pick up the books, as agreed, and head off. It doesn’t occur to her that she should be escorting him out as a good host would, until she hears the front door close.
With a deep breath, chiding herself for letting her exhaustion get the best of her, she returns to her room. The servants are all asleep by now, so she has to undress herself, though, in truth, she doesn’t mind. It gives her time to clear her mind, which is still racing between half-completed thoughts by the time she lies down to sleep. Ludmilla finally falls asleep to the sight of the first rays of dawn hitting her window.
4.
Two months go by until Ludmilla sees Strahd von Zarovich again, and she feels every second of them. It doesn’t help that her reputation amongst the people of Vallaki has hit rock bottom. Not only consorting with the Devil Strahd, but inviting him to stay at her home into the late hours of the night? She suspects the only reason nobody has started a witch hunt for her is because everyone liked Nicolai and his family haven’t disowned her. Yet.
It doesn’t matter. There is work to be done. There is always work to be done, though to her frustration, it’s difficult to convince people to talk about mundane things like fortifications and sewage when everyone is busy gossiping about her. Why does she even bother? Clearly this town doesn’t want its own good, or else they would just let her work in peace.
They very much don’t however, yet work she does. Day in and day out. Not all of it is for Vallaki, no, some of it is for herself. Her studies in the Art advance quickly, far more so now that she’s had the chance to solidify her understanding of the fundamentals thanks to Strahd.
At the same time, she keeps her eyes open for anything else she could trade to the Count. It’s not easy, however, to find magical writings or artefacts in Barovia, at least ones not already in Strahd’s possession. She gets lucky, finally, when a band of outsiders finds their way to Vallaki. Boisterous and unwilling to listen to the locals’ warnings —which, much as Ludmilla may judge as simple superstition, have some basis— they had quickly departed with the goal of “taking care of the area’s werewolf problem”. Ludmilla’s scouts had subsequently found them dead in the woods not two days after they’d left, and Ludmilla is left with a handful of their personal affairs to sort through. Callous, perhaps, to strip these bodies of their valuables, but outsiders like these have no family in Barovia to send their belongings back to, and it would be quite a waste to simply leave them.
The money will go to the watch. After all, it was their scouts that found the bodies. Ludmilla suspects they’ve already helped themselves to some gold, just enough that its absence wouldn’t be suspicious. She doesn’t mind. The weapons and armor, those that are still usable, will have the same fate. But what she finds in one of their pouches? The little piece of polished agate, so clearly thrumming with magic, along with the notes on how it was enchanted? That ought to be excuse enough for a letter to Castle Ravenloft.
And an excuse is really all she’s looking for. After all, if Strahd enjoyed their talk as much as he seemed to last time, it shouldn’t be difficult to entice him back. The rest of the adventurers’ belongings get rifled through with the utmost speed and efficiency, and Ludmilla heads back to her home, her study the moment she’s certain the rest of it is quite mundane.
She pens the letter to Strahd with the same efficiency. No time wasted on pleasantries, she cuts straight to the chase. If the Count is anything like she’s come to think he is, he certainly won’t mind.
And then she waits. Not for long, blessedly. Only a day. The answering letter is little more than a scrap of paper in an envelope that’s all too fancy for its contents, delivered by Rahadin at the break of dawn.
The paper reads simply: “Tonight.”
Tonight. So soon, and yet the day ahead of her feels so long, filled with this anticipation. Ludmilla braves through it, as she’s braved through every other day since the fire.
The night comes, finally, though having tied up her responsibilities also means she doesn’t have what to do with herself until Strahd arrives. She tries to eat dinner. Tries to read a book. Tries to write up some of her own notes on what she found. That last activity is the only one she has any sort of success in.
When the knock on the main door comes, loud enough to be heard in the library, she startles so badly she almost knocks over her vial of ink. Cursing herself for acting like an overeager girl not even half her age, she hurries downstairs, reaching the main hall just as one of the servants opens the door to reveal Strahd’s imposing figure.
