One of Us Will Die
Curse of Strahd Adventure Report 20:
The Wachterhaus

Breakfast at the Blue Water Inn is a thin chicken soup and stale bread. No feast, no wine, no celebration, but for those who survived the night called The Feast of St. Andral, it is proof enough that they are still alive.

The tavern hums with whispers. Vallaki is already tearing itself apart again. Some praise Baron Vallakovich: the madman who thought laughter could drive away the Devil. Others speak of Lady Fiona Wachter: calm, cunning, promising peace through reason… or through surrender. The word elections hangs like smoke in the rafters, sour and unreal.

Behind the bar, Urwin Martikov polishes a mug that has been clean for minutes, his eyes distant. News has already spread among the keepers: the infiltration of Castle Ravenloft had succeeded, but only one of the four who went returned.

Marjorie steps up to the counter, cloak still smelling faintly of rain and smoke. “Good morning, Urwin.”

Before the innkeeper can reply, Danika sweeps in, ever the heart that keeps this place alive. “Good morning, Marjorie! I hear you’ve been flying around the city!” she says, trying to lift the gloom that hangs over her husband like dust.

“I did!” Marjorie admits, flustered. “Only… I have all this silverware on me, and I’ve no idea where it came from.” She gestures at her coat, spoons and forks glinting from the folds like a magpie’s collection.

Urwin blinks. Then he and Danika burst into laughter — bright, genuine, impossible in this grim place. “Oh, I remember my first flight!” Urwin chuckles.

“Yes,” Danika adds, eyes gleaming with fond nostalgia. “I had quite the hoard myself. A butter knife here, a goblet there… It’s a phase… Mostly.”

“I feel like I should give them back,” Marjorie protests, flustered.

“This won’t be the last time,” Urwin says, grinning as he wipes a glass. “If you worry about it too much, it’ll eat up your whole day.”

Marjorie frowns. “Could I at least leave them here? Tell people to come by if they’ve lost any cutlery?”

Urwin scratches the back of his neck. “Ah, no, best not. Advertising a pile of lost silverware at the nest of wereravens doesn’t do much for the ol’ secrecy, you see.”

Danika’s gaze slides toward the pile of utensils, eyes glassy, almost entranced. “Or…” she says dreamily, “you could give them to us.”

Before Marjorie can answer, the door swings open and the others arrive: Sabrione, cloak drawn tight; Hope, eyes shadowed and haunted; and Esme, quiet but alert.

“Ah,” Urwin says, setting down the mug. “Just the people I wanted to see.”

He reaches beneath the counter and lays out three items, each one humming faintly with magic: trophies, or curses, from the night before.

“This,” he says, setting down a bracelet with a glowing green gem, “was taken from Volenta Popofsky’s personal stores. A detonation stone — speak a word into it, and the Heart of Sorrow will explode. The word is ‘boom.’”

“Shiny,” Marjorie murmurs, eyes widening.

Urwin sets down the next: a ruby amulet, its surface smooth as blood. “This came from the corpse of Sister Adele. Her final words were: ‘He’s killing her. He thinks he loves her, but he’s killing her.’”

Sabrione’s expression darkens. “For Ireena,” she says softly. She turns the amulet in her hand. “It’s very old... This amulet belonged to Tatyana. I’ve seen it before.” A pause. “Or Alec did.”

The memories from the Tome of Strahd still echo faintly through them: lives not their own, bleeding into the present.

Hope takes the amulet, inspecting it with cool precision. “A vampire can’t bite through someone wearing this,” she concludes. “It’s an amulet that protects you from vampire bites.”

Urwin’s last offering is a small leather-bound journal. The edges are burned, the ink blotted by ash. “The diary of Armand Grezit,” he says. “We thought he was one of us. Turns out, he was Strahd’s man all along. He betrayed the mission, died for it. We can’t read it. It’s written in some code, but it’s a window into the mind of an enemy.”

Hope takes it carefully, feeling the pulse of something sinister between the pages.

Marjorie, meanwhile, is lost in her own strange new instinct. Her hands hover over the trinkets: the silver, the amulet, the bracelet, and that same hungry warmth spreads through her chest. The part of her that is human marvels at their beauty. The part of her that is raven wants to hoard them, to line a nest with glittering proof that she survived another day in hell.

“Shiny,” she whispers again, almost to herself, and for once, it doesn’t sound entirely like a joke.

The morning air is cold and wet with mist when Sabrione steps out into the alley behind the Blue Water Inn. The city is quiet,  too quiet, the kind of silence that makes her hand drift automatically to the hilt of her sword. She draws it and whispers softly. “Morgwyn.”

For a moment, there is nothing but the faint hum of steel. Then a voice answers from inside her head, but it is not the one she called.

“You called?” the voice says brightly. “It is I, Sergei von Zarovich, priest of the Morninglord, at your service!”

Sabrione groans softly and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Oh, not you.”

The sword hums faintly in her hand, warm as sunlight through stained glass. Sergei’s presence radiates from it; gentle, guileless, painfully sincere. It is the kind of goodness that has no place in a world like this.

“Could you tell Morgwyn that I was looking for her if you see her in there?” she asks, exasperated but polite.

“Of course!” Sergei answers, his voice full of enthusiasm, as though she had asked him to run an errand for an old friend instead of a ghost bound inside a weapon. “I will tell her at once. But…” His tone softens, trembling on the edge of something wistful. “I have a request as well.”

Sabrione hesitates. “What would that be?”

“If you see Tatyana,” he says. For a heartbeat, she hears him smile through the words, “please tell her that when all this is over, I’ll be right here waiting for her. Then at last, we can be together. This nightmare will finally end.”

His voice is radiant with devotion, so full of innocent certainty that for a moment it almost sounds like a prayer. Hope. Real, fragile hope echoes inside the blade.

Sabrione’s throat tightens. How could anyone hold onto so much light in a place that eats it alive?

