Part 1.
High in the Carpathian mountains, where the mist clung to the jagged peaks like a lover reluctant to part, there stood the crumbling majesty of Castle Dragomir. It was a place of silence and shadows, save for the occasional howl of wolves that echoed through the dark pines below.
Here, in the hours when most mortals were long abed, Count Buchanan sat in his ancient library, contemplating the stars that peeked through the stained-glass ceiling above. James ‘Bucky’ Buchanan was dashingly handsome with storm-coloured eyes, long dark hair, and an exquisitely crafted golden arm.
This golden arm, a relic of a duel in times long past, glinted faintly in the moonlight as he turned the pages of a worn grimoire. He was reading about alchemy. Not because he sought gold, but because he sought understanding. Immortality, for all its gifts, brought with it an infinite loneliness that no spell could ease.
A low growl interrupted his reverie.
“Still burying yourself in dusty tomes, James?” came a voice, smooth as aged brandy. “I thought vampires were supposed to brood dramatically, not study like monks.”
Bucky’s lips curved slightly - an expression that, for him, was as good as laughter. “Helmut,” he greeted without turning, “your stealth leaves much to be desired. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted me to hear you coming.”
Emerging from the shadows of the doorway was the werewolf himself: Baron Helmut Zemo, golden-eyed and sharp-witted, with a smirk on his lips and a coat draped over his broad shoulders like a cloak. He had money, land, and charm in spades, and yet it was his knack for trouble that most defined him.
“You’d miss me if I didn’t,” Zemo replied, crossing the room with an easy confidence. He placed a dusty bottle onto the table before flopping into the armchair opposite Bucky. “I brought wine. Not that you need it, but I figured it might soften your mood. Or are you still angry about that debacle in Brașov?”
Bucky sighed, closing his book. “Anger implies I care enough to waste the energy,” he said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
The “debacle” in question had involved a rogue witch, a miscalculated explosion, and Zemo’s tendency to leap before looking. Bucky had spent weeks cleaning up the mess, though he secretly admired the werewolf’s ability to find joy in chaos.
Zemo poured himself a glass of wine and raised it in a mock toast. “To us: two relics of an age long past, bound by fate and the occasional ridiculous misadventure.”
“And to your impeccable timing,” Bucky replied, finally allowing himself a faint smile. “You always appear when I least expect it. And when I need a reminder of what friendship means.”
Zemo’s grin softened into something genuine. “That’s what I’m here for, James, my old friend.”
The two of them had met centuries ago, during one of the many wars that tore through Eastern Europe. Bucky had been a general then, commanding legions of undead soldiers, while Zemo had been a lone wolf - literally and figuratively - hired as a mercenary. Their initial encounters had been fraught with distrust and animosity, but a shared enemy had forced them to work together. Somewhere between the battles and the long nights of planning, a friendship had taken root, enduring even as the centuries wore on.
Now, they were the last of their kind in the region. At least, the last who hadn’t gone mad with power or despair.
“Speaking of misadventures,” Zemo said, setting his glass down, “there’s talk in the villages of something stirring in the west. Something ancient. I thought you’d want to know.”
Bucky arched a brow. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
Zemo leaned forward, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. “Because, James, you can’t resist a mystery any more than I can. And because if there’s trouble brewing, I’d rather face it with you than alone. Besides,” he added with a smirk, “someone has to keep you from overthinking everything.”
Bucky shook his head, but there was a warmth in his gaze that he reserved for few. “Very well, Hel. Let’s see what kind of trouble awaits us this time.”
***
Part 2.
The road westward was quiet but heavy with the hum of possibility. The mist seemed thicker here, wrapping itself around the pair like a shroud, but Zemo was unbothered. He walked with his usual swagger, boots crunching against gravel and twigs, while Bucky drifted beside him, his presence as silent and fluid as a shadow.
They came to the village of Sânziene, a small cluster of wooden houses that seemed almost to cower beneath the looming mountains. The villagers, fearful and pale, hurriedly averted their gazes when the pair arrived.
Zemo leaned against a well, his grin wolfish. “I love how they think you’re the scary one.”
Bucky didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, his stormy eyes fixed on the village elder - a frail man with trembling hands who had dared approach them.
