Beginning Credits Play Over: Alan Silvestri - Transylvania 1887
FADE IN:
A storm‑torn valley.
Mist coils through dead trees like breath from unseen lungs.
The wind carries whispers — not words, but names.
Barovia stretches below, its rivers black and slow, its mountains crowned with ruin.
Ahead, three faint lights flicker in the fog — distant, spectral, calling.
The camera glides toward them:
one crimson, one silver, one emerald.
Each pulse like a heartbeat buried in the earth.
TITLE CARD:
THE THREE FANES — carved in runic script, glowing faintly as if written in blood and moonlight.
The glow trembles.
The wind falters.
Silence descends.
❄️ CHARACTER INTRODUCTIONS — THE LAND REMEMBERS
(Each name appears as the camera passes them)
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) — on a ridge above the valley, cloak snapping in the wind. He watches lightning crawl across the horizon, tracing the shape of the first Fane. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword, eyes narrowed.
He whispers, “It’s waking.”
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) — kneeling beside a half‑buried altar.
Her lantern burns with silver flame, bending toward the east.
She touches the stone, and frost melts beneath her fingers.
A prayer escapes her lips — half hope, half warning.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) — trudging through a ravine where the fog moves against the wind. His compass spins, then locks toward a fissure glowing faintly green. He mutters, “The earth’s bleeding again,” and presses on.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) — beneath a shattered arch, studying runes carved in bone.
The parchment in his hands hums softly.
He looks up — the air ripples, and for a moment, the stars blink out.
He smiles, uneasy. “They’re listening.”
Silverleaf (Tatyana Maslany) — standing in a grove of petrified trees.
Her bow is drawn, arrow nocked, eyes fixed on a shadow that moves like smoke.
Amber motes drift from her breath.
She whispers, “The forest remembers.”
Ireena (Tomasin McKenzie) — at the edge of a frozen lake.
The lavender blade glows faintly at her side.
She gazes into the reflection — three lights shimmer beneath the ice.
Her voice is steady: “We find them. Or Barovia dies.”
Arabelle (Cailee Spaeny) — seated in the snow, eyes closed, hands pressed to the ground. Her voice is a whisper carried by the wind:
“The Fanes are dreaming. Don’t wake them angry.”
Ezmerelda (Morena Baccarin) — sharpening her blade beside a dying fire.
The flames flare crimson, then fade to ash.
She smirks. “Guess we’re heading into another nightmare.”
🏔️ FINAL SHOT — THE VALLEY BREATHES
The storm parts for a heartbeat.
Three distant peaks glow — red, silver, green — each pulsing like a wound.
The camera pushes forward, the wind rising again.
A whisper curls through the air — ancient, hungry, patient.
FADE OUT.
With:
Cliff Curtis as Arturi Radanavich
Jim Broadbent as Father Lucian Petrovich
Carrie Coon as Lydia Vallakovich
Kodi Smit-Mcphee as Victor Vallakovich
And
Gary Oldman as Rudolf van Richten
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
🕯️ Van Richten’s Tower — Entry Hall
INT. - VAN RICHTEN’S TOWER - NIGHT
Background Music: Fabomusic - Van Richten's Tower
The door groans open like a dying thing.
Mist clings to the threshold, reluctant to let them pass.
Within, the tower breathes — stone ribs rising into shadow, runes pulsing faintly like veins beneath old skin.
The air tastes of iron and forgotten prayers.
They enter as revenants might: wounded, weary, changed.
Greegan halts at the doorway, his silhouette trembling against the candlelight.
His daggers sleep at his side; his eyes do not.
He whispers, voice cracked and small.
GREEGAN: “Don’t want her to see. Can’t let her see… me.”
Ireena’s gaze flickers toward Clarion, worry etched deep as frost.
IREENA: “What’s the matter with him?”
Ezmerelda’s reply drips like rust from a blade.
EZMERELDA: “He’s trapped. In his worst day.”
Clarion moves — slow, deliberate, as if the air itself resists her.
She kneels beside him, armor sighing against the stone.
Her hand finds his brow, steady as mercy.
Her lips part, and the language of angels spills forth — Celestial, soft and sorrowful, a hymn for the broken.
The words shimmer, not loud but true.
Greegan flinches.
The tremor runs through him like thunder through glass.
Then, silence.
His breath steadies.
The panic ebbs.