She exhales slowly. “Fine. I’ll tell her.”

“Thank you,” Sergei says, with a joy that feels too pure for her to bear. “You are very kind.”

Sabrione sheathes the sword carefully, her eyes downcast. She can’t bring herself to tell him that his beloved Tatyana walks the world again, reborn as another woman, one who loves someone else.

As the sword’s glow fades, Sabrione whispers to herself, “Some truths are too cruel, even for the dead.”

When she returns to the Blue Water Inn, she finds her companions gathered in the lobby with Vasili von Holtz, who waves from the top of the stairs.

“None of that soup today!” he declares with boyish exuberance. “We are having bacon, eggs, and sourdough! Only the best for my friends.”

Sabrione can’t help but smile, though her voice carries disbelief. “Your face was split open yesterday, Vasili. What happened?”

“The Martikovs are miraculous hosts,” he says cheerfully. “And health potions are wonderful things.”

He leads them upstairs to his room: the best in the inn, of course. The man is rich enough that his comfort seems untouched by the misery that strangles Vallaki. A lavish table is already laid out. The smell of cooked bacon fills the room.

They sit and eat, grateful for something that feels like normalcy, even if it’s an illusion.

“So,” Vasili says between bites, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I imagine you heroes are terribly busy.”

The group exchanges looks. The silence stretches. It’s Marjorie who finally speaks. “Have you considered running for burgomaster?”

Vasili nearly chokes on his breakfast. “Good heavens, no! That sounds like work.”

“You’d rather let one of the two current candidates win?” Marjorie asks, voice calm but firm.

“Well… actually…” Vasili stammers. “The Wachter family and mine are practically cousins. Running would be an act of opposition. It wouldn’t be proper.”

Sabrione leans forward. “We have reason to believe she’s a Strahd worshipper.”

Vasili blinks. “And Baron Vallakovich is a zealot who throws festivals to fend off despair. They’re both mad. Honestly, I prefer not to choose between evils.”

“So why not be the hero this town needs?” Marjorie asks, tone gentle.. yet the word hero lands like a sword in Vasili’s chest.

For a moment, he says nothing. The thought spins in his head, glittering with the naïve excitement of a child opening an adventure story. Vasili von Holtz, hero of Vallaki. Adventurer extraordinaire!

Sabrione catches it instantly. “You wouldn’t even have to do the work,” she says, smirking. “Ireena could help you.”

Vasili looks scandalized. “Once you’re burgomaster, you’re stuck with the job until someone else wins the next election… which is to say, never! Most people don’t want that kind of responsibility.”

“Yes,” Marjorie says, “but Ireena wouldn’t mind. She’s every bit the leader her brother is. She just can’t run because no one here knows her yet.”

Sabrione adds with a sly smile, “And everyone in Vallaki knows Vasili von Holtz.”

He hesitates, then strokes his chin in mock contemplation. “Well… participating in democracy isn’t quite opposition, is it?”

“Exactly,” Sabrione says brightly.

Vasili stands abruptly, hand over his heart, eyes glittering with imagined grandeur. “Then someone must stand for this town and save it from chaos. Vasili von Holtz will answer the call!”

Marjorie hides a smile behind her cup. “That’s very noble of you. In that case, we intend to investigate Lady Wachter further.”

Vasili nods, entirely swept up in his own heroic fantasy. “Her house is just down the road. I could arrange for her to invite you to lunch. After all, I did say our families were close.”

“That would be wonderful,” Sabrione says, standing.

“Very well,” Vasili says with a bow. “Expect to be expected at lunch. Until then, enjoy the morning.”

The group leaves Vasili’s chambers and heads upstairs to Victor Vallakovich’s room. Even after only a single night, it looks like a laboratory hit by a storm. Papers cover the floor. A magical circle glows faintly in chalk at the center.

Victor crouches over a small brass contraption, muttering to himself.

“Good morning,” Marjorie says cautiously.

He doesn’t look up. “I’ve almost got it working. Do you have any idea how hard it is to open a door between worlds without anyone exploding?”

Sabrione glances at the others. “I’m suddenly worried about lunch.”

Hope leans against the wall drifting in and out of sleep, arms crossed. “Welcome to Vallaki.”

A sharp knock rattles the door.

“Go away! I’m busy!” Victor shouts from inside, his voice muffled and petulant.

“Have you slept at all, Victor?” Marjorie calls through the wood.

There is a pause, followed by a shuffle of movement. The door creaks open to reveal the young mage, pale and disheveled, his hair sticking out in wild tufts and ink smudged across his cheek.

“Oh. It’s you,” he mutters.

Marjorie folds her arms and studies him with that unmistakable motherly look. “You haven’t slept, Victor. Go to bed.”

“But—but—but, I’m almost at a breakthrough!” he protests, gesturing frantically toward a glowing circle drawn in chalk on the floor. “Do you realize how far we’d go if we perfected teleportation technology? We could get out of here! Imagine if we took everyone and teleported them out of Barovia, left the Count all alone in his castle!”

His words tumble out faster than his mind can keep up, a child’s dream wrapped in a scholar’s desperation.

Marjorie softens but keeps her tone firm. “Victor, even geniuses need their sleep. It’s a wonderful idea, but you’ll be much more productive if you’re well rested.”

He slumps his shoulders. “Do I have to?”

“Listen to her, young man,” Sabrione says from behind, her voice carrying the weary amusement of someone who has seen this play out too many times. “It’s for your own good.”

Victor pouts but trudges toward his bed. The moment he lies down, four skeletal cats leap gracefully onto the blanket, curling up around him like pale guardians. Their hollow sockets glow faintly, forming a quiet barricade of bones and companionship.

Marjorie watches him settle in, the tension leaving his face as sleep finally begins to claim him.

Sabrione leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Always the mother, Marjorie. I suppose you’ll never break out of the role.”