“Welcome,” Ludmilla says, cutting into the servant’s nervous stammering. She dismisses the poor girl with a nod, in response to which she receives a thankful look. “I am glad you were able to find time for this on such short notice.”
“Of course,” Strahd replies, smoothly. “It would simply not do to leave you waiting, would it?”
Ludmilla simply inclines her head, appreciatively, then extends a hand towards the stairs. Strahd knows the way, now, and, much like their exchanged letters, there’s no use for lengthy preambles.
In the library, they take the same seats they had last time. Ludmilla shows Strahd the stone, going through the notes methodically and explaining what she thinks of its crafting process, as she did with the tomes. And Strahd listens with the same attentiveness.
What’s different is the easy familiarity between them, both in tone and in body language, that wasn’t quite there previously, except for one moment that lingers in her memory. It helps that Ludmilla isn’t quite so exhausted this time, and it isn’t quite so late either. Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s had a long time to consider everything. Whatever the case, she feels far more relaxed, at one point even fetching a bit of brandy, only for herself, since Strahd declines the offered glass, and not much, because she still needs a clear head. Both for the magic and for whatever else might happen.
The latter, she’s far less sure about. She has her suspicions, though. She’s noticed the way Strahd leans in close to her, their shoulders brushing as they pore over the notes, intuited that the twinkle in his eye may concern more than just the knowledge before them. He’s being a gentleman, of course, as would befit a man of his station, even if they’ve done away with a lot of the formalities of the situation. Just as well. Ludmilla likes being the one to make the first move.
At one point, hunched together over the desk as they are, she lifts her gaze to take in his profile, contrasted as it is with that long, dark curtain of hair that he’s pushed to one side. He notices almost immediately, catching her eye, but doing nothing beyond that, waiting and watching.
“Let me ask you, Lord von Zarovich,” she begins, falling back to that formal honorific, as if it will soften the rest of what she is about to say, “is the study of magic truly all you are interested in, here?”
Strahd chuckles. He’s clearly caught her meaning, and his lips curl into that now-familiar smile of his. “Lady Ludmilla,” he responds in like fashion, “I am interested in everything you might be.”
She knows she shouldn’t do this, she’s had plenty of time to go through all the reasons in the past two months. She’s a burgomaster and he’s the ruler of all of Barovia. She is a widow of not yet one year and he is dangerous. She—
She puts a hand on his cheek and draws him into a kiss.
She’s tired of other people trying to dictate what she can and can’t be. She’s happy, finally, to have found someone she can speak with, someone who doesn’t underestimate her, someone who isn’t limited in their thinking by superstition and fear.
And that someone kisses her back. Strahd’s hand comes up to cup her jaw, marking two points of contact with his cold skin. Ludmilla doesn’t mind at all. She only takes the liberty to deepen the kiss, and Strahd follows immediately, lips parting to let her in.
He’s a good kisser, confident, but willing to let her take the lead. Everyone’s opinions’ be damned, she thinks, absently, she wants this. Nobody can stop—
Her tongue runs over teeth that are entirely too sharp to be human, so sharp they almost draw blood.
She pulls back, making a surprised noise at the back of her throat and finds Strahd von Zarovich looking at her with unmistakeably red, glowing eyes, filled with what she can only describe as hunger.
Ludmilla panics. A rarity for her, but all of this is a rarity. She instinctively reaches for an incantation she learned recently, and vanishes in a puff of mist, reappearing at the other end of the library, breathing heavily.
In that blink of an eye that it takes her to get there, Strahd has also stood up from the desk, though he hasn’t moved any further.
Silence, but for the frantic beating of Ludmilla’s heart in her chest.
“So,” she says finally, and she’s not proud of how high her voice has gone, “the superstitions are true.”
Strahd opens his arms, palms up in an apologetic gesture. “Surely you must have suspected.”