The ghosts retreat.
He opens his eyes.
He is here.
But misery clings to him like blood that will not wash away.
He cannot meet their eyes — not Ireena’s, not Ezmerelda’s, not Clarion’s.
He stares at his hands, at the red he still sees there.
Clarion does not rise.
She remains beside him — not to heal, but to witness.
Her presence is the quiet between storms.
The tower holds its breath.
The glyphs flicker.
The mist listens.
And Greegan, though freed from the worst of it, bears the memory like a scar —
not as punishment,
but as proof
that even in ruin, choice endures.
CUT TO:
🕯️ Van Richten’s Tower — Upper Chamber
The fire in the hearth crackles like brittle bones.
Shadows climb the stone walls in slow, deliberate shapes.
The tower holds them — not as sanctuary, but as mausoleum —
a place where silence weighs more than steel.
Ezmerelda stands at the narrow window, arms crossed tight,
a silhouette carved from tension and moonlight.
Mist coils outside, pressing its face to the glass.
Her rapier rests untouched against the wall,
as if even the blade knows to keep its distance.
Felonious approaches with the quiet tread of a man
who has learned not to startle wounded things.
He stops beside her, saying nothing at first.
They stare into the same endless grey.
Then, softly:
FELONIOUS: “Are you all right?”
Ezmerelda doesn’t answer.
Not with words.
Only with the rigid stillness of someone holding herself together by threads.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Whatever that thing did to you… it rattled you.
As much as it did Greegan.”
A breath escapes her — sharp, involuntary.
Not relief.
A release, like a blade sliding from a sheath.
She turns just enough for the firelight to catch her eyes.
EZMERELDA: “It showed me the day I buried my father. The day I learned Van Richten had lied. The day childhood died and didn’t bother to say goodbye.”
Her hands tremble.
She stares at them as if they belong to someone else.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “I thought I’d made peace with it. But it’s still there. Waiting.”
Felonious says nothing.
He simply listens —
and somehow, that is the one mercy she can bear.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “I hate that it still hurts. I hate that it still matters.”
A single tear slips free.
No sob.
No collapse.
Just the quiet dignity of a survivor who refuses to break where others can see.
FELONIOUS: “It matters because you’re still human. And because you still care.”
Ezmerelda nods — not agreement,
but acknowledgment.
A truce with the moment.
She reaches for her rapier,
slides it home with a soft metallic sigh.
EZMERELDA: “Thanks. But don’t get used to me being soft.”
Felonious allows himself the faintest smile.
FELONIOUS: “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The fire crackles.
The mist curls against the tower stones.
And in the quiet upper chamber,
two survivors stand shoulder to shoulder —
not healed,
but heard.
CUT TO:
🕯️ Van Richten’s Tower — Parapet
Background Music: Breaking Benjamin - Ashes of Eden
The wind drags its cold fingers across the stone.
The stars hide behind a shroud of mist.
Below, the forest waits — patient, ancient, listening.
Fleetwood stands at the parapet’s edge, arms folded tight across his chest.
Firelight from the tower flickers against his armor, but his face remains carved in shadow.
He is still.
He is silent.
He is a fortress built from shame and vigilance.
Then —
a shift in the air.
Not sound.
Not movement.
Presence.
Clarion.
She stands behind him, quiet as a prayer left unspoken.
She does not touch him.
She does not call his name.
And somehow, that is the mercy he needed.
It lets him speak.
FLEETWOOD (low, steady): “I never ran from anything in my life.”
His gaze stays fixed on the treeline, as if the dark itself is listening.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D: “Not Bargle. Not that overgrown carpet Kiril. Not even Strahd.”
His gauntleted hands tremble — a betrayal of the steel he wears.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “But that thing…”
A breath escapes him — long, bitter, scraped raw.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “It was like all my training, all my strength, my armor and sword — even you…”
He turns, only slightly.
Enough for the firelight to catch the fracture in his voice.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “Everything was gone. And I was a little boy afraid of the dark.”
The wind shifts.
The mist curls around the tower like a listening serpent.
Fleetwood exhales, the sound heavy as iron.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “You always put me back together. Scrape what’s left of me back into this iron shell. Get it on its feet again.”
At last, he looks at her.
His eyes are raw — not broken, but bared.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D) : “Thank you.”
Clarion steps forward.
Not behind him.
Not above him.
Beside him.