Marjorie glances back, her expression soft but thoughtful. “I’m trying to be better,” she says quietly, and for a moment, the faint candlelight catches in her eyes — the same gentle light she’s been carrying since the orphanage, the one that refuses to go out.

Lake Zarovich is quiet at first, the morning mist curling lazily over its surface as the sun begins to rise behind the gray mountains. The peace lasts only a moment before Urwin gestures toward the lake’s edge, where an intricate course of rings and sharp turns has been prepared.

“The course is an obstacle route that the were-ravens of the Keepers of the Feather have used for centuries,” Urwin explains, pride flickering in his voice. “You’re free to use it as much as you wish, Marjorie. It sharpens both the body and the spirit.”

Marjorie smiles and turns to her companions. “Well then, how about a bit of friendly competition?”

Hope rises slightly off the ground, her eyes glowing as she accepts the challenge. “You’re on.”

Marjorie grins, her form shifting until feathers shimmer across her arms and her eyes glint with avian gold. “Three human-sized competitors for a course set for ravens. Seems fair enough.”

“I think I’ll stay here,” Sabrione says, folding her arms. Her hat shields her eyes from the sunlight as she watches them from the shore. “You two enjoy yourselves.”

Urwin raises a hand, signaling the start.

The two launch forward at once. Hope surges ahead in a flash of gold and white, invisible wings slicing through the mist like blades. The forest air ripples from the force of her ascent. Marjorie leaps after her, a rush of feathers bursting from her shoulders as her boots leave the earth. The first stretch of the course comes fast: narrow wooden hoops suspended by rope among the skeletal trees of the Svalich Woods.

Hope threads through them effortlessly, twirling midair with a laugh that cuts the silence. Marjorie, larger in her hybrid form, won’t make it through the ring. She grits her teeth, then shifts, her body shrinking and folding into the sleek silhouette of a raven. Her quickest transformation yet! The next instant she bursts out the other side, feathers scattering like sparks before she expands again, the change almost instinctive now. Her triumphant caw echoes across the forest.

They veer toward the ruins of the Charlie’s old tower where the course takes a perilous bend. Hope conjures a spectral hand, her magic flaring pale blue as she launches herself around the tower. Marjorie folds her wings tight and banks into the curve, the wind tearing at her hair and cloak. The ruined tower flashes by, a ghostly ruin against the morning fog.

The next section opens over the lake, and the course becomes deadly. Jets of enchanted water explode from below, each one cutting the air with the sound of breaking glass. Hope rises, darting between the bursts, while Marjorie dives low, skimming the water’s surface. The smell of ozone fills the air.

Marjorie closes her eyes for a moment, calling upon the inhabitants of the lake. The water shivers in response. From below, hundreds of fish rise like a living current, their silver bodies forming a shimmering tunnel. She flies through them, the spray cold and cleansing, their movements guiding her.

For a heartbeat, everything feels alive again. The war. The sorrow. The curse. All of it feels far away.

Then she looks down.

The lake ripples.

From beneath the surface, a face forms — pale, regal, and beautiful in its cruelty. Eyes of burning crimson meet hers. Strahd von Zarovich’s reflection smiles, his mouth formed from thousands of tiny bubbles that merge and burst with every syllable she thinks she hears.

Maaaaaaarjorie!

The sound is not a voice but a pulse in her head. He winks. The water turns black.

A sound follows. A low flutter at first, then a storm.

The sky erupts.

Thousands of bats explode from the mist in a single convulsion of wings. The air becomes noise and motion, a living cloud of shrieking, flapping darkness. They strike like arrows, a living storm that blots out the sun.

“Was this part of the course!?” Marjorie cries, voice cracking.

Her staff hums as she spins it in a wide arc, striking through the air. Each blow bursts into radiant light, sending scorched bats tumbling into the lake. She cannot see the edge of the swarm; there is no end to it.

Hope vanishes into the chaos, then reappears above, transforming in a flare of white flame. Her body reshapes, feathers growing, arms spreading into vast wings as she becomes an enormous owl. Her shriek cuts the storm in half. The sound rips through the cloud like a blade, scattering hundreds of creatures in all directions. The air trembles from the force of it.

But the swarm keeps coming.

They cling to Marjorie’s wings and arms, clawing at her eyes, tangling in her hair. Their teeth pierce her neck and shoulders. She screams, rolling through the air, spinning like a falling star. She snaps open her wings and channels divine energy through her staff. Light explodes outward, burning the creatures in a radiant flash. The smell of ash and charred fur fills her lungs.

“Marjorie!” Hope calls, her voice distorted by the beating of her wings. She swoops low, raking her talons through the swarm and crushing several in one motion. Blood spatters across her feathers.

From the shore, Sabrione’s voice carries faintly through the chaos. “What in the hell is happening over there!?”

The swarm suddenly breaks apart, fleeing toward the woods. The lake goes still once more. The mist closes in behind them as if nothing had happened.

Hope and Marjorie break through the final ring of mist, crashing onto the grass by the shoreline. They roll to a stop, both breathing hard, wings folding against their backs. Hope touches down just ahead, technically the victor.

The water ripples once more. For an instant, beneath the reflection of the clouds, something pale and smiling watches them. Then it fades, and only the stillness remains.

“That was… impressive, Hope,” Marjorie says, trying to catch her breath.

“Yes, but what was that?” Hope asks, eyes darting back toward the still lake.

Marjorie turns to Urwin. “Were the water jets and the bats part of it?”

Urwin’s face drains of color. “No. That was not us. That was… something else.”

They all turn toward Lake Zarovich. The surface is calm once more, the water glassy and unmoving. No trace of the swarm, no hint of magic, no sign of the Count.

Sabrione’s hand moves instinctively toward her blade. “We need to watch our backs.”

The mist shifts again, silent and heavy, as if the lake itself were listening.

