Beginning credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🎬 Opening Credits: THE ROAD TO AMBER
FADE IN:
A blizzard‑scoured mountainside.
Snow whips across jagged stone like claws.
The wind howls with a voice that sounds almost human.
Far below, Barovia is swallowed by fog.
Ahead, only white void and the promise of something ancient.
The camera pushes through the storm toward a narrow, icy pass.
A faint amber glow pulses deep within the mountain —
like a heartbeat.
TITLE CARD:
THE AMBER TEMPLE — carved in harsh, angular lettering, glowing like trapped fire.
The glow flickers.
The wind dies.
Silence falls.
❄️ CHARACTER INTRODUCTIONS — THE MOUNTAIN WATCHES
(Each name appears as the camera passes them)
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage)
On a cliff edge, securing the horses against the rising storm.
His breath fogs in the air; frost clings to his beard.
He looks up as a distant rumble shakes the mountain —
not thunder.
Something shifting beneath the ice.
He tightens his grip on the reins.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie)
Standing before a frozen shrine carved into the rock.
Her lantern flame burns steady despite the wind —
then bends sharply, pointing toward the mountain’s heart.
Amber light flickers across her armor.
She whispers a prayer that echoes too loudly in the stillness.
She rises, resolute.
Greegan (Matt Ryan)
Picking his way across a treacherous ledge.
His Fogor Isle compass spins wildly, then stops —
pointing toward a sheer wall of ice.
He mutters, “That’s not natural,”
and keeps moving, boots crunching on frost.
Behind him, something stirs beneath the snow.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw)
In a sheltered alcove, poring over a map of runes and half‑forgotten lore.
The parchment trembles in his hands —
not from the cold.
A shadow passes over him, long and angular.
He looks up, but nothing is there.
The runes glow faintly amber.
Silverleaf (Tatyana Maslany)
Standing at the mouth of a cavern, bow drawn.
Her breath crystallizes into drifting motes of amber light.
She watches them rise, unsettled.
The mountain seems to breathe with her.
A low hum vibrates through the stone.
Ireena (Thomasin McKenzie)
At a frozen overlook, staring into the storm.
Snow curls around her like a shroud.
A raven lands beside her —
its feathers rimed with frost.
It caws once, sharply.
She nods, understanding.
The raven takes flight toward the peaks.
Arabelle (Cailee Spaeny)
Kneeling in the snow, eyes rolled white.
Frost creeps up her lashes.
She whispers:
“The Temple remembers you.”
The wind recoils from her voice.
Ezmerelda (Morena Baccarin)
Sharpening her blade beside a dying campfire.
The flames sputter —
then flare amber for a heartbeat.
She freezes.
Her shadow stretches impossibly long across the snow.
She smirks, masking the shiver.
🏔️ FINAL SHOT — THE DOORS
The storm parts for a single breath.
Revealing colossal stone doors half‑buried in ice.
Amber veins pulse faintly within the rock,
like trapped lightning.
The camera pushes closer.
A whisper curls through the air —
ancient, hungry, patient.
With:
Harry Lloyd as Kasimir Velkov
Jessie Buckley as Bianca
Mads Mikkelsen as Emil Toranescu
Michael Fassbender as Ithuriel
Oliver Jackson-Cohen as Ismark Kolyanovich
Cliff Curtis as Scorilo
Manu Bennett as Cumo
Angela Bassett as Chief Diega
Graham McTavish as Oroles
and
Bill Skarsgård as Strahd von Zarovich
Soldav Longhouse — Dawn Preparations
INT. SOLDAV LONGHOUSE — DAWN
Background Music: Wardruna - Fehu
The sun has not yet breached the jagged peaks.
Only the hearth burns — a low, amber heart in the gloom.
Smoke coils through the rafters like prayer made visible.
The scent of flatbread and honey mingles with the cold breath of the mountain.
Oroles moves with ritual grace, laying out a humble meal upon the carved table — bread steaming, berries glistening like garnets, cheese pale as snow.