Ludmilla gives a sharp nod. “I did. Not to this extent, however.”
“Does it bother you?”
Does it bother her? What a question to ask. “Am I in danger from you?” She counters.
“No. Not unless you try to harm me, this I swear on my honor.” Strahd’s voice is level, his gaze steady, despite the hungry glint in it. She can still see it even from across the room, that red glow.
She takes a moment to consider. “…Then no. It does not “bother” me.”
“Good,” Strahd states, as if to put a pin in everything. “Then I have something to propose to you.”
This, again, catches Ludmilla off guard. She doesn’t respond, but instead hold’s Strahd’s gaze, brow furrowing in confusion.
“Come with me to Castle Ravenloft,” he continues. “Tonight, or whenever else is convenient. I should very much like to show you my own collection of books.” His lips pull up into a slight smile at Ludmilla’s answering incredulous look. “Now, of course, as you said, the books aren’t all I’m interested in. I do, however, think it’s a colossal waste to have a woman of your talents searching for scraps of magical knowledge in a place like Vallaki. So, you may come with me and, whatever you decide to do in my castle, you have my word that you will be returned safely home whenever you wish, so long as you do not violate my hospitality, of course.”
Ludmilla blinks, dumbfounded. This is not how she expected this evening to go. She finds herself nodding. If nothing else, everything she knows of Strahd tells her that he is a man of his word, and, vampire or not, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. She doesn’t quite admit to herself that the danger is a little bit enticing as well. Doesn’t quite acknowledge that thinking back on kissing him, now that she knows his true nature, makes her feel powerful in quite a different way than anything she’s felt before.
As if in a reverie, she lets her butler know she must leave on urgent business, and, taking only her good coat, and her best quill and inkpot, she boards the dark von Zarovich carriage.
5.
The road is dark and ominous at this hour and the howling of wolves sounds through the forest. Somehow, though, within the confines of the carriage, with Strahd sitting opposite her, Ludmilla feels relatively secure. She’s sitting in a carriage with a vampire, who is Morninglord-only-knows how old and how powerful. He could kill her at any moment. He could drain her of her blood and leave her body on the side of the road to be picked clean by vultures.
She believes he won’t.
And why would he? If he intended to kill her, she reasons, surely he would have done so already. Likewise if he intended to otherwise harm her.
The possibility of it still keeps her mind sharp and focused. She spends the first part of the ride, out of Vallaki and the woods to the fields beyond, in silence, not quite sure what she would even say. She watches Strahd, and he watches her. His red eyes almost glow in the dark of the carriage, the little light comes from the lantern that hangs on the carriage exterior reflecting in them. She wonders what lies behind them, behind that casual, perpetually slightly amused façade that is his face. She can see the hunger, but what else?
And then she realizes they’re out of the forest far, far quicker than she expected. Far quicker than should be possible. The brief perplexed frown that crosses her face should probably have been imperceptible in the dark of the carriage, but it draws a chuckle in response from Strahd.
“An enchantment?” She asks.
“Not as such.” Strahd’s voice takes on a somewhat cryptic tone. “One of the benefits of my… position.”
This time Ludmilla frowns fully, letting her confusion show plainly.
“It’s… complicated,” Strahd adds, “and not in a way you’d enjoy picking apart. It’s simply one of those things where, try as one might, there simply is no good explanation.”
No good explanation? There has to be more to it than that. Ludmilla gives a half-nod, willing to let the matter rest for now, but she stows that enigma away in her mind for later.
She changes tracks. “So, what might I expect when we reach the Castle? I suppose you’re rather… nocturnal, yourself?”
“Yes, indeed. Most of the time, at least. Barovia is dreary enough that I can walk around during daytime, in a pinch.” Strahd leans forward. “As for what to expect, I will leave that up to you. If you wish to rest, you may do so, then Rahadin will show you around in the morning. Otherwise, I can give you the grand tour myself.” His lips tug up in a small smile.