They find the Kolyanavich siblings lounging on folding chairs at the lake shore, the morning sun tilting off their faces. Ismark props his boots on the sand and claps once, slow and warm. Ireena looks up, polite and careful.

“Nice race, ladies,” she says, smiling.

“That was extremely close,” Ismark adds. It seems they hadn’t noticed Strahd’s little additions to the course.

Sabrione steps out of the trees, wiping water from her hands. She gives Ireena a small, conspiratorial nod. “Hello, Ireena. I thought I’d deliver a message for someone.”

“A message?” Ireena tilts her head. “What is it?”

“It’s a form of communication passed between two people.” Sabrione says, unable to resist turning an awkward situation into a joke once more.

Nobody laughs. They can see how nervous she is.

Sabrione breathes as if the words are awkward to carry. “After all of this is over, Sergei von Zarovich wants you to know he will be waiting. He looks forward to the day you two can finally be together.”

Ireena’s face drains of all color. Her hands fly to her mouth, trembling, and she sways as if her body has suddenly become too small to hold what’s inside it. The sound she makes is caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Her eyes unfocus, and she presses her palms against her temples as if she could push the flood back in.

The memories come in waves—faces, voices, fragments of lives that are hers but not hers. A wedding veil. A bloodstained altar. A hand reaching out of a lake. The sting of betrayal. The burn of sunlight on skin that no longer breathes. It all presses into her skull, demanding to be remembered. She winces, breath catching sharp and shallow.

“This is wrong,” she says, voice thin and breaking. “I shouldn’t feel happy hearing that. I am engaged.” Her words crumble as she turns away, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake with the kind of sobbing that sounds too deep for one life to contain.

“Your past life is your past life,” Marjorie says, kneeling beside her. She places a steady hand on Ireena’s shoulder, grounding her. “You are not bound to obey it.”

Ireena’s fingers claw through her hair. “If it’s the past, then why does it feel like it’s happening now?” Her voice cracks under the weight of too many lifetimes. “Tatyana and Sergei were mindlessly in love. I can feel it—their joy, their pain, their hunger for each other. It won’t stop. It’s in me. I can’t imagine feeling that way for Vasili. We’ve only known each other a week.” She laughs once, but it’s hollow, closer to a sob. “And yet I look at him, and sometimes I think I remember him too, in another life. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Hope kneels beside her and rests a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “That doesn’t change that they aren’t your memories.”

“I don’t want to feel them,” Ireena says, shaking her head violently. “I don’t want any of this. Every time I close my eyes, I see myself die again. I see her die. Drowning, burning, bleeding—again and again, every life ends the same way, and I feel it like it’s still happening.” She digs her nails into her scalp until her knuckles turn white. “I just want it to stop.”

The air around them is still. The lake ripples once as if stirred by her pain. The sunlight glitters cruelly across the surface, indifferent to what it shines on.

“I could eat,” Hope says quietly, her voice uncertain. It’s a strange phrase, almost flippant against the stillness.

Sabrione blinks. “Hope, ever since you turned, you’ve been—”

“No,” Hope interrupts. “Not like that. I could consume only the memories. Not her. I could take the past-life traces out of her head so she wouldn’t remember Tatyana’s life. It will be risky. She might forget more than she intends.”

Ireena looks up, eyes red and wild. There’s a haunted emptiness in them that none of them have seen before. “I don’t care,” she says. “It’s better than this. Tatyana, St. Andral, Marina… I remember all their lives as if they were my own. Their deaths, their loves, their regrets. It’s too much.”

Her voice trembles as she continues. “Sometimes I wake up and I forget where I am. I think I’m Marina again, waiting for Strahd to come. Or I think I’m Tatyana, waiting for a wedding that will never happen. Or Saint Andral, praying for salvation that never comes. It’s no way to live.”

Her words fade into the still air. For a long time, none of them speak. The water laps quietly at the shore. Somewhere, a raven calls and then goes silent. The world holds its breath around Ireena as she stares at her trembling hands, uncertain whether they belong to her—or to one of the many women who came before.

“Wait,” Sabrione says, hand to her sword and eyes sharpened with that old habit of guarding thresholds. “Before you do anything, there is someone who wants to speak to you.”

Hope closes her eyes. Sab takes her hand as Hope channels his message from the sword, through Sabrione and out of her own mouth.

“Hello, Tatyana,” the voice says, gentle as linen.

Ireena’s hands tremble. She swallows and then speaks, steadying herself as if she has rehearsed grief a thousand times. “Sergei. My name is Ireena Kolyana. I am sorry to tell you that Tatyana died centuries ago. We share a soul, but I am not her. I am engaged to a man named Vasili. We have not known each other long, but I want to spend my life getting to know him. I want to have with him what you had with her. I am sorry you had to learn about everything this way, but I must remove her memories from me. I need to live and the pain is too much to bear..”

There is a long, soft intake of breath through Hope’s mouth, and the voice—Sergei’s—answers like a man exhaling after a long prayer.

Sergei is quiet for a long moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is calm, gentle—like sunlight filtering through a chapel window after a storm.

“I see,” he says softly. “Of course. Tatyana is gone, and so am I. What we had belonged to another life, another world.” His tone carries no bitterness, no envy, only sorrow shaped into kindness. “Life is for the living, and you, Ireena, are alive. You deserve to be happy in ways I no longer can.”

His voice deepens with warmth, the echo of a man who once spoke sermons not from duty but from love for every soul who listened. “You remind me of her, yes, but not because you share her soul. You are brave in ways Tatyana never had to be. You have faced horrors she could not have imagined. You carry hope into a land that has forgotten what the word means. You are not her shadow. You are her light carried forward.”

For a moment, there is the faintest tremor in his words, the ache of longing that has not faded even after centuries. “My brother thought strength came from power. He sought to command what he could not earn, to possess what he could not understand. But true strength,” Sergei says, his tone brightening, “comes from gentleness. From compassion. From being able to love without the need to control. That is why I loved Tatyana. And that is why I believe you will love far better than either of us ever could.”