Around him gather Fleetwood, Felonious, Ireena, and Kasimir — cloaks folded, gear packed, eyes shadowed by the weight of what waits beyond the valley.
🍞 The Farewell Meal
OROLES (softly): “Eat. The mountain takes more than strength. It takes warmth.”
His words fall like blessings.
The travelers obey, though none taste joy.
Fleetwood nods, silent.
Felonious eats slowly, his gaze lost in the fire’s reflection.
FELONIOUS (quietly): “Burebis has asked us to go. To the Amber Temple.”
The air stills.
Even the fire seems to listen.
Diegia, seated near the hearth, lifts her gaze.
Her expression is carved from stone — grim, but unsurprised.
DIEGIA (solemnly): “The Temple is older than Soldav. Older than the Tauta’s first fire.”
She rises, her greataxe gleaming in the half‑light.
DIEGIA (CONT’D): “It was built by strange whisper bearers — keepers of twisted things. Amber crypts. Dark gifts. Whispers that never sleep.”
OROLES bows his head.
OROLES : “Many have gone seeking power. Most never returned. Those who did… were not the same.”
DIEGIA (CONT’D): “The builders are long dead. But the Temple is not empty.”
She steps to the window, where dawn bleeds faintly through the mist.
DIEGIA (CONT’D): “Constructs. Undead. A miasma that drains the soul.”
OROLES : “You cannot rest there. Not truly.”
DIEGIA (grimly): “The easiest path lies at the southwestern edge of the plateau. But it is guarded.”
She turns to Fleetwood.
DIEGIA (CONT’D) : “By Sangzor. A giant goat. Older than the valley. It has cast many pilgrims to their deaths.”
Her voice lowers, almost reverent.
DIEGIA (CONT’D): “It is said Sangzor senses the evil in men’s hearts. Only if it judges you worthy will it let you pass.”
OROLES: “For centuries, heirs to the wooden chair have gone to the Temple — to be tested, to be stripped of weakness.”
DIEGIA (softly): “My daughter, Diona, is there now. Meditating. Six days. Six nights.”
She looks to Ireena, then Kasimir.
DIEGIA (CONT’D): “If you find her… tell her I believe in her. Tell her Soldav waits.”
The fire crackles — a lonely heartbeat in the silence.
The flatbreads cool.
The travelers rise — fed, warned, and bound by promise.
Outside, the wind begins to howl.
The mountain stirs.
And far above, the Amber Temple waits —
its whispers patient,
its judgment eternal.
CUT TO:
Lake Baratok — Arrival at the Ruins
EXT. LAKE BARATOK — LATE AFTERNOON
Background Music: Fabomusic - The Hanged One
The light is dying, though the sun has not yet set.
A pall of mist coils over Lake Baratok, turning the water into a sheet of pale, shifting glass.
The shoreline is a wound — scorched earth, splintered trunks, and the charred ribs of ruined shelters jut from the ground like the bones of some great, devoured beast.
Blood has dried black upon the stones.
The air tastes of ash, iron, and something older.
Clarion, Silverleaf, Greegan, Ezmerelda, Arabelle, and Emil stand at the edge of the devastation.
Their boots crunch over burned branches and shattered bone.
Clarion kneels beside a ruined firepit.
Her fingers brush a scorched wolf pendant, half‑buried in the ash.
CLARION (softly) : “No wonder the villagers fear you, Emil.”
She lifts the pendant, its metal warped by flame.
CLARION (CONT’D): “This place looks as though it tore itself apart… blood against blood.”
She rises, turning to him — her expression neither accusing nor gentle, but searching.
CLARION (CONT’D): “Do you believe you can end it? The fighting. The schism.”
Emil stands at the water’s edge, the wind tugging at his cloak.
His eyes are fixed on the lake — not with guilt, but with the weight of a man who has seen too much truth.
EMIL (quietly): “I don’t know.”
A long silence.
EMIL (CONT’D): “I tried to change the pack. To give them a future that wasn’t only teeth and blood.”
He looks at the ruins — the blackened earth, the broken shelters, the ghosts that linger in the smoke.
