Entry 38
This castle is far too quiet. Built atop the southern mountains of Velenhorst, it was meant to be a sanctuary—a stronghold to keep the darkness at bay. And yet, it feels more like a prison. No one comes here unless it's for the yearly offering. A jar of blood from every citizen, drawn and preserved by magic, then hauled up the mountain and left at the gates like some ritual to appease a god.
They never knock.
They never linger.
They just return to the capital and throw a loud, colorful festival.
From the walls, I can see their fires. I hear the echoes of music.
They celebrate life while I sit in silence, reminding myself—I am no longer human.
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Entry 39
Three decades of defending Velenhorst, and nothing has changed. The darkness never sleeps, never stops. And yet, I've kept it at bay alone. I'm not celebrated. I'm not remembered. I simply am.
Still, I never asked for more. I never wanted applause.
I was content.
Until Maria came.
