In Wallachia, 1846, an old fortress keeps its secrets behind rain-swept battlements and candlelit stone.
Night after night, Lord Vasari listens to the same delicate melody, unable—or unwilling—to sleep. The guards speak in whispers of “the third one.” A silent young valet watches from the shadows. And somewhere beyond the castle walls, beneath a cold and watchful moon, something is drawing near.
Who, or what, is the fourth?
Enter Lord Vasari’s castle, where every silence conceals a warning, every gaze suggests a hunter, and the darkness may be listening.