EMIL (CONT’D): “Kiril died. But the wound did not close. It festered.”
Greegan steps forward, voice low, as though afraid the mist itself might overhear.
GREEGAN: “I hope we don’t have to fight them.”
He glances at Emil.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “They’re your people. And mine… in a way.”
A beat.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “But if they come for us—”
He leaves the rest unsaid.
The lake answers with a ripple.
Silverleaf moves ahead, her steps silent on the ruined ground.
Her hand rests on her blade’s hilt, though she does not draw it.
She crouches, studying the earth.
SILVERLEAF (quietly) : “Tracks. Fresh.”
She rises, eyes scanning the treeline.
SILVERLEAF (CONT’D): “They’re watching us.”
She turns to Emil — not accusing, but warning.
SILVERLEAF (CONT’D) : “If you want peace… you’ll have to speak louder than the ghosts.”
The mist thickens, swallowing the shoreline.
The lake shivers under a breath of unseen wind.
And the party stands at the threshold of a war that never truly ended —
a war of blood, memory, and the old hunger that stirs beneath the mountain.
Whether words or claws will decide the next chapter…
the lake keeps its silence.
CUT TO:
Mt. Ghakis — The Hidden Trail to the Amber Temple
EXT. SOUTHWESTERN PLATEAU — MORNING
Background Music: Fabomusic - Exploring Tsolenka Pass
The wind screams across the high cliffs, carrying shards of ice and the scent of ancient stone.
Kasimir leads, his cloak snapping like a banner of mourning.
Fleetwood, Felonious, and Ireena follow in silence, their breath ghosting in the thin air.
The mountain looms above them — vast, indifferent, eternal.
The trail clings to the cliffside like a scar, narrow and treacherous, carved by hands long vanished.
Each step feels like trespass.
They round a bend — and the world stops.
Background Music shifts: Fabomusic - Encounter at Tsolenka Pass
Perched upon a jagged crag stands a goat of impossible size, its horns twisted like the roots of a dead tree, its fur clotted with frost and moss.
Its eyes burn amber‑gold, ancient and knowing.
It does not move.
It does not blink.
It only judges.
The wind falters, as though the mountain itself waits for its verdict.
Felonious steps forward, voice barely above the wind.
FELONIOUS (softly): “That is no beast of flesh alone.”
He studies the creature, eyes narrowing.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “It radiates power — old, elemental, divine perhaps. A sentinel bound to the mountain’s will.”
He glances at the others, a flicker of curiosity beneath his caution.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Perhaps it can be reasoned with. Though it looks more inclined to pass judgment than parley.”
Fleetwood’s hand tightens on his shield, his gaze never leaving the creature.
FLEETWOOD (dryly) : “You mean to bargain with the mountain’s executioner?”
Felonious smiles faintly.
FELONIOUS: “I mean to survive the mountain.”
Kasimir’s voice is low, carried by the wind like a prayer.
KASIMIR (quietly): “They say Sangzor senses the rot within men’s hearts. If it finds you wanting… it does not speak. It charges.”
He looks up at the beast — not in fear, but in reverence.
KASIMIR (CONT’D): “So speak carefully. Or not at all.”
The wind rises again, shrill and cold.
Sangzor does not move.
The party stands beneath its gaze — not travelers, but petitioners before a living altar.
The mountain holds its breath.
And somewhere deep within the stone, the Amber Temple waits — listening.
Mt. Ghakis — The Crag of Passage
EXT. MOUNTAIN TRAIL — MIDDAY
The wind shrieks across the ledge, flinging snow like ash from a funeral pyre.
The party stands beneath the Crag of Passage, where Sangzor looms — vast, unmoving, its horns twisted like the roots of the world.
Its eyes burn amber‑gold, ancient and unblinking.
It does not speak.
It only watches.
Fleetwood raises his hands, empty, palms open to the gray sky.
FLEETWOOD (quietly) :”I come without blade. Without boast.”
The wind falters.
The mountain listens.