“I’d rather let you do the honors, frankly.” She returns the smile.
“Perfect. I suspect you’ll find much to keep you occupied, for as long as you wish to stay.”
“How long do you wish for me to stay?”
Strahd’s smile widens into a grin at the question, fangs unashamedly on display. It sends a shiver through her, one not entirely fueled by fear. “The longer the better,” he says. “I could use the company.”
Company. She could use that herself, and in more ways than one, she thinks.
“I will have to see if you can keep me occupied.” She mirrors Strahd’s pose, leaning towards him herself.
He cups her cheek with another flash of his fangs, then holds there for a moment, as if waiting to see if she will withdraw. When she makes no move to do so, he surges forward to kiss her.
It’s just as electrifying as it was the first time, except now she knows to expect the fangs. They’re really not all that bad, when one gets used to them. Not that bad at all.
This position, though, could be improved. She pushes Strahd back and quickly shifts to sit beside him, then tangles a hand in his hair and pulls him down for another kiss. He makes a low sound that might have been a laugh, muffled against her lips. Oh, but she’s growing entirely too fond of this man who isn’t really a man at all, not in the human sense, at least.
A cold arm circles her waist and pulls her closer. She can feel her heart thumping in her chest. Strahd von Zarovich may, technically, be dead, but he makes Ludmilla feel alive.
They kiss, pressed close in this little space, until the carriage abruptly turns off the well-beaten road between Vallaki and the village of Barovia and onto the far bumpier path up to the castle and she has to pull back, out of breath. Strahd, on the other hand, is doing a lot better on that front. Benefits of not having to breathe, Ludmilla realizes.
“So? Do you think I can keep you occupied?” That same low purr has returned to Strahd’s voice, the one she remembers from when they danced together. Maybe the carriage’s speed isn’t something that can be picked apart, but its owner… Ludmilla must know what makes this man tick.
“You might suffice.” She’s not quite sure what prompts her to be so bold, but it has worked for her so far.
It certainly doesn’t seem to bother Strahd. His eyes widen in surprise and he arches an eyebrow at her without a word. The hunger she sees in the way he smiles this time is simultaneously not human and very, very much so.
She graces him with a smile in return and returns to her previous seat, straightening her dress. Then, she decides she can afford to be a bit bolder still, so she pointedly turns to look out the window, at the moonlit scenery passing by at an almost dizzying speed. A creaking noise makes her briefly glance back inside, only to catch a glimpse of Strahd settling back in his seat, arms crossed, watching her intently.
He can watch all he likes, she decides. She spends the rest of the —admittedly short— trip very purposely ignoring him, just to see how patient he can be. Being undead must help, clearly, because he does nothing but watch.
The carriage finally slows down to cross the drawbridge and comes to a stop in a spacious courtyard. The Castle, Ludmilla realizes as Strahd opens the door for her and holds his hand out to help her down, is even more imposing up close. With the chamberlain staying behind to tend to the carriage, Strahd leads her up to the doors, which open seemingly of their own accord. Is everything in this castle similarly enchanted? Or is this also just one of these inexplicable things?
As soon as they are inside, the doors close once more and Strahd turns to Ludmilla.
“So,” he says, the first thing he has said since that moment after their kiss, “a tour?”
“I’d be delighted.”
They only really get through part of it, in the end. Castle Ravenloft is simply too big, its layout is too convoluted, and Ludmilla is too tired. Strahd does show her his study, a marvelous room full of books which he explains are only the most interesting part of his collection.
There’s also, curiously, a portrait of a woman hanging over the fireplace, the low fire burning in ghe hearth sending shadows dancing across her face. She’s beautiful, with an air of youth and innocence and hair a vibrant, dark red.
Strahd seems to notice Ludmilla observing the portrait, because he says, “Someone I lost, once.”
