The Rise Episode 003 - The Demonic Visitor
A forbidden road is traveled.
Old alliances are tested beneath ancient stone.
Secrets move through the shadows faster than blood or steel.
And when a demon comes calling… it is never by accident.
Previously on The Rise
Darkness did not end with Dracula’s fall—it reorganized.
After the Siege of Castle Dracula, the Impaler was bound into dormancy rather than destroyed, his throne sealed and his will fractured across bloodlines, oaths, and shadowed factions. In the vacuum left behind, the Crimson Hand reclaimed the castle—not to rule, but to wait—while the Five Houses of Vlad maneuvered for inheritance without a crown.
As the Hunter’s Enclave reeled from loss and divided focus, new watchers gathered around the Vale of Shadows, recording movements, measuring tremors, and guarding a seal that must never break. Whispers spread of blood rituals begun too soon… and of a resurrection attempted without patience.
Meanwhile, within the Demonic Legion, fractures deepened. Authority was questioned. Loyalties tested. And in the aftermath of betrayal and illusion, a truth was exposed: some masks are worn for survival… others for conquest.
Now, an ancient enforcer moves openly.
A gate forbidden stirs.
And the balance between watcher, hunter, and monster begins to tilt.
Tonight—
Krampus comes to Castle Dracula.
The Rise continues…
PART I – THE ARRIVAL
The Vale of Shadows does not welcome visitors.
It tolerates them—briefly, suspiciously, and at cost.
A black carriage crests the dead road leading toward Castle Dracula, lanterns burning low, wheels carving grooves into soil that remembers blood. The horses snort and pull against their reins as the spires emerge from the fog—bone-white towers clawing at a sky that refuses to finish becoming night.
Inside the carriage sits Krampus.
Across from him, posture perfect, hands folded with performative humility, sits “Paul Heyman.”
The illusion is immaculate. Breath. Pulse. The faint nervous scent of mortal sweat.
Krampus does not look at him.
He does not need to.
The gates of Castle Dracula open without sound.
The carriage rolls through the courtyard and halts beneath towering arches etched with sigils meant to intimidate gods who no longer care. Waiting at the threshold of the main chamber stand three figures—each a different answer to the same ancient question.
Lord Velkan Thorne, immaculate, still as a contract waiting to be signed.
Count Vlad Daculescu, smiling with cultivated charm, eyes always calculating angles.
Vlad Țepeș-Corvinus, armored, rigid, radiating ancestral entitlement.
Krampus steps down first.
The air listens.
Not recoiling.
Not bowing.
Listening.
Thorne inclines his head.
“Alpha Krampus,” he says smoothly. “Your presence honors Castle Dracula.”
Krampus’ grin is slow. Predatory.
“If I wanted to be honored,” he replies, voice like gravel dragged across bone, “this place would already be on fire.”
Daculescu chuckles lightly, spreading his hands in theatrical ease.
“And yet,” he says, “you came. Even seeing through my… modest illusion.”
Krampus’ gaze flicks—briefly, deliberately—to “Heyman.”
“Modest,” Krampus repeats. “No. Familiar.”
Daculescu’s smile tightens. Not offended. Impressed.
Thorne gestures inward.
“Then let us speak plainly,” he says. “You did not cross the Vale for pleasantries.”
They walk.
The throne room opens around them—vast, cathedral-like, oppressive in its restraint. The sealed throne looms in the distance, wrapped in sigils and chains that hum softly, like a sleeping beast breathing through stone.
Krampus stops several paces short of it.
He does not bow.
He does not approach.
“I’ll spare you games,” Krampus says. “The North is changing. Power is fracturing.”
Țepeș-Corvinus bristles.
“You refer to Dragomir,” he says sharply.
Krampus bares his teeth in something close to a smile.
“I refer to inevitability,” he replies. “Dragomir believes systems outlast monsters. He’s not wrong.”
Daculescu circles slowly, intrigued.
“And this concerns the Demonic Legion how?” he asks.
Krampus turns to him fully now.
“Because your Legion will split,” Krampus says. “Sooner than you think. Lilith’s patience thins. Abaddon’s rage festers. Frost watches the wind. And when Dragomir moves openly…”
He shrugs.
“You will be asked to choose sides.”
Silence stretches.
Thorne studies Krampus carefully.
“And you,” Thorne says, “are here to guide that choice?”
Krampus’ voice lowers, measured, deliberate.
“I am here to gather allies,” he says aloud.
“To align interests.
To ensure when Dragomir reaches for the North, he finds resistance instead of submission.”
That is the truth.
It is simply not the whole truth.
As they speak, Krampus’ senses flare—quietly, insistently.
The air tastes wrong.
Not vampiric.
Not infernal.
Witchcraft.
Petty. Spiteful. Clever.
And beneath it—far deeper—a pressure that has nothing to do with spells.
A presence.
Not awake.