Sangzor’s gaze pierces him — peeling back pride, grief, and the brittle shell of courage.
Then, slowly, the beast lowers its head.
A breath of frost escapes its nostrils, curling like incense.
Fleetwood is judged worthy.
Felonious leans upon his staff, eyes locked with the creature’s.
There is no fear — only the hunger of understanding, the curiosity that dissects and devours.
FELONIOUS (softly): “You are not merely a guardian. You are a mirror.
Sangzor’s eyes narrow.
The wind rises again, whispering through the stones.
Its hooves scrape the rock — testing, threatening — but it does not strike.
Felonious is judged uncertain.
Not yet unworthy.
Ireena folds her hands, her breath trembling in the cold.
She does not speak.
She does not move.
Her gaze flickers between her companions, then lifts to the beast.
Sangzor watches her.
It sees no ambition.
No hunger.
Only fear — and resolve.
The creature tilts its head, a gesture like a benediction.
Ireena is judged pure.
Kasimir remains still, his cloak billowing like a shadow torn from the mountain itself.
His eyes are hollowed by memory; his hands, clenched, tremble with restraint.
He does not speak.
But Sangzor watches him longest.
It sees guilt.
It sees grief.
It sees a man who would barter his soul to unmake the past.
The wind howls.
Sangzor snorts — sharp, dismissive.
Kasimir is judged dangerous.
Not condemned.
But watched.
The crag falls silent.
Sangzor turns, its hooves grinding frost and stone.
Then, with the slow inevitability of judgment, it steps aside.
The path to the Amber Temple yawns open — a wound in the mountain’s heart.
The wind resumes its lament.
And though the way is clear, the mountain’s verdict lingers —
etched into the souls of those who dared to be seen.
CUT TO:
Scene: The Forest Near Lake Baratok — Silverleaf Finds Bianca’s Pack
EXT. BAROVIAN WOODLAND — DUSK
Background Music Shifts: Fabomusic - Werewolf Den
The trees close in, their branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of the damned.
Silverleaf moves through the underbrush, her steps light, her senses sharp — yet her thoughts drift like smoke.
The trail is clear enough.
Her mind is not.
She thinks of Ismark — his steadiness, his silence, the way his presence steadied her pulse.
She thinks of Strahd — his gaze, his offer, the shadow that clings to her skin like a bruise that will not fade.
She drifts from the path, then returns.
The scent of wolves thickens — musk, frost, and blood.
The forest opens into a clearing drowned in mist.
Among the roots of a fallen tree, Bianca’s pack lounges — half‑shifted, half‑human, their bodies caught between hunger and memory.
Clawed hands.
Yellow eyes.
Teeth too sharp for smiles.
They rise as she enters, heads tilting, nostrils flaring.
BIANCA (smiling, low): “Well, well. The raven returns.”
A male werewolf steps forward, his eyes gleaming like molten amber.
MALE WOLF: “You smell of longing.”
Another laughs — a sound too close to a growl.
SECOND WOLF: “Or maybe regret.”
They circle her — not yet threatening, but predatory in their grace, their movements languid, deliberate, cruelly playful.
BIANCA (softly) : “You walk alone. That’s dangerous.”
Silverleaf’s voice cuts through the mist, cool and steady.
SILVERLEAF: “I’m not alone. Not really.”
She meets Bianca’s gaze — two predators measuring the distance between truth and challenge.
SILVERLEAF (CONT’D): “I came to find you. Not to be found.”
A beat.
The wolves laugh — low, throaty, the sound of hunger disguised as mirth.
Then — a rustle in the trees.
The air shifts.
Emil, Ezmerelda, Arabelle, Greegan, and Clarion step into the clearing, weapons sheathed but hands ready.
The mood fractures.
The flirtation dies.
The wolves stiffen.
BIANCA (coldly): “So. You brought the traitor.”
Her eyes lock on Emil — sharp, accusing.
Then on Arabelle.
Then on the hunters.
BIANCA (CONT’D): “And the girl. And the hunters. This isn’t a parley. Not yet.”
The wind stirs the leaves, whispering secrets older than the valley.