“There is a tomb,” the elder stammered, bowing so low he nearly kissed the dirt. “High in the cliffs. They say it is the resting place of a great warlord. But the seals have broken, and the dead do not rest quietly.”
Zemo’s ears pricked up. “A warlord, you say? That sounds like your kind of problem, James.”
Bucky, however, was already deep in thought. The dead rarely stirred without cause, and ancient tombs held secrets that even he found unsettling.
“Lead us to the path,” he said at last.
The climb was treacherous, the wind howling through the narrow mountain passes as if trying to warn them away. Zemo, ever the optimist, regaled Bucky with tales of his past escapades - most of which seemed exaggerated, if not outright fabricated.
“And then she slapped me so hard I swear my jaw still clicks when I chew,” he said with a laugh, glancing back to see if Bucky was even listening.
The vampire’s expression remained impassive, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I’m surprised you made it out alive, considering your knack for provoking the wrong people.”
Zemo grinned. “That’s the secret to a long life, James: charm and quick reflexes.”
“And here I thought it was sheer luck,” Bucky deadpanned.
By the time they reached the tomb, the moon was past its zenith, but it still bathed their world in its soft silvery light. The entrance to the tomb yawned before them, its stone doors cracked and covered in runes that seemed to pulse faintly in the darkness.
Zemo knelt to inspect the ground, his sharp eyes catching the faint traces of claw marks leading inside. “Looks like we’re not the first to visit.”
Bucky’s gaze darkened. “Then we should ensure that we’re the last.”
Together, they stepped into the tomb. One was shadow, the other moonlight, but in the face of the unknown, they were equals.
***
Part 3.
The air inside the tomb was heavy, thick with the scent of damp stone and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Bucky’s fangs elongated slightly in response.
The walls were carved with intricate runes and depictions of ancient battles, their edges worn smooth by time. Shadows danced along the narrow passageway, cast by the flickering light of a torch Zemo had snagged from the entrance.
“You’d think a vampire could see in the dark,” Zemo teased, holding the torch aloft as they moved deeper into the tomb.
Bucky walked a step behind, his expression unbothered. “I see perfectly well. But watching you fumble around without a light is far too entertaining to pass up.”
Zemo smirked over his shoulder. “In truth, I only keep you around for your charm, James.”
“And I tolerate you because you’re occasionally useful.”
Zemo laughed silently, his golden eyes shining.
The passage widened into a chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. At its centre stood a stone sarcophagus, its lid askew. Surrounding it were skeletal remains, their bones twisted and blackened as though burned.
Zemo crouched by one of the skeletons, his golden eyes narrowing. “These aren’t ordinary bones. Look at the teeth, James. They’re fangs.” He glanced up at Bucky and tilted his head. “Friends of yours?”
Bucky ignored the jab, stepping closer to the sarcophagus. The air around it seemed to hum faintly, and the runes etched into the stone glowed a sickly green. He reached out with his golden arm, the metal thrumming as it came into contact with the lid.
“The seals are broken,” he murmured. “But something is still binding it. This tomb wasn’t just a resting place. It was a prison.”
Zemo straightened, his expression turning serious. “A prison for what?”
Before Bucky could answer, a low growl rumbled through the chamber. The temperature plummeted, frost creeping along the walls and floor. The torch in Zemo’s hand sputtered and died. He dropped it at his feet.
From the shadows at the far end of the room, a figure began to materialise. A hulking, spectral form wreathed in darkness. Its eyes burned with eldritch light, and its voice was a guttural snarl that seemed to vibrate in their very bones.
“Who dares disturb my slumber?”
Zemo glanced at Bucky, his grin returning despite the looming threat. “Please tell me you didn’t drag me here to fight a ghost.”
Bucky’s stormy eyes remained fixed on the figure. “I didn’t drag you anywhere. But if I had known, I wouldn’t have bothered with you at all.”
The figure roared, its voice shaking the chamber. The coal-black shadows around it coalesced into clawed hands that lashed out toward them. Zemo moved first, his reflexes honed from centuries of battle. He dove to the side, rolling to his feet with a snarl of his own.
“Guess we’re doing this the hard way,” he muttered, drawing a magically enhanced steel blade from under his coat.
