In the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains, where the wind howled like a grieving widow and the moon hung heavy with secrets, Valcular came into being. Not born, not made, but cursed. The year was lost to time, somewhere in the twilight of an age when gods still whispered to men, and blood was both life and offering. Valcular was not always a creature of the night. Once, he was a man—a healer, a lover, a dreamer—until the night a dying god's spite twisted his soul into something eternal and wretched.
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