The silence that follows feels sacred. The air hums faintly with the echo of his spirit, as if the land itself mourns the loss of a good man.

Then, softly, he speaks one final request. “When you have forgotten everything—when the names and faces fade from your mind—please keep just one thing. Remember my name. Not for my sake, but as proof that I once lived.”

There is a pause, then a smile in his voice. “Remember me as Sergei. Not the man who trusted his brother too much… Just a man who wanted to live his life.”

Ireena looks at Ismark. He is already moving with a kind of quiet readiness. He opens his pack and draws out parchment and a stub of pencil. His fingers are steady as he offers them. Ireena takes them like a penance.

She writes slowly, the handwriting tight at first and then flowing as something older than her fingertip finds the words. She writes as Tatyana’s voice brushes her hand, warm and remembering.

Dear Ireena,

There is a man I want you to remember. He was born in the shadow of a brother who seemed greater in every way—a brother who conquered, who commanded, who was feared and obeyed. All his life, this man tried to live up to that shadow. He trained with a sword though his hands were made for healing. He studied the ways of war though his heart longed for peace. People spoke of his brother’s glory and forgot his name, and still, he smiled.

For though many hungered for power, he hungered for goodness. Where others sought to rule, Sergei sought to serve. He knelt beside the wounded. He always fed the hungry before he fed himself. He comforted the dying and blessed even those who cursed the gods. When others saw the darkness as something to fear, Sergei saw it as something to light a candle against.

He was not great because he was strong. He was great because he was kind. He was not wise because he was cunning. He was wise because he listened. He was not brave because he sought battle. He was brave because he loved, knowing that love would destroy him.

His name was Sergei von Zarovich—the man Strahd could never be. A man who proved that compassion is stronger than cruelty, that faith is deeper than fear, and that love is something freely given, never taken by force.

I loved him with all my heart. Please, remember his name.

With love, Tatyana

When she writes the last line aloud, the word hangs at the water’s edge.

“Sergei,” Tatyana says for the final time through Ireena’s lips. The sound of the name loosens something in her. Her shoulders sag like a rope uncoiling.

Hope touches Ireena’s cheek, her thumb trembling as she looks into her eyes. The world folds inward. Light and memory spill from one soul to another, and for a moment, the two women share the same heartbeat. Hope feels it all—centuries of life, love, and loss crashing through her mind like a flood.

She sees Tatyana, the first life, a peasant girl with hair like the wheat fields she once danced in. She remembers the warmth of Sergei’s hand, the way his laughter made her forget the chill of Castle Ravenloft. There is a wedding gown never worn, a promise broken by jealousy, a scream echoing off marble as Strahd’s sword plunges into his brother’s heart. Then the fall—the wind, the despair, the mist swallowing her body as she leaps from the balcony to escape the monster who loved her too much.

The memory bleeds into another. Saint Andral, born generations later, now cloaked in faith. A priestess who carried the light of the Morninglord through Barovia’s gloom, building her chapel stone by stone. She preaches forgiveness even for the damned, and every night she dreams of a castle she cannot name. When she dies, her blood stains the altar and she whispers a name that means nothing to her but everything to him: Sergei.

Another turn of the wheel. Patrina Velikovna, a scholar of forbidden magics in the valley of the dusk elves. She seeks to free Strahd from his curse, believing she can love the man beneath the monster. But the love that redeems in stories only destroys here. The mists rise again; her people stone her for her betrayal, her skull split open as she calls Strahd’s name one last time. Their entire race is wiped out by Strahd and Rahadin in retaliation.

Then comes Marina, the village girl from Berez. Hope feels her laughter—soft and fragile, like sunlight breaking through fog. Marina is kind, and Strahd mistakes kindness for affection. He woos her with gifts, with songs, with promises of eternity. When the burgomaster and his chaplain discover the truth, they drag the girl to the river, weeping as they hold her under the water. Hope feels it—the cold, the weight, the desperate clawing for air. Better she die a mortal’s death than live as his bride.

Hope gasps and stumbles, the shock of it rattling her bones. She sees the drowned village through Marina’s fading eyes: houses half-swallowed by the swamp, a crooked church steeple sinking into the mire, everyone drowned by the wrath of a mourning vampire. And then there, buried in the silt beneath the waterlogged ruins, she sees a faint golden light. A hilt, waiting. The Sunsword.

The vision lingers like a whisper. The blade that once belonged to Sergei himself, broken and buried, lost to the ages.. now calling to her through lifetimes.

Hope’s breath hitches. The weight of a dozen deaths presses against her ribs. She can feel them. Tatyana, Andral, Patrina, Marina. All of them screaming in her veins, begging to rest, begging for peace. She tears herself free from the torrent before it consumes her. None of Ireena remains in her mouth or mind.

Then darkness. Hope collapses.

Ireena’s eyes close. Ismark hands her the note her hands wrote just moments before. She takes in every word as she reads the words of a woman she now barely knows.

“This… Sergei,” he says.

“He was killed,” Ismark adds quietly. “By Strahd.”

“Yes,” Sabrione answers. “He was a good man. Everything his brother never was.”

“And… the woman who wrote this for me… Tatyana.” Her fingers curl into a raging fist.

“She took her own life… but Strahd drove her into a corner.” Marjorie says.

Ireena folds the paper to her chest and breathes a kind of cold, righteous oath. The old pain becomes a blade with a purpose. “They shall be avenged. We fight in their names.” she whispers. “Strahd von Zarovich must die.”

Irena weeps for them, but she doesn’t understand why; only that she weeps.

The others echo in small ways. Marjorie presses a palm to her own heart. Hope in her slumber makes a small noise, a vow that is as much hunger as promise. Sabrione’s hand rests on the pommel of her sword.

