Basilicus’ Lord

Dracula crouched in his garden, tension thick as he tended the basil beside his father, the ancient Count. “Your plant,” the old vampire rasped, fingers tapping the soil. Dracula studied the leaves, eyes flickering red, contemplating the next step. He watered carefully, confident. “Bold,” his father smirked, pruning a stem. The garden’s silence grew heavy, this ritual a centuries-old dance of growth and pride. With a triumphant grin, Dracula plucked a sprig, whispering, “Perfect harvest, Father.”

Author

Transilvania's Lord