The wolves melt into the trees — shadows returning to shadow.
And Silverleaf stands alone at the center of the clearing, caught between memory, desire, and the war that never truly ended.
The forest exhales.
And somewhere beyond the mist, the wolves begin to howl.
Forest Clearing Near Lake Baratok — Confrontation with Bianca’s Pack
EXT. BAROVIAN WOODLAND — NIGHT
The moon hangs low, a tarnished coin bleeding silver through the skeletal branches.
Mist coils between the trees, thick as breath.
Bianca’s pack circles the clearing — half‑shifted, half‑human, their bodies trembling with restrained hunger.
At the center stands Silverleaf, her cloak heavy with dew, her voice steady against the wind.
SILVERLEAF (diplomatic, quiet): “We did not come to threaten you. We came to understand.”
BIANCA (snarl curling her lips): “Understand? You walk with Emil. You walk with the girl. You walk with hunters.”
A male wolf laughs — low, cruel.
MALE WOLF: “She speaks of peace, but smells of judgment.”
SILVERLEAF (firmly): “I do not judge you.”
BIANCA (coldly): “Then you lie to yourself.”
The air tightens.
Claws flex.
Teeth gleam like moonlit daggers.
Clarion steps forward, her voice a whisper of prayer and defiance.
CLARION: “We are not here to fight. We know what this war has cost you.”
A second wolf sneers.
SECOND WOLF: “Do you? Did you bury our dead?”
Clarion’s gaze drops, her tone softens.
CLARION (quietly) : “No. But I have buried my share.”
A silence falls — brittle, uncertain.
The pack hesitates, but the tension holds.
Greegan moves into the moonlight, his voice low, steady, carrying the weight of old wounds.
GREEGAN: “I know what it means to be torn between blood and choice.”
He meets Bianca’s eyes — wolf to wolf.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “You do not trust Emil. I understand.”
He gestures to the others — Silverleaf, Clarion, Arabelle, Ezmerelda.
GREEGAN (CONT’D) : “But these people are not here to conquer. They are here because they still believe something better can exist.”
A pause.
The wind sighs through the trees.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “And if you cannot believe that — then believe this: None of us wish to spill more blood.”
Bianca studies him — eyes narrowed, breath misting in the cold.
Then, slowly, she exhales.
BIANCA (grudgingly): “You speak like one who has lost something.”
She turns to her pack.
BIANCA (CONT’D): “Stand down.”
The wolves ease — not docile, but listening.
Their growls fade into the rhythm of the wind.
BIANCA (to Greegan): “You have bought a conversation. Not a truce.”
The moon glows like a dying lantern.
The wolves retreat into the mist, their eyes lingering — gold, watchful, unforgotten.
And Greegan stands at the center of the clearing, the only heartbeat that does not tremble.
He has found the wolf’s ear.
But the mountain still waits to hear its answer.
Montage — “The Teeth Beneath the Truce”
EXT. FOREST ENCAMPMENT NEAR LAKE BARATOK — TWILIGHT TO DAWN
The mist thickens as twilight bleeds into night.
A slow, pulsing rhythm hums beneath the wind — low strings, distant howls, the heartbeat of something ancient.
The fire burns low, its light trembling against the encroaching dark.
🐺 Scene 1 — The Circle Forms
The wolves and the wanderers sit in a broken circle around the fire.
The air smells of smoke, fur, and iron.
Silverleaf speaks first — her voice earnest, her words fragile against the silence.
Bianca scoffs, the sound sharp as a blade drawn in the dark.
Clarion follows, steady and measured, her tone carrying the weight of prayer.
A few wolves nod, uncertain.
Then Greegan speaks — quiet, deliberate, his eyes reflecting the fire’s dying glow.
The pack listens.
The mountain listens.
🐾 Scene 2 — The Accusations
A young wolf rises, teeth bared, voice trembling with fury.
YOUNG WOLF: “You left us. You abandoned the pack.”
Emil does not deny it.
His gaze drifts toward the flames.