Before they stand, Marjorie slips Ismark a piece of the recovered silverware, small and absurdly domestic. “Keep this,” she says, and it is a human thing to give.

They prepare to leave the lake. The air is clear and bright and terrible in its calm. As they walk, Sabrione falls into step beside Marjorie.

“You know,” Sabrione says quietly, voice softer than usual, “I can summon the souls of those killed by the sword.”

“I know,” Marjorie says.

“If you wanted,” Sabrione goes on, “I can try for your daughter. I have been reaching.”

Marjorie stops and looks at her. For a long moment she considers the black river of everything she has lost and the thin thread of hope that might be pulled loose by someone who can speak to the dead.

“I appreciate what you are doing, Sab,” she says at last, tender and guarded. “I do. We will speak when the time is right.”

Sabrione’s expression loosens the smallest degree, like a hinge permitting light. “I am proud of you, Marjorie.”

They move on together, the shade of the trees closing behind them. The lake glitters, indifferent and honest, as if the world has rearranged to make room for the choice they have all chosen to carry.

The Wachterhaus seems disgusted with itself. A slouching roof hangs heavy over twisted gables matted in moss. The walls sag, warped by the creeping ivy that clings like rot. As Marjorie, Kellam, and Sabrione approach, they see the house actually shudder, timbers groaning beneath a weight it hates to bear. They sense it. The house despises what it has become.

Marjorie raises her fist and knocks. Only half the party has arrived—the others are still recovering. Hope sleeps in the carriage outside, and Rowan is still unconscious at the inn.

A tall, cadaverous butler opens the door.

“You are expected,” he says in a voice as thin and low as a coffin lid being pulled open. “Come inside.”

The entry hall is silent, damp, clogged with shadows. They are led into a formal dining room, where the air sits stagnant and perfumed by wilted flowers.

“You will wait here for the mistress. The dog may sit in the corner,” the butler says.

Kellam obediently shuffles to a corner by the wall, sniffing the air. Marjorie and Sabrione sit stiffly at the long dining table. Its ornate surface stretches nearly the full length of the room, set beneath a crystal chandelier that gleams with dying light. Eight chairs with sculpted elk horns line either side. Tarnished silver silverware and chipped porcelain are arranged like ghosts of glamour. Some are missing. The arched windows look out into a fog-drenched yard; gloom refracted through iron lattice.

The door opens. A bony older woman enters, her posture rigid as a pillar of salt. She wears a high-necked gown of faded velvet, her thin hair pulled back tight enough to sting.

“I am Fiona Wachter,” she says, “but I believe we have met. Thank you for accepting my invitation. My husband would join us, but he is gravely ill and must remain in bed.”

“I am Marjorie,” Marjorie says with a courteous nod. “And this is Sabrione. Thank you for hosting us. You told us you are running for burgomaster.”

“Yes. Vallaki has been choked long enough by the greed of House Vallakovich. They named the town after themselves, you know. Arrogance. It is time for new leadership.”

A brief, knowing look passes between Marjorie and Sabrione.

“If you’ll excuse me, Lady Wachter,” Sabrione says, standing. “I must use the lavatory.”

Fiona’s icy smile holds. “Of course. I will have someone escort you.”

A bell chimes, and a young servant appears to lead her out.

The servant leads her up a creaking staircase. His movements are stiff, almost puppet-like, as if his job is performed under constant dread.

“This way, miss,” he says, gesturing to a door on the right. “The lavatory.”

Sabrione steps inside and waits. The servant’s shadow looms under the crack of the door. They will not let her snoop. Lady Wachter is hiding something, and Sabrione means to find it.

She turns the knob and slips out. The servant turns, surprised, but Sabrione’s fist is swift. He slumps, unconscious, and she drags him into the lavatory, jamming a chair under the knob to block any escape.

“Finally. Alone.”

“So, Lady Wachter,” Marjorie says, folding her hands back at the table. “What are your plans for Vallaki?”

“Plans?” Fiona simpers, raising a teacup. “My first act will be to stop the absurd festivals. Happiness must not be enforced. It should be earned through safety and structure.”

A yowling sound erupts from upstairs. Fiona’s face is instantly cracked with irritation.

“Be quiet,” she snaps, her cool facade crumbling for one unguarded instant. “Butler, make the cat silent.”

The butler moves up the stairs.

“You have a cat?” Marjorie asks.

“Yes, I have a cat,” Fiona says, her smile forced. “A particularly difficult one.”

“It is good to know you like animals. I have a dog,” Marjorie says, nodding toward Kellam.

“Of course. Well, as I was saying. Vallaki deserves peace. Not the Baron’s hollow joy or unlawful punishments. Those days will end.”

Upstairs, Sabrione picks the lock to a room. Inside is a perfect picture of death.

The master bedroom.

A man lies stretched out on the bed, perfectly preserved, copper coins over his eyes. He looks exactly like the stern father in the family painting above the hearth. The jewelry on his stiffened hand still shines.

“Nikolai Wachter,” she murmurs. “You are not sick. You’re dead.”

She turns and quickly begins to search the room, finding an iron chest high on a shelf. Her vampiric strength lets her lift it without trouble. She breaks the lock, and just inside is a skeleton and an engraved plaque.

Leo Dilisnya, assassin, traitor.

She takes the skull. “One scroll left. This should do the trick.”

The party still had one more chance to cast Speak With Dead and five more questions to ask this Leo Dilisnya.

“My sons are useless, constantly drowning in drink, but it matters not,” Fiona prattles, swirling her tea. “The Wachters are matriarchal. Titles pass to daughters.”

“I see. Do you have one?” Marjorie asks.

“I did. She died. Killed in an accident caused by Vargas Vallakovich’s vile son. Tragic business, but we persevere.”

The yowling screams again from upstairs.

“That is one loud cat,” Marjorie says under her breath.

Sabrione can hear the yowling before she even reaches the door. A thin, desperate howl that trembles up through the floorboards and clings to the walls like mold. She pauses outside the room, listening.

