The ferocity in Dracula's eyes dimmed as he fell to his knees. The hatred in those eyes never wavered though as he looked up at the heroes surrounding him. As the unlife filling him began to ebb, the castle shook. The tremors were subtle at first and the heroes failed to notice them. A slight smile formed on the dying vampire’s lips. There was a reason he’d chosen to make his final stand in the waterways of Castlevania.

By the time they heard the collapse of the upper levels over Dracula's laughter there was no hope for escape. The creatures trapped inside, both good and evil alike braced against the rumble of collapsing stone, heralding their painful death…

…but death never came for them.

Those outside watched in awe as Castlevania faded from view. Only rotting vegetation and loose earth remained where once the massive structure stood. The tale of its disappearance spread throughout the land. For a decade the tale was accepted as truth. After twenty years, people began to doubt. When thirty years had passed people scoffed at the tale. When four decades had passed, the legend of Castlevania and the dark lord within was considered a story to scare young children.

Now, a full century later, only a handful of bards, gathered in dark corners of crowded taverns, tell a tale of a Castle that housed darkness and paid homage to evil, though only a very few know the tale in its entirety. The names have been lost to the winds of time that have blown from the west, across Europe and down the Carpathians. The shadowed land of Walachia has been shaped by these winds, ushered toward a new century, while Castlevania and the heroes trapped within slumbered, forgotten.

Forgotten until a cold wind swept down from the peaks of the mountains and a chill settled over the country. Merchants traveling from the mountain town of Sinaia brought with them this chill, telling stories of a castle high upon the cliff face where no castle had stood before. They spoke of how it had seemingly appeared in the night and how darkness clung to it, obscuring it and the mountain top from the villages below.

The merchants told of men and women coming from the mountain, half starved and carrying the posture of those who carry the weight of the world upon their backs. Those who wandered out of the darkness were dressed in archaic clothing that had fallen to rags. They carried rusty weapons and armor that had not seen use in nearly a century. They spoke little, except to each other, and always in whispers. The villagers, believing that these strangers were cursed, secured them passage on a train to the city of Bucharest in hopes that the Archbishop of the great Saint Michael’s church would be able to remove the darkness that hovered over them.

And so the chill spread as the locomotive sped them across Walachia.

The winds of time had changed direction. ...and Walachia waited.