Her hand rests on his shoulder — not to soothe, but to anchor.
A vow without words.
Together, they face the night.
Not knight and cleric.
Not protector and protected.
Two souls who have walked through darkness
and still choose the light.
The tower holds them.
The mist listens.
And for the first time in a long while,
the iron shell feels warm.
The fire below has guttered into embers.
The mist outside thins to a silver shroud.
Through it, the stars peer down — distant, cold, and uncaring.
Fleetwood stands upon the parapet, not brooding.
Simply thinking — which, for him, is its own kind of storm.
The wind combs through his dark hair.
His armor murmurs softly as he shifts, metal whispering against metal.
He does not look away from her. He speaks her, and to the night, as though they alone are allowed to hear him.
FLEETWOOD (quietly): “I don’t do poetry.”
A dry, low chuckle escapes him — a sound with more weariness than humor.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “Not like Felonious.”
Another breath, another ghost of a laugh.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “Hell, I don’t even do dirty limericks like Greegan.”
His hands settle on the cold stone of the parapet.
He stares outward — not at her.
Not yet.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “I don’t know flowers. I don’t sing.”
Silence stretches between them — thin, taut, honest.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “You deserve all that.”
At last, he turns.
His eyes are tired — not from battle, but from truth.
Open in a way he rarely allows.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “And I’m very lacking.”
Clarion does not answer immediately.
She steps beside him — not behind, not before.
Beside.
Her hand brushes his — a touch without ornament, without flourish.
In that small contact, there is no poetry, no song.
Only truth.
The wind moves.
The stars watch.
And Fleetwood, for once, allows himself to be seen —
not as a knight of iron,
but as a man who loves without language
and hopes that the loving is enough.
She listens.
Not with silence — but with presence, the kind that steadies the air around her.
Not with pity — but with grace, the kind that does not flinch from another’s truth.
Clarion does not rush to soothe him.
She lets Fleetwood’s words fall and settle —
like ash after a long‑burned fire,
like truth after a battle no one won cleanly.
She knows what it costs him to speak this way.
She knows what it means for a man built of iron and duty
to show her the soft, frightened place beneath.
She steps closer.
Her hand brushes his arm — not to comfort,
but to anchor him to the world he thinks he’s unworthy of.
When she speaks, her voice is low, steady, shaped by conviction rather than gentleness.
CLARION: “You don’t need poetry.”
A breath of mist curls past them.
CLARION (CONT’D): “You don’t need flowers.”
The stars blink coldly overhead.
CLARION (CONT’D): “You don’t need a song.”
She turns to him fully, her gaze unwavering —
a lantern held up to a man who has spent too long in shadow.
CLARION (CONT’D): “You show up. You stand your ground. You break, and you rebuild. And you let me see you.”
Her hand rises to his chestplate, resting where iron meets the man beneath —
a touch that feels like a vow.
CLARION (CONT’D): “That’s more than enough.”
Fleetwood doesn’t answer.
He only breathes — a long, unguarded breath —
and for the first time, the armor around him feels less like a shell
and more like a promise.
The wind has gentled to a sigh.
The mist hangs thin as a bridal veil.
Above them, the stars blink softly — distant, pale witnesses.
Fleetwood holds Clarion in a quiet, unguarded embrace.
She is a little taller, so it is his head that rests on her shoulder,
his armor pressed against her robes,
his breath finding its rhythm in the sanctuary of her presence.
When he speaks, it is barely more than a confession to the night.
FLEETWOOD (softly): “I never thought of chasing another skirt besides yours, ‘till that vampire twisted my thoughts. Want you to know that too.”
Clarion tilts her head just enough to glance down at him,
a small, knowing curve at the corner of her mouth.
CLARION (gently teasing): “What about Aleena?”
Fleetwood snorts —
a real, unguarded sound,
the kind that cracks the armor more than any blade.
FLEETWOOD: “That wasn’t ever going to be, and you know it.”
Clarion’s smile deepens — not wide, but true.
CLARION: “What about Marla the Crimson?”
Fleetwood laughs —
a low, surprised chuckle that echoes off the stone
and startles the mist itself.
FLEETWOOD: “I wouldn’t offer her anything. She’d be likely to cut it off.”
Clarion laughs too —
a soft, warm sound that rises like a lantern in the dark.
For a moment, the weight lifts.
Not gone —
but bearable.
