Raffaele accompanied Dom through numerous rooms, playing the part of the perfect host, sparing no detail in recounting stories about the castle's tumultuous past and the harmless role he now intended for it.

As they passed through the cloister on their way to the service wing, Dom grew more convinced that his first impression had been accurate. The castle was not in the best condition, but someone had clearly made an effort to keep the surfaces clean, decorated in a modern style, and even the garden areas appeared to have been recently trimmed.

Moreover, Dom confirmed what Raffaele had mentioned just minutes earlier. There wasn't a living soul within those walls—only the master of the house and himself.

What was even more bizarre was that, far from feeling intimidated, Dom found himself worried about Raffaele.

No wonder it had been so easy for Ciro to swindle him! It only took a few moments of observation to realize that this eccentric nobleman had no sense of self-preservation. Who in their right mind invited a complete stranger into their home? And not only invited him in but gave him a full tour of the premises!

This was practically a guide on how to rob the place. Raffaele had no qualms about telling Dom where each exit to the exterior was located, which rooms had the thickest walls, and even where he stored most of his preserved goods. It was madness! And the worst part was that Raffaele did all of this with the best intentions, as if he were genuinely happy to have someone to show around the home he had acquired.

Dom couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him.

Raffaele also seemed quick to trust people, often turning his back to Dom as they walked through the hallways while he explained the history behind each painting and room. It was ironic, really. If Dom had been a bandit or a violent criminal, he would have had at least a dozen opportunities to catch Raffaele off guard and stab him in the brief hour he had been inside the fortress.

More than the village children, it was the supposed vampire who seemed to be begging for protection.

"Where do those stairs lead?" Dom asked at one point, referring to a narrow staircase leading downward, the last steps disappearing into darkness. "I thought this was the basement."

"That leads to the catacombs, or so they call them around here," Raffaele replied, pausing his explanation about the taxidermied duck on the wall that a Portuguese aristocrat had insisted on gifting him, much to his dismay. "A terrible place, dark and damp. I believe there are even cells where the former owners imprisoned their enemies."

"Typical of these enormous constructions, I imagine. As long as there weren't any torture chambers..."

The silence that followed was quite revealing.

"The neighbors told me about a feudal lord who lived here about two hundred years ago," Raffaele continued, "and he apparently had a habit of cutting off his prisoners' feet and leaving them hanging down there like hams."

"If it's the same neighbors who told me about a vampire..."

"What?" Raffaele looked startled for a brief moment before regaining his composure.

"Nothing. I was going to ask... Do you know if there are still any feet hanging down there?"

"I have no idea. I haven't set foot down there since I took possession of this place."

Dom eyed him curiously. He wasn't exactly experienced in purchasing property, but if the opportunity to acquire a castle like this ever arose, he was sure he would want to explore every corner before settling in.

"It's dark and scary," Raffaele said defensively, as if that explained everything. "Besides, a canal runs through the underground levels. And I prefer water in a glass or a bathtub, not in my socks."

"Sounds reasonable."

"If you want to go down and admire your hooves, I'll give you a lantern and wish you luck. I'm not going down there."

Was he seriously giving him permission to explore on his own? Without any supervision?

"No, that's fine. We can continue the tour of the rest of the castle if you'd like," Dom said quickly. As curious as he was about the underground level, he didn't have a good excuse to insist on going down there. And he didn't want to make Raffaele any more uncomfortable than he already seemed.

It must have been the right decision because Raffaele sighed in relief and promptly urged him to continue the tour through less eerie parts of the fortress.

They passed through chambers as lavishly decorated as the grand hall—a library, music and dance rooms, a kitchen with a fireplace so large that it could hold a cauldron big enough to cook three children at once. Yet, the strangest thing of all was that, despite Raffaele's impeccable taste and the expensive materials used to adorn every corner, Dom couldn't find a single mirror during their entire walk.

He found none in the bathrooms, where Raffaele proudly described the bathtub he had brought back from his last trip to Constantinople, nor in the bedrooms, which still held the usual washbasins and pitchers for morning ablutions. Even in the hallways, there was nothing that could reflect an image.

And though the question might have sounded silly, Dom couldn't resist asking.

"Mirrors? Ah, yes, I could put some up, but I don't like them," Raffaele replied simply, without the slightest hint of nervousness. "I find they only serve to foster vanity."

"You sound like the abbot of the monastery where I grew up. That man was obsessed with forcing us into the austere life of Christ's servants. If it weren't for the rules established by the Order's founder, he would have had no qualms about feeding us only once a day and making us sleep on the floor every night."

"Oh? You also lived in a monastery? I don't know why, but I never would have guessed."

"I've been many things in many places," Dom said, knowing that Raffaele wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last to question his religious past. "There weren't any mirrors in Santa Maria delle Grazie either. That's why I wondered if your aversion is a personal preference or a remnant of some monastic experience."

"A bit of both, I think. I wasn't raised by monks, but I did spend a couple of years in a Meteora monastery when the guerrilla conflicts were at their peak," Raffaele explained as if it were a casual anecdote, despite the implied turbulence. "The environment was quite humble there, too. We couldn't even afford proper works to climb the cliffs where the monastery was located. We relied on a system of ropes and pulleys that we only replaced when God willed it."

Needless to say, "when God willed it" was a polite way of saying, "when someone fell to their death and we had no choice but to replace the rope." But dressing it up with fancy words and a touch of the divine always made things sound better.