This is no animal, she thinks. This is a person.

She kneels, pulls out her thieves’ tools, and picks the lock. The bolt clicks softly. The door creaks open.

The truth hisses at her.

A girl crouches low on the floor in a soiled nightgown, her arms folded like limbs, her fingers curled like claws. Her hair is matted, tangled into snarls. Her eyes are wide and alive, but there is no language in them—only instinct. She hisses, baring her teeth, and claws at the air as she backs away.

“Stella Wachter,” Sabrione whispers, her voice caught between horror and pity.

Victor Vallakovich was eleven years old; an awkward, bookish boy with restless fingers and the mind of a scholar. A girl in a pale dress, laughing at something he said. She liked him then. He glowed with it. He promised her magic.

That same magic became the curse that broke her mind.

“What have you done, Victor,” Sabrione says beneath her breath, pain catching in her chest.

Stella lunges for the open door, yowling, clawing, desperate to escape. Sabrione catches her by the wrist; her skin is cold, thin as parchment, and maneuvers her onto the bed. She sees the restraints already tied there.

Who did this first? Sabrione thinks grimly, but she already knows.

“Bad kitty,” Stella hisses, writhing with the strength of madness.

Sabrione tightens the straps, as gently as restraint allows. “You are not a cat, Stella,” she murmurs, knowing the words cannot reach her.

She stands, staring down at the frail, chattering girl. She remembers Victor’s nervous grin, the spark in his eyes when he showed her a trick, the brief moment where he felt seen. Wanted. Loved. A boy who should have grown into a man by Stella’s side. A future that curdled into an unending nightmare because he reached too far without knowing the price.

“Poor child,” Sabrione says, shutting the door and closing that horrific chapter of innocence lost.

“Where do you get the money?” Marjorie asks calmly, hoping Sab is safe upstairs.

“Loans. And the Count is generous with those who uphold his will.” Fiona sips her tea again.

“Count Strahd von Zarovich is a vampire,” Marjorie says, staring directly into her eyes.

“And we would be wise to accept his rule,” Fiona says. “The Baron’s opposition only invites suffering.”

Sabrione pushes open the door to the library. That lock was not easy to pick. A rank breath of rot greets her. The air crawls with movement. Rats scatter across the floorboards, squeaking and scrambling under half-collapsed shelves. The bookshelves themselves lean, half-eaten by damp and time. Most of their contents have been gutted, the binding ripped from parchment, pages abandoned in heaps like the dead.

“Filthy place,” she mutters.

Many of the tomes have been sold off to recover debts, no doubt to Vasili von Holtz at the Vallaki library.

She moves quickly, her darkvision sharpening the images through the pitch black darkness. She runs her fingers along the spines, testing the wood, the grain, the alignment. Something is wrong. One shelf is not flush with the others. A gap. A subtle bow. She presses inward.

Nothing.

She drags a finger until… click. One book. Something weightier than the others. Hardened leather. She pulls.

The shelf groans, then swings inward like a slow sigh from the house itself.

“Bingo.”

She slips through.

A small hidden chamber. No windows. Dust crowds every surface. A single iron chest sits low on a shelf. She kneels and studies it. There is a faint shimmer along the edges. A trap.

Of course it’s bloody trapped.

She runs a thin wire beneath the latch, listening for the mechanism. Behind her, a footstep. A door opening.

“Hello? Who’s there?” the butler’s voice drifts from the library, his tone cautious but not yet alarmed.

Sabrione works faster. Sweat beads at her brow. One incorrect movement and the chest would explode. She has disabled traps before, but her hands tremble. She forces them still.

Through the crack in the false wall, she sees candlelight sweep across the library floor.

“Someone left the door open…” the butler murmurs. “Strange. Miss? Sir?”

The latch shifts. A tiny sound—click.

Relief bursts through her chest.

Sabrione opens the chest.

Treasure gleams in the gloom. A mound of silver coins. Two ancient tomes. A wooden pipe carved with obscene precision. Faded deeds to several parcels of land marked with Strahd’s seal. She rifles past the silver and picks up the first tome. The Devil We Know. A manifesto in dense verses praising power bought through infernal pacts… A love letter to devil worship.

She skims the first line and snorts. “She wrote this? Of course she did.”

The second tome is worse. The Grimoire of the Four Quarters. Leather of an unknown creature… No. Sab knows human skin when she sees it. Ink shimmers in unnatural hues. The name Devostas scratches its way into her mind, a diabolist said to have been dismembered yet kept breathing. This is a replica… the real tome would’ve driven its reader mad.

“Hope is going to love this,” she whispers, almost to herself.

She digs deeper. More parchment. A few letters. Then a sealed envelope, yellowed, edges brittle.

She breaks the seal.

Inside is a charcoal drawing and a note.

Dear Lovina, I am writing to thank you for all the hospitality and loyalty your family has bequeathed to my own. Your friendship is immaterial to me. To honor these wonderful years, I have commissioned this picture of us to remember our first meeting. With respect and regards, von Holtz

Sabrione pulls the parchment free.

Her breath halts in her throat.

It is a much younger Lovina Wachter, Fiona’s ancestor from six hundred years ago. Smiling. Radiant. Standing close beside a man with a sharp jaw, dark eyes, and that same impossible, boyish charm.

Vasili von Holtz.

The same face. The same hair. The same playful smile. Not older. Not younger. Not different. Exactly the same.

Her skin grows cold. Her heart pounds at her ribs as if to escape her chest.

“Who the fuck are you, Vasili,” she whispers. The words are too thin against the crushing silence of the secret room.

Behind her, the butler steps closer. His tone grows uneasy.

“Who is in here?” he asks.

Sabrione slides the picture into her pack. The darkness closes around her like a fist. Her head darts around for an escape. A window. She can see the carriage across the street. Addy is looking right at her and waving.