EMIL: “I left because I could not watch us become monsters.”
The words hang heavy.
The fire pops.
Ezmerelda’s hand tightens on her blade.
Arabelle watches, silent, her eyes reflecting both pity and warning.
🕯️ Scene 3 — The Offer
Bianca stands, her shadow stretching long across the firelight.
BIANCA: “A truce, then. But only if you swear never to lead again.”
Emil nods — slow, hollow.
Pain flickers across his face like lightning behind clouds.
A wolf murmurs from the edge of the circle.
WOLF (softly) : “He was a good alpha. Once.”
No one answers.
The fire crackles, devouring its own silence.
🩸 Scene 4 — The Cost
At dawn’s edge, they bury the dead.
Wolves and humans together — a cairn of stone and memory.
Each lays a token upon the mound.
Silverleaf places a raven feather.
Greegan lays down a broken fang.
The wind carries the scent of ash and mourning.
🧠 Scene 5 — The Secrets
Bianca speaks again, her voice low, almost confessional.
BIANCA: “Some still follow Zuleika. I cannot call them back.”
Clarion frowns.
CLARION: “Then this peace is only partial.”
BIANCA: “It’s the only kind we ever get.”
Her words fall like stones into the silence.
🌫️ Scene 6 — The Departure
Dawn breaks — pale, indifferent.
Mist rolls over Lake Baratok, swallowing the camp.
The two groups part without handshakes, without smiles.
Emil looks back once.
Bianca does not.
The fire gutters out.
As they walk away, Silverleaf murmurs to Clarion, her voice barely audible beneath the wind.
SILVERLEAF: “We stopped the bleeding. But the wound’s still open.”
Clarion nods, her eyes on the mist.
Behind them, a wolf howls —
not in rage,
but in mourning.
The sound carries across the lake,
and the valley listens.
CUT TO:
Abbey of Saint Markovia — Arrival at the Gates
EXT. KREZK — TWILIGHT
Background Music: Fabomusic: The Abbey of Saint Markovia
The alpine wind cuts like a blade as the party ascends the winding path toward the Abbey of Saint Markovia.
Behind them, the village of Krezk lies shuttered and silent — its gates barred, its people watching from behind slats of wood and fear.
Above, the Abbey looms against the bruised sky.
Once holy, its stones are now cracked and leached of warmth.
Its windows stare down like blind eyes.
No bells ring.
No hymns drift.
Only the wind keens through broken arches.
Silverleaf approaches, frost crunching beneath her boots.
She lays a hand upon the ancient door — wood swollen with age, iron cold as grave soil — and knocks.
Silence answers.
Then—
A soft, reluctant creak.
The door opens a sliver, revealing a pale figure in white robes.
His face is shadowed beneath a cowl, but the sorrow in his posture is unmistakable.
ITHURIEL.
His voice drifts out like a prayer abandoned halfway.
ITHURIEL (quietly) : “You should not have come.”
Gentle.
Hollow.
A voice that once carried light, now dimmed.
CLARION: “We seek answers. About the Krezkovs. About our friends.”
Ithuriel lowers his head.
ITHURIEL (softly): “The Abbey is closed. By my own hand.”
He steps back, opening the door wider — not in welcome, but resignation.
The halls are dim, lit only by trembling candles.
The air smells of herbs, dust, and old parchment — the remnants of a sanctuary turned sickroom.
The Belleviews are gone.
Released from servitude, but not from suffering.
Their absence lingers like a bruise on the walls.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “I tried to heal those now called the mongrelfolk. But I did not understand what I had done to them.”
He gestures to the empty cells — doors ajar, beds stripped, chains cold.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “They are free. That much I could do. But they are not whole.”
From the far end of the corridor, a figure steps into the candlelight.
Vasilka.
Tall.
Graceful.
Stitched with impossible precision.
Her simple gown drapes over a form both beautiful and wrong — a hymn rewritten in the wrong key.
Her eyes are vacant, yet she watches the newcomers with a child’s quiet curiosity.
ARABELLE (whispers) : “She’s beautiful. And wrong.”