Dom didn't need to know the exact reasons behind the guerrilla wars to believe that.

"A lot of fighting over that place?"

"Too much, with the Ottomans trying to invade us constantly."

"Who were they, the neighbors?" Dom asked. "When I was at Santa Maria, the monks always complained that the villagers didn't pay their tithes properly and let their horses relieve themselves at the monastery's door. If they hadn't been men of God, I'm sure they would have settled their grievances with their fists."

"Well, in Meteora, we settled things with stones and boiling oil."

"What?"

"T-they were rather violent neighbors," Raffaele stammered, clearly uneasy. Before Dom could pry further, he quickly changed the subject. "But enough about the past. How about we go up one of the towers? I want to show you something I think you'll like."

Dom didn't doubt it. Even he, with little interest in noble possessions, had to admit he was enjoying this unplanned tour. The fortress felt peaceful, even if some rooms were a bit overwhelming, and the company was pleasant.

He had no complaints, all in all. At that moment, he could follow Raffaele anywhere he wanted without giving it too much thought.

Maybe, just maybe, if Dom had paid even a shred of attention to his history lessons when he was a boy at the monastery, he might have realized that Raffaele had been talking about an actual invasion by an expanding empire. Not the usual ragged neighbors threatening to steal a few vegetables from the communal garden.

Had Dom made the effort, he also would have realized that Meteora was in Greece, and that this entire grim conflict had taken place more than two centuries ago. But since that wasn't the case—and given that Dom's life strategy was based on not asking too many questions about topics he didn't know or didn't find particularly relevant, to avoid appearing ignorant—he didn't ask.

One could argue, then, that Dom missed the perfect opportunity to catch a vampire—or whatever kind of being had the power to stay alive for more than two hundred years. Although, that wouldn't be entirely accurate either.

His suspicions, which had almost entirely faded while they wandered through the fortress's hallways, resurfaced with greater intensity as Raffaele led him up a narrow, steep staircase. According to Raffaele, it led to the highest room in the entire castle.

A place where, incidentally, Raffaele promised a surprise of epic proportions awaited him.

Now, what exactly did that mean?

The path to the room above was dim, as there were no windows in those walls to let in any light. What little could be seen came through tiny gaps between the stones—strategic openings that allowed just enough brightness to avoid stumbling.

The climb seemed endless; soon, it became impossible for Dom to see the doorway they had entered through. There were only hundreds of steps spiraling in every direction, no matter where he looked. The corridor felt claustrophobic, but Raffaele remained as excited as when he first suggested coming up here, urging Dom to follow.

A quiet thought crossed Dom's mind: this was exactly the moment when an evil creature—say, a hypothetical vampire—would take advantage of his lowered guard to trap him in the tallest tower and subject him to all manner of tortures before draining his blood. Hell, he wouldn't even need to wait until they reached the promised room! A simple push would send Dom tumbling down the stairs, killing him instantly.

Then again, on second thought, that would be a waste of food. After all, wasn't it obvious that these kinds of monsters needed their victims to be alive in order to suck their blood?

Yes, that had to be the case. Otherwise, Dom figured, the blood would taste stale.

In any case, and distractions aside, his ominous forebodings still lingered. In fact, they became even more tangible when Raffaele finally stopped before a massive wooden door, which was secured with a heavy padlock that he promptly set about unlocking.

"Are you ready?"

Ready to die, perhaps? Dom certainly wasn't. He hadn't fled from the disaster at Staffarda—risking being caught deserting by hiding among the corpses of his compatriots—only to come here and meet his end for stepping into the wrong house.

"Let's get this over with," Dom muttered, his hand involuntarily moving to the part of his jacket where he had a knife hidden, fingers brushing over the hilt through the fabric.

For a few seconds, while Raffaele worked on the lock, Dom feared that he might actually have to resort to violence—to strike before being struck. Perhaps an ordinary human wouldn't stand a chance against a vampire, but he still had the advantage of surprise. And the fact that Raffaele—naive as ever—remained blissfully unaware, lost in his own world without suspecting anything ill of his guest.

Dom was prepared to fight—and, realistically, to lose—against whatever lay beyond that door. However, he was not prepared for what he actually found when Raffaele pushed it open for the grand reveal.

Masks! Venetian masks everywhere!

They hung on the walls, sat on shelves strategically placed to catch the light from the room's only window, and rested in display cases Dom had only seen in museums and cathedrals. If this was some kind of torture chamber for guests, it was certainly an eccentric one!

"What is all this?" he dared to ask, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the display. It was impossible to count them all at first glance, but he was sure there were at least a hundred masks in the room.

"It's my private collection, of course," Raffaele couldn't hold back his enthusiasm. If he'd already seemed proud while giving the castle tour and showing off his minor renovations, he was practically glowing now. "I've been building it ever since my first visit to Venice, which was... too long ago to remember. Each mask has its own story, and that's why I consider this my most precious treasure—I take it with me wherever I go. Ah, but don't just stand there at the threshold. Come in. Let me tell you about each one."

And that was exactly what he did—without rushing but without stopping—making sure to explain where in the city of canals he had acquired each mask, why it was designed the way it was, who the artisan responsible for its creation was, and the story behind every single piece.

The speech was so detailed, and Raffaele's excitement so genuine, that there was no way this could be part of some calculated plan to deceive anyone. And as Dom relaxed, he began to decide that this aristocrat must simply be an eccentric. Not the dangerous kind, but the peculiar kind.