She formulates a plan and executes it.

“…and that is why book club nights are the best nights,” Fiona concludes with a grating laugh. Marjorie nods politely, her patience fading.

The door opens. Sabrione stumbles in, feigning discomfort.

“I should not have had that soup for breakfast,” she says.

Marjorie catches the signal instantly. “My apologies, Lady Wachter, we have another appointment. Thank you for the meal.”

“Do not be strangers,” Fiona calls.

The doors shut behind them. Hope is awake now, flipping through the manifesto, having smuggled the contraband out of the window before Sabrione was caught. She came in through another window and rejoined the lunch before the butler could find her.

There is a poem:

Do not judge his size, for he is strong Nor judge his shape, his reach is long His contract bound, to bring the end to all who harm me and my friends His trade is death, his blade is sure A silent path, a final cure For one by one, the wicked fall My blitz and I shall conquer all

Hope looks out the window.

An imp stares back, invisible to all but her through the window. It follows her two companions out of the house and clings to the side of the carriage, waiting.

She swallows hard.

In the quiet of the carriage, Marjorie leans toward Sabrione.

“Did you find anything?” she whispers.

Sabrione closes her eyes. “I found… everything.”

And the carriage rattles away from the accursed house.

The imp remains clinging to the side, thinking he can’t be seen.

They head straight for Rowan’s room, the one place they know is hallowed and safe. Hope ushers them inside and shuts the door behind her, her voice low.

“We’re being followed,” she says. “It cannot enter this room. The wards on a paladin’s space repel it.”

“Who?” Marjorie asks.

“The invisible imp that latched onto the carriage,” Hope whispers. She tilts her head toward the door. “It is still outside. Listening. Invite everyone else up.”

Marjorie nods and moves toward the stair, but Sabrione catches her wrist.

“Not Vasili,” she repeats. “Something is wrong. Until we know what he is, he stays out.”

Soon the others arrive—Esme, the Martikovs. The door is sealed and Rowan is still unconscious in bed, hand on her sword. When the group is gathered, Sabrione lays it all out: the rotten Wachterhouse, the body of Nikolai Wachter still lying in the bed, the tragic state pf Stella, the manifesto on devil worship, and the drawing. The one showing Vasili beside an ancestor of Lady Fiona, looking exactly as he does now, as if time has never bothered with him.

Esme is the first to respond.

“Perhaps it is like Ireena’s case,” she suggests. “Another soul, reborn again and again.”

Sabrione crosses her arms. She looks pale and tired. “Or maybe he is older than he says. Much older.”

Marjorie turns to the Martikovs. “Do you recall ever seeing him as a child?”

The couple exchange glances, thinking back. Urwin shakes his head slowly.

“No. Vasili’s family may have old roots in Vallaki, but he did not grow up here. He came from Krezk.”

“He is still the best candidate. Which is terrifying if we are right,” Esme says.

Sabrione nods. “Wachter is a devil worshipper and she’s a friend of Strahd. Vallakovich is a zealot with delusions of grandeur. All we have is a charming young noble who might not be what he claims. Those are our options.”

Marjorie leans forward. “Can we still trust the ravens to send word?”

Dannika nods. “We have a few left who can fly unnoticed. You need us to scout Krezk?”

Marjorie gives a grim smile. “Find everything you can on Vasili von Holtz.”

“I’ll have Muriel on it immediately.

They all sit in silence for a moment.

Hope finally speaks.

“Wachter and Vallakovich split the town vote. If Vasili runs, we could control the balance. Decide who wins. Who falls.”

“But there is no safe choice,” Marjorie murmurs.

“No,” Sabrione agrees. “There is no safety left in Barovia. There never was”

She glances at the door. The invisible thing sits just beyond it, patient, quiet, and loyal to a woman who neglects her mentally ill daughter and sleeps beside a corpse.

“And the shadows are getting closer.”

Their trail had been full of victories the past few days. They’d escaped Argynvostholt, returned the wine to Barovia. They recovered the Bones of St. Andral. Castle Ravenloft had been infiltrated, robbed and sabotaged. Morgantha, Volenta and Anastrasia were dead… but what if those victories only served to distract them from the truth? Where was Strahd? What victories had he won?

When You’re Evil by Voltaire plays over the end credits

Hope sits alone in the candlelit room, her face lit by the flickering flame and the glow of infernal script. The book before her is thick, bound in cracked leather, the title etched in a language that writhes if she looks at it too long. She turns a page, whispering words only the damned would comprehend.

Outside the window, something slinks along the frame — a small, red-skinned imp with crooked horns and a mouth full of too-sharp teeth. His grin twitches as he presses his clawed fingers against the glass. Mottled skin gleams faintly in the candlelight, and his long tail flicks with restless energy. The creature tilts his head, curious and cautious all at once, his glowing eyes narrowing as he watches Hope quietly writing at her desk. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance his way.

The imp’s grin widens into something almost smug. “Did she even see me?” he thinks, pressing his face closer to the glass. “Or is she just another human who can’t?”

He leans in until his nose nearly touches the window, watching her every movement — the slow turn of a page, the careful note-taking, the whisper of her breath. He waits for her to flinch. She doesn’t.

Hope doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. She’s absorbed in her translation. The imp leans forward, curious, studying the back of her head.

Then her head turns.

It doesn’t turn slightly—it rotates the full one hundred eighty degrees, eyes open wide and staring directly at him, hollow and unblinking, as if every nightmare from the Abyss had been given sight.

The imp lets out a silent scream and loses its grip, tumbling off the sill into the night. Scrambling upright, it darts away across the cobblestones, wings buzzing in frantic bursts.

It runs past a sign tacked to a post, swaying in the cold wind.

VOTE VASILI VON HOLTZ FOR BURGOMASTER OF VALLAKI A BRIGHT FUTURE STARTS TODAY

The imp runs faster. The night grows darker.