EZMERELDA (grimly): “She’s a monument to regret.”
Ithuriel turns to them, his hands trembling within his sleeves.
ITHURIEL (softly): “The Barovians no longer trust me. Nor should they.”
A pause.
The candles flicker, as though recoiling from the truth.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “I remain here. Not to lead. But to atone.”
His gaze lifts to Silverleaf, then Clarion — eyes heavy with a sorrow that predates the valley.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “If your friends have gone to the Temple… then they walk into shadow.”
GREEGAN (Musing): “Where angels fear to tread…”
The Abbey falls silent once more.
Outside, the wind howls like a soul denied rest.
And the party stands in a place where holiness has curdled into sorrow —
where a fallen angel tends a stitched bride,
and waits for redemption that may never come.
Abbey of Saint Markovia — Ithuriel’s Confession
INT. ABBEY SANCTUARY — NIGHT
Candlelight trembles against cracked stone and fading murals of saints whose faces have long since peeled away.
Shadows cling to the arches like old sins.
Vasilka stands near the altar — tall, silent, her stitched hands folded with unnatural grace, her gaze fixed on nothing and everything.
Silverleaf, Clarion, Arabelle, Greegan, and Ezmerelda sit in a half‑circle around Ithuriel, who leans against a pillar as though the stone alone keeps him upright.
His white robes, once radiant, are dulled by dust, ash, and years of penance.
ITHURIEL (softly): “It is strange.”
He gestures toward Vasilka.
She turns her head a fraction — a movement too smooth, too careful — sensing the weight of his attention.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “This creation of mine… she has taught me more of humanity
than all my centuries walking among them.”
A pause.
The candles gutter, as if listening.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “She does not speak. She does not judge. But she listens.”
His voice trembles — a crack in a long‑frozen river.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “And in her silence, I hear everything I failed to understand.”
Clarion’s voice is gentle, but steady — a lantern held against the dark.
CLARION: “Do you know what became of the Krezkovs?”
Ithuriel closes his eyes.
The gesture is small, but it carries centuries of regret.
ITHURIEL (quietly): “When the truth of Baron Krezkov’s condition was revealed… the people of Krezk turned on them. Almost as fiercely as they turned on me.”
He studies his hands — hands that once healed, once blessed, now trembling.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D) : “I offered to mend what I could. To undo what I had done.”
A bitter smile ghosts across his lips.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “They did not accept. And I did not expect them to.”
His gaze drifts toward the shuttered window, where the wind moans like a grieving spirit.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D) : “I do not know where they are now. Only that they were driven from the village.”
He inhales — a slow, weary breath.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “The people now follow someone called Asherose. A woman with red hair and a voice like fire.”
A beat.
The candles flicker, uneasy.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “She fears the lycanthropes. Hates them, perhaps.”
His voice lowers to a whisper that seems swallowed by the stone.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “And in this valley… fear becomes law.”
A candle gutters out.
The wind threads through the sanctuary, cold and mournful.
Ithuriel — once divine, now exiled — watches his silent creation with reverence and sorrow.
Outside, the world turns against those who carry the blood of beasts,
and the Abbey stands as a monument to all that was broken
in the name of salvation.
Abbey of Saint Markovia — The Quiet Before the Descent
INT. ABBEY SANCTUARY — NIGHT
The wind moans through the broken windows like a wounded spirit.
Candles tremble in their iron sconces, casting long, skeletal shadows across cracked stone and faded murals of saints whose eyes have long since flaked away.
The scent of herbs, dust, and old stone hangs heavy.
Clarion, Silverleaf, Ezmerelda, Greegan, and Arabelle sit in a loose circle near the cold hearth — cloaks drawn tight, thoughts heavier than the air.
Clarion’s voice is barely more than a breath.
CLARION (softly): “This place was meant to heal.”
Her gaze drifts across the sanctuary — the broken pews, the extinguished braziers, the altar that seems to sag beneath centuries of sorrow.
CLARION (CONT’D): “Ithuriel tried. And failed. But maybe… maybe I can do something. Even if it’s small.”