Ah. She understands, then. She hasn’t had the heart to look at the portraits of her family since the summer, but with time, perhaps, they could prove to be some relief. She doesn’t push Strahd for more details, only offering an understanding nod.
Despite the late hour, they do end up spending a good amount of time in the study. Any actual reading, they decide to put off until the next evening, but Strahd shows Ludmilla around, explaining his organization system, which mostly seems to be the kind of no organization system that one develops from living in a space for so long that everything just has its own place that they know by heart, regardless of whether there’s any rhyme or reason to it. She feels like she’s unlocking another piece to the puzzle that is Strahd von Zarovich.
Fascinating though going through the shelves and discussing their contents may be, there comes a point where Ludmilla has to interrupt every other sentence to stifle a yawn. The warmth of the fireplace is not helping. She has no solid idea what time it is, but her instinct tells her it must only be a couple hours until dawn.
“There will be plenty opportunity to read during the following days,” Strahd points out, clearly noting her exhaustion. “Though I would insist on my being here with you while you do, for the time being. Some of these materials can be… dangerous.”
Dangerous? Well, that just makes them more intriguing. Not unlike Strahd himself. Regardless, Ludmilla nods her assent. “It will be better to do this with a fresh mind.”
“Shall I let you retire for the night, then?”
“Lead the way.”
To her surprise, Strahd merely gestures to the double doors opposite of the fireplace. “These are my own quarters. Or, rather, they were my quarters, once. I sleep… elsewhere, these days.” There’s a small pause there. “But they’ve been prepared for you.”
Ludmilla inclines her head in thanks, pondering where this elsewhere might be. If she knows anything about vampires, nowhere particularly pleasant. She puts the thought aside.
“Well,” she says, voice kept carefully level, “this is where I say goodnight, then.”
As she had expected, a flicker of disappointment crosses Strahd’s face. Tired, she may be, but she remembers all too well his expression in the carriage. She’d be remiss if she didn’t do anything about that.
“Although,” she starts back up, before he has the chance to say anything, “there are still some hours to go until dawn, aren’t there? And you have been a very good host.”
Again, this has the effect she expected. It’s like a mask slips off Strahd’s face to reveal what he really wants. What a power to hold.
“There is plenty of time….” He steps in close, slowly crowding her against the door.
She hums, as if weighing her options. “Won’t you join me for a bit, then?” She feels for the doorknob behind her, while her other hand comes up to Strahd’s collar, hooking a finger under it. “I could use the company.”
She opens the door and walks in, Strahd in tow.
6.
Ludmilla wakes up very late. For a brief moment, she expects to look around and see her room back at Vallaki. And then she remembers. She turns around, quickly, only to find the bed empty besides her. Right. Strahd no longer sleeps here.
Are there other servants here? She wonders as she untangles herself from the silk sheets and gets up. Evidently, there must be, because when she makes her way to the bath chamber, she finds her clothes laid out for her, looking and smelling freshly washed, and a bathtub full of warm water. Or, it might be that some sort of magic is involved here as well. Whichever the case, the bath is welcome. She sinks into the tub with a sigh. It feels like she’s washing off all of her exhaustion as well.
Last night seems like a fever dream to her, in hindsight, albeit a pleasant one. She strongly suspects the following night will be no different. In the feeble light of the morning —or is it noon already?— sun, she sits and considers what she’s actually doing here. By the time she’s finished her bath, she’s reached a conclusion: seizing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, is what she’s doing.
She dries herself off and pulls on her clothes without delay, leaving her hair loose. She doesn’t quite have time for it right now, as she realizes she hasn’t really eaten since lunch yesterday and her stomach is protesting. There’s a private dining hall directly adjacent to these quarters, she remembers, and the smell of food confirms her memory, so she wastes no time in heading there.
Her entry into the hall may have been a touch too forceful, because she’s greeted by the clatter of cutlery as a young maid there fumbles with them, startled. So there is some staff.