Bucky, meanwhile, stood his ground, his golden arm raised. The ancient metal pulsed with light as he muttered an incantation under his breath. A barrier of shimmering energy formed between him and the spectral figure, the shadow claws slamming against it with a deafening crack.
“You know,” Zemo said as he circled the creature, “this would be a lot easier if you shared some of your magic tricks with me.”
“And have you blow yourself up the first chance you get?” Bucky replied, his voice calm despite the strain of holding the barrier. “I think not.”
Zemo laughed, his blade flashing as he lunged at the figure, slicing through the shadows that made up its form. The creature howled, recoiling as the sword left glowing scars across its incorporeal body.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Zemo called, glancing at Bucky. “That arm of yours. Does it do anything else?”
Bucky’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Watch closely, Hel. I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”
With a fluid motion, Bucky lowered the barrier and thrust his golden arm out toward the creature. The runes etched into the metal flared brilliantly, and a surge of energy shot forth, striking the spectral form. The creature shrieked, its body fracturing like shattered glass before dissolving into the air.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Zemo sheathed his blade, brushing dust from his coat. “Not bad,” he said, flashing a grin. “Though I’d give it an eight out of ten. Points deducted for lack of flair.”
Bucky raised a brow. “I wasn’t aware this was a performance.”
“Everything’s a performance, James. You should try to enjoy it once in a while.”
Bucky shook his head, his long dark hair shivering about his shoulders. The faintest hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. “Come on. This tomb has more secrets, and I’d rather not waste time bantering with you in the dark.”
Zemo fell into step beside him, his grin widening. “You say that, but I know you’d be bored without me.”
“I don’t know if bored is the word I’d use,” Bucky replied.
***
Part 4.
As they ventured deeper into the tomb, the air grew heavier, and the runes on the walls pulsed faintly, as though warning them of what lay ahead.
“So,” Zemo said, breaking the silence, “about that prison theory of yours. What are the chances we just killed the guard dog instead of the prisoner?”
Bucky paused, his gaze drifting to the faint traces of claw marks on the stone floor. “Higher than I’d like.”
Zemo whistled low. “Great. Well, if it’s anything worse than that thing, I hope you’ve got another one of those magic blasts in your shiny arm, because I’m fresh out of good ideas.”
“Good ideas?” Bucky smirked in the dark.
“Ideas, anyway.” Zemo flashed a toothy grin.
“Don’t worry, Hel,” Bucky said, his tone as dry as ever. “I’ve grown quite skilled at cleaning up after you.”
Zemo laughed, the sound echoing off the ancient stone. “And that’s why I keep you around, James.”
Their steps led them to another chamber, this one dominated by a massive throne carved from black stone. Upon it sat a figure, its form skeletal but clad in the remnants of once-great armour. Its head tilted as they entered, and its hollow eye sockets burned with faint, unholy light.
“Well,” Zemo said, his grin undeterred, “looks like we found the prisoner.”
The figure rose slowly, the crackling sound of its ancient armour echoing through the chamber like a death knell. Its voice was a low rumble, filled with malice and ancient sorrow.
“You are fools to enter this place,” it said. “But you will serve well as the first of my new army.”
Zemo glanced at Bucky. “I told you we should’ve brought wine.”
Bucky sighed, raising his golden arm. “Just try not to get yourself killed, Hel. I don’t want to clean up the mess.”
“You can take me home in a doggy bag,” quipped Zemo.
“I’d rather not,” said Bucky.
The skeletal figure stood to its full height, its form radiating a dark power that made the very air hum with menace. The armour it wore was cracked and corroded, but it still carried the weight of command, each piece etched with runes that flickered with malevolent light.
In its bony hand, was revealed a jagged sword, impossibly black, as though it drank in the faint light of the chamber.
Zemo let out another low whistle, his golden eyes fixed on the blade. “I don’t know about you, James, but I’m getting the distinct impression we should’ve stayed home tonight.”
The warlord’s hollow voice echoed, ancient and commanding. “Your lives are forfeit. Kneel, and I may grant you the mercy of serving me in undeath.”