She wraps her arms around him a little tighter.
Not to shield him.
Not to claim him.
But to remind him:
He has already chosen.
He has already been chosen.
He is already home.
The stars blink.
The mist drifts.
And on the parapet,
two warriors rest —
not in silence,
but in the kind of love
that needs no poetry
to be true.
CUT TO:
Scene: Van Richten’s Tower — Hearth Room
INT. VAN RICHTEN’S TOWER — NIGHT
Background Music: Alice in Chains - Black Gives Way To Blue
The fire has burned low, its glow a weary heartbeat against the stone.
Shadows stretch long across the hearth room, soft and heavy with the kind of silence that follows fear, not peace.
Greegan sits alone before the flames, hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees.
His daggers lie untouched beside him — mute witnesses to a man who has survived too much to feel victorious.
His eyes are fixed on the fire, but he is not seeing flame.
He is staring into something older, deeper — a memory with teeth.
Ireena enters quietly, the hem of her cloak whispering against the floor.
She glances toward the parapet where Fleetwood and Clarion stand together, their laughter drifting faintly down the stairwell — a fragile, human sound in a land that devours joy.
She crosses to the hearth and sits beside Greegan.
Not close.
Just near enough to be chosen, not assumed.
For a while, they simply watch the fire together.
Then—
IREENA (gently): “Would it help to talk about it? What happened to you?”
Greegan doesn’t answer at first.
His jaw tightens.
His fingers twitch — the ghost of a reach for a blade he doesn’t need.
Finally—
GREEGAN (quietly): “I’m not sure.”
The flames crackle.
He swallows.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “That monster didn’t take anything from me. Didn’t twist me. Didn’t lie.”
His voice is low, scraped raw.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “It just showed me who I really was. Who I didn’t want you all to see.”
Ireena doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t look away.
She nods — not in agreement, but in recognition, the kind that comes from her own scars.
IREENA: “That’s the worst kind of monster. The one that doesn’t change you — just unmasks you.”
Greegan exhales, a long, bitter breath.
He doesn’t cry.
But he looks like a man who might,
if pride loosened its grip by a single thread.
He doesn’t look at her.
But he doesn’t move away.
And in Barovia, that small mercy —
that small choosing —
is its own kind of healing.
The fire burns low.
The tower holds its silence.
And beside the hearth,
two souls sit —
not healed,
but honest.
And in this land of shadows,
honesty is a victory all its own.
The fire burns low, its glow stretching long, skeletal shadows across the stone.
The tower is quiet — not with silence, but with the hush that follows truth, when everyone has said just enough to hurt and heal in equal measure.
Greegan sits where he has been for some time, still watching the flames.
His posture has loosened, but the weight on him has not lifted; it has only settled, like dust on old armor.
Beside him, Ireena leans back against the hearthstones, her gaze distant.
She speaks softly, as though the words are meant for the fire more than for him.
IREENA: “At least your past isn’t multiple choice.”
She glances down at her hands — strong, steady, still faintly touched by the lavender glow of the Brightblade’s lingering memory.
Her expression is thoughtful, not mournful.
IREENA (CONT’D): “I just wanted to be myself. But now I feel the pull of three lives. And a power I never asked for.”
Her eyes drift toward the fire’s edge, where Ezmerelda and Felonious sit together.
Ezmerelda’s laugh is low, guarded — a sound that has learned to survive.
Felonious listens with that quiet, unwavering warmth of his, the flames painting soft gold across his features.
IREENA (CONT’D) (quietly): “One of those lives chose the darkness. And it’s shadowed me ever since. And I didn’t even know why.”
She watches them a moment longer, something like fondness flickering behind her eyes.
Then—
IREENA (CONT’D): “I wonder if she knows. The wizard has it bad.”
Greegan blinks, pulled from his thoughts.
He looks up, surprised.
GREEGAN: “Fel? He’s more interested in books and spells than skirts. Believe you me.”
Ireena smiles — a small, embarrassed, amused curve of her lips.
IREENA: “Ezmerelda doesn’t wear skirts.”
Greegan lets out a chuckle — a real one, unguarded, the first in hours.
It softens the room, just a little.
GREEGAN: “Fair point.”
They sit together, watching the fire.
Not healed.
Not whole.
But seen.
And in the quiet that follows, the weight of memory shifts —
not gone,
but lighter,
as though shared between them.