“Apologies, my Lady, I did not mean to,” the girl mumbles, bowing her head.
“It’s quite alright,” Ludmilla reassures her. “I startled you.”
The girl sets the cutlery in its proper place, then bows again. “His Excellence wishes for you to enjoy your meal. He instructed to relay to you that, should you wish for lunch or dinner to be prepared, or require anything else, you may ring the bell in your quarters.” She wrings her hands nervously as she delivers this message.
“Thank you.” Ludmilla regards the rich breakfast set out for her, then gives a nod to the nervous maid to dismiss her.
The girl practically runs out of the room. She must be new to this, or else quite skittish by nature, though Ludmilla can imagine that working for a man such as Strahd could be quite intimidating.
The food is as good as it looks. Ludmilla can hardly remember the last time she’s had time for such a lavish breakfast, let alone could justify the cost of all the delicacies here: fresh fruit, steaming hot pastries, cold milk, fragrant tea, and more. She feels practically spoiled.
When she finishes her breakfast, she finds herself in the most unusual position of having no responsibilities to attend to. There is, however, an entire castle at her disposal. Strahd had told her during the “tour” that she’s welcome to explore by herself during the day, or she may as Rahadin to accompany her. If she’s being honest, though, she doesn’t think the chamberlain will be pleasant company, so she sets off on her own.
The only places Strahd specified as off-limits are the dungeons and his study, at least when he’s not present. Ludmilla is content to work with that and the rest of the castle is certainly large enough for her to fill her hours until sundown.
It all looks quite different during the day. Beautiful, certainly, though some areas seem to have fallen into a bit of disrepair. Still, even those carry their own beauty. She wanders aimlessly, through silent, imposing halls, up tall spires that reveal breathtaking views, to disused storage rooms that make her cough from the dust that rises when she opens the door. She gets quite lost, at some points, because she can’t make sense of the way the rooms are arranged. It’s simply not practical at all, but she doesn’t mind being lost for a bit.
The ground floor houses her favorite discoveries. First, she finds a formal dining hall, meant to house a good number of guests. A truly impressive organ stands against the back wall. She makes a mental note to ask Strahd if he can play her something.
Then, wandering towards the back of the castle, she walks through a hall lined with lifelike statues and ends up in a chapel. It’s empty, and clearly hasn’t been used in a good while, but the light of the sun filtering in through the stained glass windows still casts the place in a kaleidoscope of colors. Some of them are broken, as are a few of the pews. Ludmilla frowns at the apparent destruction, wondering what may have been the cause. That will be another thing to ask Strahd.
Slipping out the chapel’s back door, she finds herself in the middle of a garden. It’s overrun with weeds, she notes, and what few flowers survive are struggling to poke through. A pity. Strahd should hire someone to take care of it. Although, perhaps he has, because there are sections of it that seem better tended to than the others. She recognizes that some of the plants there are poisonous, while others are medicinal. Kept for a more practical use, than decorative, then.
Across the garden, there is an overlook, so high above the valley that, when Ludmilla steps close to its low stone wall, she can just barely make out the village of Barovia below as a mere speck. The wind out here is starting to get quite strong, so she decides to head back inside, and continue her exploration.
Around mid-afternoon, a storm breaks out, blotting out the already bleak sunlight. Ludmilla takes this as her cue to ask for a meal to be prepared. When it finally arrives, it’s just as marvelous as her breakfast was. With her stomach full, her curiosity about the castle mostly satisfied, and sunset drawing near, the anticipation builds up in her again.
Weighing her options, she elects to find some place to practice her magic. The empty audience hall she passed will serve nicely. It’s certainly large and empty enough.
Time quickly gets away from her as she practices. She only pauses when it gets too dark, in order to light the torches with a quick gesture, although, in way, that counts as practice too, doesn’t it? She goes through motions and incantations, carefully and methodically. She mostly focuses on defensive spells, or at least ones that don’t cause immediate damage, since she figures it would be best if she doesn’t make a horrible mess during her first twenty four hours as Strahd’s guest.