Not asleep.
Waiting.
Krampus does not react. He does not look toward the throne. He does not let his breathing change.
Instead, he continues the performance.
“Dragomir believes Dracula’s age has passed,” Krampus says. “That the future belongs to infrastructure, not crowns.”
Daculescu scoffs softly.
“And you disagree.”
Krampus’ eyes glint.
“I believe,” he says, “that when gods are declared obsolete, they tend to return violently.”
Thorne folds his hands behind his back.
“And what do you want in return for this… alignment?”
Krampus steps closer. Just one pace.
“Information,” he says. “Access. And assurance that when the Legion fractures, Castle Dracula does not make the mistake of backing the wrong inevitability.”
The room feels colder.
No one mentions the Hunters.
No one mentions the Watchers.
No one mentions the sealed throne.
Those are the silences Krampus listens to most.
After a beat, Thorne inclines his head again.
“Then,” he says, “let us continue our discussion… privately.”
Krampus’ grin widens.
“Oh,” he replies. “We already are.”
And as they move deeper into the Castle, the Vale watches—patient as a noose.
PART II – THE PRISONER
The dungeons of Castle Dracula are not meant to break bodies.
They are meant to break certainty.
Krampus descends the spiral steps flanked by Thorne and Țepeș-Corvinus. “Heyman” follows quietly, head bowed, playing his part.
At the final cell, torchlight reveals the truth.
The real Grinch Heyman sits behind silver-etched bars, thinner than the illusion, eyes burning with expectation.
He rises.
“You came,” he breathes. “I knew—”
Krampus steps closer.
The cell hums.
“No,” Krampus says calmly. “I did not.”
Heyman falters.
Krampus leans in, voice dropping to a whisper only Heyman can hear.
“You stay,” he murmurs. “A little longer. Long enough to listen.”
Heyman’s eyes widen.
Krampus continues, softly:
“Keep your ears open. Keep your mouth shut. And if anyone asks—suffer quietly.”
He straightens.
“To be clear,” Krampus says aloud, turning to Thorne, “no harm comes to him.”
Thorne nods without hesitation.
“Of course.”
Krampus’ grin returns.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’d hate to come back angry.”
They leave the cell.
Heyman remains standing in the darkness—terrified, but alive.
PART III – WHAT REMAINS UNSAID
The main chamber feels colder now.
Krampus departs without ceremony, carriage rolling back into the Vale.
Silence lingers.
Daculescu exhales first.
“How much does he know?” he asks.
Țepeș-Corvinus scowls. “Too much.”
Thorne remains composed.
“Not enough,” he says. “Which makes him dangerous.”
Daculescu paces.
“The Enclave will strike,” he says. “They always do.”
Thorne shakes his head.
“Not soon. They are spread thin—wrestling theatrics, containment, dismantling what remains of Moreau’s work.”
A voice interrupts.
“You underestimate their patience.”
Jonathan Harker steps from the shadows.
“All Watcher outposts are active,” he continues calmly. “They’re amassing around the Vale.”
The room tightens.
Before anyone can respond, another presence announces itself.
The Wicked Witch glides into the chamber, skirts whispering against stone, eyes alight with cruel amusement.
Thorne turns.
“The ritual?”
She smiles.
“Slow,” she says. “Blood is… scarce. Weeks yet before the bindings weaken fully.”
She tilts her head.
“But it will happen.”
No one argues.
EPILOGUE I – THE IMPOSSIBLE ROAD
The carriage rolls through the Vale.
Krampus sits alone now, staring into nothing.
“They said all the right words,” he mutters. “And none of the true ones.”
A low hum begins beneath his cloak.
He pauses.
Reaches inside.
Withdraws a snow globe—glass cold, magic older than reason.
“The Vale should kill this,” he says softly.
He shakes it.
Snow swirls.
A vision forms.
The North Pole.
Krampus frowns.
Then speaks a word that predates the Enclave.
Light erupts.
The carriage driver reins hard as the glow vanishes.
The carriage is empty.
Moments later, Krampus stands beneath aurora-lit skies.
The North Pole.
Impossible.
He exhales once.
Then walks.
Minutes later, he stands before a workshop he swore never to approach again.
He raps once.
The door opens.
Mrs. Claus stares, stunned.
“I need to speak to Augustus,” Krampus says.
From inside, a familiar voice answers:
“Let him in, Merinda.”
EPILOGUE II – THE WATCHER IN THE TREES
High in the forest overlooking Castle Dracula, Delisandre of the Veiled Choir records everything.
Arrival: Krampus. Escort: Heyman.
Departure: Krampus alone.
She follows the carriage.
Two miles from the Castle, light erupts.
The driver stops. Dismounts. Checks the back.
Empty.
Delisandre lowers her quill.
“This changes things,” she whispers.
She turns away, already moving.
“Mistress Tynell must be informed.”
FADE TO BLACK.
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