CUT TO:
INT. - VAN RICHTEN’S TOWER - Morning
Background Music: - Van Richten (Father)
Morning comes reluctantly to Barovia.
Pale gold filters through the glyph‑etched windows, catching on dust motes and old stone.
The fire has collapsed into embers.
The mist outside lingers like a held breath — quieter, but never gone.
The party gathers in the main hall.
Rested, yes.
Restored, no.
Fleetwood stands with arms folded, jaw set like a locked gate.
Clarion beside him — calm, resolute, a still point in the shifting light.
Ezmerelda leans against a pillar, silent but sharp‑eyed.
Greegan lingers near the wall, subdued, shadows clinging beneath his eyes.
Ireena stands steady, the Sun Sword sheathed at her hip, its warmth faint but undeniable.
Felonious rests on his staff, voice ready, gaze clear.
Silverleaf scans the treeline from the parapet - bow drawn. watching as if the forest were whispering secrets only she can hear.
Arabelle standing barefoot in the dew‑wet grass outside the tower, whispering to the morning mist as if it were an old friend returning with news.
Van Richten sorts through scrolls and vials at the central table.
In daylight, he looks older — less legend, more man.
A hunter who has outlived too many dawns.
Fleetwood breaks the quiet.
FLEETWOOD: “We need you in Vallaki.”
Van Richten doesn’t look up.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “Strahd’s overseer is gone. We took care of it.”
Clarion’s voice follows, steady as a tolling bell.
CLARION: “That’s why he sent Varnyx. Retaliation.”
Van Richten pauses.
His hand hovers over a vial — a tremor of thought, not fear.
VAN RICHTEN: “You’re saying you drew blood. Real blood.”
Ezmerelda’s reply is a blade wrapped in velvet.
EZMERELDA: “We didn’t just draw it. We spilled it.”
Felonious steps forward, calm but unyielding.
FELONIOUS: “And there’s something in Vallaki that needs your attention. Something only you can face.”
At last, Van Richten looks up.
His gaze moves across them —
Fleetwood’s bruises,
Clarion’s quiet strength,
Ezmerelda’s guarded fire,
Greegan’s silence,
Ireena’s glow,
Felonious’s certainty.
Arabelle’s stillness.
He sees not merely survivors.
He sees witnesses.
VAN RICHTEN (quietly): “You’ve changed. All of you.”
Ireena meets his gaze, steady as sunrise.
IREENA: “So has Barovia.”
A long breath escapes him — part resignation, part resolve.
He closes the scroll.
Shrugs into his coat.
Straps the crossbow across his back.
VAN RICHTEN: “Then let’s see what waits in Vallaki.”
The party turns toward the door.
The mist stirs, parting like a curtain.
And the road ahead is no longer just survival —
but strategy,
reckoning,
and the next step toward the Devil’s fall.
CUT TO:
Scene: Barovia — Road to Vallaki
EXT. BAROVIAN ROAD — MORNING
Background Music: Fabomusic - Old Svalich Road
The mist clings to the trees like old regrets,
threading through the branches in pale, reluctant strands.
The road winds through the forest — rutted, damp, and watchful.
The carnival wagon creaks as it rolls, its once‑bright paint faded to ghostly hues,
its lanterns swaying like tired sentinels.
Inside, Arabelle sits cross‑legged across from Van Richten,
bone charm turning slowly between her fingers.
She watches him with the quiet confidence of someone
who has seen too much to be intimidated by legends.
ARABELLE (casually): “The tower’s no more comfortable than it was last time. Still smells like dust and secrets.”
Van Richten doesn’t look up.
He adjusts a vial, tightens a strap, checks the crossbow at his side.
In the morning light, he looks less like a myth
and more like a man who has outlived too many truths.
VAN RICHTEN: “It’s not meant to be comfortable.”
ARABELLE: “No. It’s meant to keep people out.”
She tilts her head, eyes sharp.
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “Even the ones who care.”
Van Richten flinches — barely —
a crack in the armor of a man who has forgotten how to be reached.
He turns to the window, watching the mist roll past.
Outside, Ezmerelda rides beside the wagon,
eyes scanning the trees with a hunter’s vigilance.
She doesn’t look in.
But she knows.
Ahead, the others ride in a loose formation —
Fleetwood steady and grim,
Clarion calm as a prayer,
Felonious thoughtful,
Greegan quiet and shadowed,
Ireena bright with the Sun Sword’s lingering warmth.