Zemo grinned, his hand resting on the hilt of his own blade. “You know, James, I think this guy’s just lonely. Maybe we should invite him to the tavern instead.”
Bucky gave him a withering look, then his stormy eyes returned to the warlord. “You have a remarkable talent for making bad situations worse, Hel.”
“And you have a remarkable talent for standing still and glaring, James. Now might be a good time to mix it up!”
The warlord roared, its skeletal form surging forward with an unnatural speed. The jagged sword cleaved downward in an arc meant to split Zemo in half. Zemo rolled out of the way with a curse, coming to his feet in one fluid motion.
“Not a fan of jokes, I see!” Zemo quipped, darting to the side as the warlord turned to follow him.
Bucky moved with eerie calm, stepping in between the warlord and his reckless friend. His golden arm shot forward, catching the black blade mid-swing. The runes along his golden arm blazed to life, and for a moment, the jagged sword and golden limb locked in a battle of pure energy.
Sparks flew, and the air around them rippled with power.
The warlord snarled, its hollow eye sockets flaring with anger. “You dare defy me, vampire? You are but a shadow of what I once was!”
Bucky’s voice was low, cold, and as sharp as the winter wind. “You are a relic, grasping at the echoes of your power. And I am tired of echoes.”
He flicked his golden arm, sending a pulse of energy down its length. The warlord staggered back, its sword flickering as cracks spiderwebbed along its surface.
Zemo was already moving, his blade flashing as he darted in behind the warlord. His magical weapon struck true, carving through the ancient armour and the bones beneath it.
The warlord bellowed in fury, swinging its sword in a wide arc that forced Zemo to retreat.
“Not bad,” Zemo called to Bucky, his grin still intact. “I’m starting to think we might actually live through this.”
Bucky didn’t respond. His focus was on the warlord, his mind calculating, searching for a weakness. He stepped forward again, his golden arm raised, the runes along it glowing brighter with each step.
The warlord snarled, dark energy swirling around it. “You are fools to challenge me! I am eternal!”
“You are loud,” Bucky interrupted, his voice cutting through the warlord’s tirade. With a sharp motion, he unleashed another blast of energy from his golden arm. It struck the warlord in the chest, sending it staggering back against the black throne.
Zemo didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto the throne, his blade descending in a powerful arc that cleaved through the warlord’s neck. The skeletal head toppled to the ground with a sickening crack, and the body it belonged to crumbled into ash.
For a moment, there was silence, save for the faint hum of dissipating energy.
Zemo stepped back, brushing ash from his coat with exaggerated nonchalance. “Well, that was fun. Let’s do it again sometime.”
Bucky gave him a pointed look, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his stormy eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
Zemo gave a courtly bow. “And you’d miss me terribly if I weren’t.”
Bucky didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned to the throne, where the warlord’s jagged sword lay among the ash. Its blade was still dark, but the malevolent energy that had once surrounded it was gone.
Zemo eyed the weapon warily. “You’re not seriously thinking about taking that thing, are you?”
Bucky studied the blade for a long moment before shaking his head. “No. Some things are better left buried.”
He raised his golden arm once more, sending a final pulse of energy into the throne and the sword. The weapon disintegrated into dust, and the runes along the walls dimmed, their power finally spent.
Zemo let out his characteristic low whistle. “You know, for someone who claims not to care about theatrics, you’ve got a real flair for the dramatic.”
Bucky turned, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Come on, Hel. Let’s leave this place before you find another way to nearly get yourself killed.”
Zemo chuckled, falling into step beside him as they made their way back toward the entrance. “Admit it, James. You’d be bored out of your mind without me.”
Bucky allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “Perhaps. But I’d certainly be less exhausted.”
As they emerged into the cool night air, the first rays of dawn began to creep over the mountains, casting the world in hues of gold and crimson. Zemo stretched, his grin as bright as the rising sun.
“So, breakfast?” he said. “I know a place where you can get out of the sun.”
Bucky raised a brow. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Fine, then. I’ll eat, and you can brood. It’s a win-win.”
The vampire and the werewolf descended the mountain together, their banter echoing through the misty dawn. They were an unlikely pair, bound by centuries of shared adventures and a friendship that defied the very laws of their nature.
But nature was ever meant to be redefined.
***