Her voice falters, the weight of her vows pressing down like stone.
CLARION (CONT’D): “But Fleetwood is out there. In that terrible place of amber. And every moment I stay here feels like betrayal.”
She lowers her gaze, hands trembling in her lap.
CLARION (CONT’D): “I don’t know which vow to keep.”
Silverleaf watches the candlelight dance across the stone — gold flickering over gray.
Her lips part, then close again.
She says nothing.
But her thoughts churn like stormwater.
She wants to be good.
For Ismark.
For herself.
But Strahd’s voice still coils through her dreams, velvet and venom.
And part of her — a part she hates — wants to answer.
She tightens her cloak and turns away from the others, as though the shadows might hide her doubt.
Greegan’s voice breaks the silence, low and rough.
GREEGAN (quietly): “I had a dream, back at the Blood of the Vine. A dream from him.”
The others look up.
CUT TO:
Flashback — The Blood on the Vine Tavern
INT. BLOOD ON THE VINE TAVERN — NIGHT
The tavern hums with murmured voices and the crackle of the hearth.
Silverleaf and Ismark speak softly at a far table.
Greegan sits alone, head bowed, untouched drink before him.
Sleep takes him like a tide.
The Dream — The Juggling Ogre, Threshold
Background Music: Relaxed Fantasy Tavern - Sound eScapes
The air shifts.
The scent of Barovia fades.
Warmth returns — hearthfire, spilled ale, laughter.
The Juggling Ogre Tavern.
His old companions are there — alive, loud, impossibly whole.
And Ireena sits among them, radiant, laughing, lantern‑light caught in her hair.
She smiles at him.
Then — the light dies.
The Door Opens
Background Music Shifts: FaboMusic - Strahd Von Zarovich
The tavern freezes.
Laughter stops.
Dice hang mid‑air.
Only Greegan breathes.
The door creaks open.
Mist pours in — thick, endless.
A figure steps through.
Strahd von Zarovich.
He moves like a memory wearing flesh.
His eyes gleam with old wine and older ruin.
He touches Ireena’s cheek with a tenderness that curdles the air.
Then he turns to Greegan.
STRAHD: “Greegan the Sharp, they call you? Sharp enough to pierce my realm without leave. Sharp enough to woo Ireena beneath my very gaze. But I know something you do not.”
He sits across from Greegan, boots on the table — casual, obscene.
STRAHD (CONT’D): “Tatyana has been reborn before. Many times. Ask Felonious - has he not clasped my Tome to his breast these cold nights? And each time, she dies before her twenty‑fourth year.”
He sighs, as though tragedy bores him.
STRAHD (CONT’D): “But I can defy death. If she comes willingly, I can make her as I am. Eternal. If not… I fear for you both.”
Greegan rises, jaw clenched.
GREEGAN: “Tell your damned mists where to stick it.”
Strahd smiles — slow, indulgent.
The mist surges.
Return to the Blood on the Vine
Greegan jerks awake.
The tavern is quiet.
Silverleaf murmurs.
Ismark traces the rim of his cup.
The fire crackles.
The dream lingers like smoke.
🧛♂️ Back to the Abbey
Background Music: Fabomusic: The Abbey of Saint Markovia
GREEGAN (CONT’D) : “He said Ireena would die. If she didn’t join him. Become what he is.”
Arabelle stiffens.
EZMERELDA (grimly): “He’s playing with you. With all of us.”
Greegan nods.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “I know. But it felt real.”
Arabelle’s voice is soft, but steady — a child speaking with the weight of prophecy.
ARABELLE : “Dreams are doors. You of all people should know: Sometimes they open to truth. Sometimes to traps.”
She looks at Clarion.
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “But you’ll know which is which. When the time comes.”
A candle gutters out.
The wind howls through the broken windows.
The five sit in silence —
bound by longing,
haunted by prophecy,
and preparing to walk paths
that may soon split them forever.
FADE TO BLACK
End Credits Play Over: Fabomusic - Darkness Remains