And Silverleaf —
already awake before dawn,
already listening to the forest —
moves along the treeline,
bow unstrung across her back,
eyes narrowed as if the woods themselves are whispering warnings.
She is the party’s shadow scout,
the one who hears danger before it breathes.
The road narrows.
The gates of Vallaki rise ahead —
iron and stone, flanked by guards with sleepless eyes.
The wagon slows.
The party dismounts.
The Guard Captain steps forward, jaw tight.
GUARD CAPTAIN: “You’re back. Good. We’ve got trouble.”
He gestures toward the town.
GUARD CAPTAIN (CONT’D): “Izek Strazni’s surfaced again. He’s vowed revenge on Lady Wachter. Says she betrayed him. Says he’ll burn her house to the ground.”
Felonious steps forward, staff in hand, eyes narrowing.
He doesn’t speak at once — he thinks first, always.
Then—
FELONIOUS (quietly): “If he does that… it could destroy our chance to reclaim the fane.”
He looks at the others.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “That may be why this is happening. Someone’s pulling strings.”
GREEGAN: “Three guesses who. First two don’t count.”
Van Richten steps down from the wagon, cloak stirring in the mist.
He says nothing.
But his eyes sharpen —
calculating, listening,
alive in a way he hasn’t been since the tower.
For the first time since dawn,
he looks like he might care.
The gates creak open.
The mist stirs.
And the party steps into Vallaki —
not merely to stop a man,
but to protect a thread of power
that could turn the tide
against the Devil himself.
CUT TO:
Scene: Vallaki — Market Square
EXT. VALLAKI — DAY
Background Music: Fabomusic - Town of Vallaki
The square hums with uneasy energy.
Guards whisper Izek Strazni’s name like a curse.
Merchants pack early, shutters slam, and the mist hangs just heavy enough
to make every breath feel borrowed.
Fleetwood stands near the fountain, arms folded, gaze sweeping the crowd.
Greegan adjusts his hood beside him — eyes shadowed, voice low.
FLEETWOOD: “You feeling yourself enough to find out where Izek is?”
GREEGAN (without looking up): “I feel too much like myself.”
He pulls the hood forward,
steps into the crowd,
and vanishes —
like smoke,
like guilt,
like someone who knows how to disappear because he once had to.
Ireena watches him go, worry softening her features.
She turns to Fleetwood.
IREENA: “What does that mean?”
Fleetwood hesitates.
He watches the crowd a moment longer,
as if expecting Greegan to reappear just to prove him wrong.
Then he turns to her —
and answers honestly.
FLEETWOOD: “When I first met Greegan, he was in a prison cell waiting to swing.”
He folds his arms.
His voice is steady, but not cold.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “I needed someone with his skills — to help me find that greasy reprobate Bargle. So I bailed him out. Took responsibility for him.”
He glances toward the alley where Greegan disappeared.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “Never found out what he did to get put in there. Didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know.”
He looks back at Ireena.
His eyes are tired, but clear —
the kind of clarity earned by watching someone try to change.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “But I can tell you he’s not the same. Still got the skills for larceny — but not, I think, the heart.”
Ireena nods slowly.
She doesn’t speak.
She just watches the crowd,
as if hoping Greegan will return
not only with answers,
but with something like peace.
The square thrums with tension.
The party waits.
And somewhere in the shifting crowd,
a rogue walks the line between past and purpose —
still hiding,
but no longer lost.
CUT TO:
Scene: Vallaki — St. Andral’s Church
INT. ST. ANDRAL’S CHURCH — SANCTUARY, MORNING
Background Music: - Van Richten (Father)
The stained‑glass windows fracture the morning light into shards of bruised color,
casting broken halos across the pews.
The air smells of incense, old stone, and the kind of silence that waits for confession.
The party enters with Van Richten, their footsteps echoing like distant thunder.
At the far end of the sanctuary, beside the altar,
Arturi Radanovich waits.
Tall.
Still.
Eyes like stormclouds gathering over a field that remembers blood.
He does not move.
He does not speak.
Not until Van Richten steps into the light.
VAN RICHTEN (neutral): “You summoned me.”
ARTURI (calm, grave): “No. They brought you.:
A flicker crosses Van Richten’s face — confusion, then something colder.