Still, some time later, she does decide to chance something a bit more destructive. She feels confident enough that she can pull it off. With precise hand movements and clearly enunciated words, fire springs from her fingertips and shoots in rays towards some large spiderwebs on the ceiling. Every one of them finds its mark. Ludmilla smiles a self-satisfied smile.
The sound of clapping forces her to abruptly whirl around, looking for its source. She finds it: Strahd, leaning casually against the door frame.
“Oh,” she says, then makes an effort to recover her wits. “How long have you been there?”
“Not very long,” he grins. “Just enough to admire your flawless execution there.”
“Flatterer,” she chides.
“Me? Never. I only give compliments where they are deserved.”
Ludmilla chuckles. “In that case, thank you. I’ll admit I lost track of time here.”
Strahd steps into the room. “I hope your day has been pleasant?”
“It has. There is much to see here, as you said.” She moves towards him as well, avoiding the ash falling from the now-charred spiderwebs.
“I am glad. My home is your home, as they say.” As they meet partway across the room, Strahd takes her hand and bends down to kiss it. “So then, how would you like to spend this evening?”
“I seem to recall some promises of interesting and dangerous materials in your study…” Ludmilla smirks. “Shall we have a look.”
Strahd mirrors her expression. “It would be my pleasure.”
This is what she enjoys about this man: he’s not one for pretenses, or for wasting time. They nestle up in the study once more, Ludmilla taking the liberty to light the hearth with the same spell she used before, and they lay out the books that had drawn Ludmilla’s eye the night before, diving into them immediately.
Some time that might have been hours later, a knock interrupts them mid-dissection of a sigil Ludmilla has been trying to decipher, with her sat down at the desk, Strahd pacing animatedly in front of the fireplace, tracing the symbols into the air and going on about their minute details. He makes an annoyed little sound at the interruption, which Ludmilla finds quite charming.
“Come in!” He commands.
The door creaks open to reveal the dour chamberlain, who steps in, seemingly not paying any attention to the way water is dripping down from his soggy clothes onto the fine floor. The storm must be getting bad outside.
“Ah, Rahadin,” Strahd says, taking in the state of the man with a hint of disapproval. “What business is so urgent that you would come to find me without changing your clothes first?”
“I’m afraid I bring dire news, my Lord.” Rahadin glances at Ludmilla, his eyes betraying a hint of wariness.
“Well, speak, then.” Strahd gestures, as if to urge him on.
“There have been some… developments. In Vallaki.”
“Developments?” Ludmilla stands, alarm rising in her chest. “What sort of developments?”
“A… revolt, of sorts. Certain parties have seized the burgomaster’s— your manor.”
“My manor?” Ludmilla can’t quite believe her ears. “When? Why? How? And who are these parties?” She fires off the questions one after the other, stepping right up to the chamberlain.
Rahadin makes a sort of placating gesture in response to the volume of her voice. “This evening. There was a gathering. Accusations were thrown about, naming you a witch. The group that seized the building was led by a Nadya Ionelus. A cousin of your late husband, I believe.”
Ludmilla doesn’t even hear those last words. Nadya.
How could she? A memory comes to her, unbidden, of them standing side by side at Ekaterina’s naming ceremony, where Nadya had been the one to pick the name. Ludmilla has had to avoid thinking about this every time she’s seen Nadya since, has had to avoid even thinking of her daughter’s name. Such a beautiful name, already poisoned by her loss, and now again by the betrayal of the very person that chose it.
“I have to go back,” she says not even thinking. “I have to—”
“Do you?” Strahd cuts in.
Her head snaps to face him. “I’m the burgomaster!”
“To a city that never understood your value. That slandered you behind your back every step of the way.”