He studies Arturi’s features, searching for a memory that refuses to surface.
VAN RICHTEN : “Do I know you?”
Arturi steps forward.
His voice is steady.
His eyes do not blink.
ARTURI: “I am Arturi Radanovich.”
The name hits like a blow.
Van Richten pales.
His breath stutters.
His hand tightens around the head of his cane.
ARTURI (CONT’D) : “Yes. The same.”
He walks toward Van Richten — not threatening,
but with the inevitability of a truth long delayed.
ARTURI (CONT’D): “I am the sole survivor of that terrible night so long ago,
when you gave my people to the undead. Though I was only a child then.”
Van Richten inhales sharply.
His eyes widen — not in fear, but in recognition of a sin he never expected to face again.
VAN RICHTEN (barely a whisper): “I thought no one had survived.”
Arturi shakes his head.
His voice is quiet, but it cuts like a blade honed on grief.
ARTURI : “I hid in my Nana’s vardo. In a chest of magical clothing. The monsters would not touch it.”
Van Richten turns to the party, face drained of color.
VAN RICHTEN: “Have you brought this man here to kill me, then?”
Ezmerelda steps forward, arms crossed, voice low and measured.
EZMERELDA: “No. We brought him here so you’d finally see what you left behind.”
Clarion watches Van Richten with the stillness of judgment.
Fleetwood stands beside her, jaw tight.
Felonious says nothing — his eyes are fixed on Arturi, reading every breath.
Ireena holds her breath.
Greegan lingers in the shadows, gaze sharp and unreadable.
Arturi does not move.
Does not raise his voice.
He simply stands in the fractured light, a man shaped by truth rather than vengeance.
ARTURI: “I didn’t come for vengeance. I came for truth.”
The church holds its silence.
The light flickers.
And Van Richten — for the first time in years — stands not as a hunter,
but as a man who must answer for the ghosts he made.
The light through the stained glass flickers like flame, casting fractured colors across the pews. The air is thick with incense and memory — the kind that clings to the lungs and refuses to leave.
The party stands frozen.
Watching.
Listening.
Bracing.
Ezmerelda’s eyes are wide, breath caught in her throat.
She looks between Arturi and Van Richten as though witnessing
two ghosts speaking across the same grave.
Van Richten’s jaw tightens.
VAN RICHTEN (through clenched teeth): “Yes. I know.”
Arturi’s voice is calm, grave, unyielding.
ARTURI: “Your curse came from my kin. Mine came from your own lips.”
Van Richten flinches, a tremor of old guilt.
His grip tightens around the head of his cane.
VAN RICHTEN: “By… me?”
Arturi steps closer, his voice soft but merciless.
ARTURI: “Do you not recall? No sooner did Nana lay her curse upon you than you returned a deadly curse of your own.”
He moves into the fractured light,
a man carved from grief and inevitability.
ARTURI (CONT’D) : “I will never forget the sound of your voice as you cried:
’Undead take you as you have taken my son!’”
Van Richten’s face twists — grief, rage, disbelief,
all warring behind his eyes.
He stares at Arturi as though seeing the boy he damned.
Arturi’s voice deepens, heavy with eighteen years of exile.
ARTURI (CONT’D): “Yes. I have been pursued these eighteen years by the walking dead. They follow me wherever I go, like a golem tracking its creator.”
He breathes, slow and steady —
a man accustomed to carrying his own doom.
ARTURI (CONT’D: “They make me an outcast. No tribe will grant me asylum.
No Vistana or giorgio will take pity upon me. Nothing removes the taint you have put upon the name of Radanovich.”
Van Richten’s lip curls into a snarl,
his voice sharp as a snapped bone.
VAN RICHTEN: “Can you blame me? You stole my child —and sold him to a vampire!”
Arturi nods.
Solemn.
Unflinching.
No defense.
No denial.
ARTURI: “Yes. We are linked, in this way, by the sins of our pasts.”
He looks to the party —
to the witnesses fate has gathered —
then back to Van Richten.
ARTURI (CONT’D): “And that is why I have come — to lift the curse you placed upon me, as the seer Madam Eva bade me.”
Van Richten’s eyes widen,
a name like a blade reopening an old wound.
VAN RICHTEN: “Madam Eva?”
ARTURI : “Indeed. She spake thus:”
“The past must burn. Find the man who forged your fetters. His final breath shall set you free.”