He’s right. She knows he’s right. Not once has Vallaki treated her with respect, not since the fire, and even before that they only ever really tolerated her at best. She rubs her eyes in frustration, turning to pace around the room. Why did she ever bother? Then again, what other option did she have, at the time, but to do her best?
Does she have any other option now?
“And what do you propose?” She wheels on Strahd again, fury bubbling up. “That I just sit here and accept this? Simply let them decide that I am not worthy of wielding power, because of their superstitions? Let them take away what little I have left?”
Strahd meets her anger with a calm gaze. “You will not defeat them by stooping to their level, by playing their game.”
Her face contorts into a grimace. “I don’t want to play their game! I never did, but they keep dragging me into it!”
“So change the game.” It sounds so simple, when he says it. Of course it does. He wields the ultimate power in this land. “You are far above them.”
Ludmilla takes a deep breath, pushing her emotions down, reclaiming a sliver of rational thought. “I assume you have some sort of idea to put forth here?”
Strahd makes a dismissive gesture towards the chamberlain, who, Ludmilla realizes, has been standing perfectly at attention this entire time. “Leave us, Rahadin.”
The elf quickly complies, with a deep bow.
Ludmilla remains silent until the door is closed and Rahadin’s footsteps have faded into the distance.
“Well?” She asks, impatiently.
Strahd approaches her and takes her hand in his. With his other hand, he lifts her chin, thumb brushing over her lips in an unexpectedly romantic gesture for the situation at hand. And then come his words. “Marry me.”
Ludmilla thinks she must have misheard. Surely, he did not just say that.
When she doesn’t give an answer, Strahd continues. “If you cannot win by the rules set by others, then make your own. Return to Vallaki with the strength of my house behind you and exact whatever vengeance you wish. Or do not, and simply let those simpletons rot away in their idiocy with the knowledge that they will never measure up to you.”
She swallows the panic rising in her throat, trying to rein her thoughts back into some semblance of control. A marriage. A political move, inherently, even if it’s not just that. What are the terms?
“And, should I accept, will I remain… human?” She inquires.
“If you so wish. Although, there is another option.”
Ludmilla would be lying if she said she hadn’t considered that. Vampirism. She summons to her mind all that she’s read on the topic. There’s one single thing out of all of it that nags at her. “Would I be beholden to your will?”
“Well, that would be in rather poor taste of me, wouldn’t it?” Strahd remarks, in a dry tone. “And besides, there’s hardly any point to offering you freedom from your chains only to replace them with mine.” He grins, an almost feral thing. “No, in fact, I would rather like to see what you make of yourself without the limits the mortal world has placed on you. I think it would be a glorious sight to behold.”
Ludmilla looks away at that. This is to be a rational decision and, for that, she can’t let Strahd’s words get to her, much as the tone is suggestive. Despite the reassurances, she still feels a wariness weigh on her. A choice for the rest of her life, or unlife, as it were. A choice to leave behind everything she’s ever known.
What has she known? She takes stock. A town so devoid of interest, that she turned to the Art to fill her hours. A people so stuck in their ways, that they sabotaged their own chances at a better life. A “family” so unlike a family, that they would not offer any consolation to her, even at her weakest. It’s there that she’s forced to concede that there just isn’t that much worth holding onto.
The chill of Strahd’s arm around her waist pulls her attention back to reality. She turns to look at him, craning her neck to examine his face, his expression. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes flit to said neck. Should she be finding as much satisfaction in that as she does? Probably not.
She draws him into a kiss, thoughts still racing. Instead of letting the intensity of it overwhelm her, the contact grounds her, pulls everything into sharp focus.
It’s all very simple, really, when one look sat the facts for what they are. She may not be dead, but her old life certainly is. It has been for almost a year now, she’s just been dragging its rotting corpse around. It’s weighing her down. A burial is long overdue.
Strahd draws back, voice a low whisper. “What do you say?”
His eyes burn like the fire that took everything from Ludmilla, but she has sworn she’ll never be afraid of it again.