Van Richten stiffens.
His hand tightens on his cane.
His voice drops to something low and dangerous.
VAN RICHTEN: “Then you have come to kill me.”
Arturi regards him steadily —
no threat,
no mercy,
only truth.
ARTURI: “Perhaps. Unless you or your friends know another way to decipher the words of prophecy.”
CUT TO:
Scene: Vallaki — The Underbelly
Background Music: Fabomusic - Encounter in Vallaki
The market square dissolves behind him, its laughter and lanterns swallowed by the narrow veins of Vallaki’s underbelly.
The cobblestones here are uneven, slick with the residue of last night’s rain — a mirror for the city’s sins.
The air tastes of smoke, sweat, and secrets, thick enough to cling to the skin.
Greegan moves through it like a man slipping into an old coat — one that still fits, but carries the weight of every ghost who ever brushed its sleeve.
His shadow stretches long and thin across the wet stones.
He passes the places that remember him:
The tavern where debts are paid in bruises.
The alley where mercy was begged and denied.
The pawnshop that never asks questions, only takes.
Faces turn toward him — some nodding in wary recognition, others narrowing in suspicion.
He nods back, just enough to be remembered, not enough to be followed.
Greegan (thinking): “Where would Izek go?”
He turns the question over in his mind like a coin rubbed smooth by guilt.
Fleetwood fights with honor.
Clarion prays with conviction.
Felonious thinks in riddles.
Silverleaf listens to the wind.
But Greegan?
He knows people — how they hide, how they lie, how they circle back to the places that made them.
Then, a thread of memory — Felonious’s voice, soft and distant, over a fire that burned too low. “Every man returns to the place that knows his sins best.”
Greegan stops mid‑stride.
The city’s noise fades, replaced by the pulse of his own heartbeat.
He knows now — not the where, but the why.
Izek wouldn’t flee to a fortress.
Wouldn’t vanish into the woods.
He’d go to the one place that would take him in, no matter what he’d become.
Greegan lowers his hood.
His pace quickens.
The city closes around him like a second skin — familiar, but no longer forgiving.
Somewhere ahead, in a place that reeks of old loyalties and bad blood,
Izek Strazni waits. And Greegan — the man who knows how people break — is the only one who knows how to find him.
CUT TO:
The Vallakovich Mansion rises before him like a corpse propped upright.
Gone are the painted smiles, the festival ribbons, the hollow promises of joy.
What remains is bare stone and shadow.
The shutters hang crooked,
the courtyard fountain lies cracked and dry,
and the air feels heavier here—
as though the house itself is holding its breath.
Greegan approaches, boots crunching on gravel.
He remembers this place in its days of forced celebration—
the brittle laughter, the manic cheer,
the way the whole town pretended not to hear the screaming beneath the floorboards.
Now the mask is gone.
Only the truth remains.
🥀 The Courtyard
In the courtyard, Lydia Vallakovich and Victor stand close together, whispering.
Their voices are low, urgent— the kind of whispering people do when they’re afraid the walls might be listening.
They glance toward the front doors, then back to each other.
When they see Greegan, they do not startle.
They do not pause.
Because it is not him they fear.
LYDIA (without preamble): “He’s in there. Drunk.”
Her hands twist together, pale and trembling.
Her eyes flick toward the door as though expecting it to explode outward.
LYDIA (CONT’D): “He says he won’t talk to anyone but Vargas— and I don’t know where Vargas is.”
Greegan tilts his head.
He already knows the answer forming in his mind.
GREEGAN: “Who?”
Victor meets his gaze, his expression grim—
older than his years, worn thin by too many nights like this.
VICTOR: “Izek.”
He exhales, shaking his head.
VICTOR (CONT’D): “Worse than we’ve ever seen him. Which is… pretty bad.”
The words hang in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst.
Somewhere inside the mansion, a bottle shatters.
A voice—slurred, furious—echoes through the halls,
a wounded animal pacing its cage.
Greegan pulls his hood lower.
The second skin of the city wraps around him again—
but tonight it feels tighter, less forgiving.
The door to the mansion waits.
Behind it, a man who could burn Vallaki to the ground—
and take the party’s plans with it.
And Greegan is the only one who knows how to walk into that fire
and come out with answers.
FADE TO BLACK
End Credits Play over: Fabomusic - Izek Strazni Theme