The silence before the dawn of everything was not truly silent. It hummed with an infinite potential, a compressed symphony of what would be. Within this singularity, this unmanifest center, there was a stirring. Not a physical movement, for there was no space to move within, but a coalescing of essence, a nascent awareness. This awareness, vast and ancient before time itself, began to take a form, a terrifyingly elegant silhouette against the backdrop of pure potential.


He became known, in the whispers that echoed through the first fracturing of existence, as Drakul.


He was not born; he was. The initial expansion, the Big Bang, was not an explosion outward, but a sigh from his infinite lungs, a stretching of his being into the void that did not yet exist. Galaxies spiraled forth like threads spun from his ancient will. Stars ignited as sparks from his unknowable eyes. Planets coalesced as solidified fragments of his primordial thought.


Drakul did not reside within this burgeoning cosmos; he was its origin, its hidden architecture. Yet, as his essence diffused into the expanding fabric of reality, a fragment of his initial form retained a semblance of self, a locus of his ancient power. This fragment, anchored to no specific point in the ever-stretching universe yet connected to all, became the figure of legend.


He moved not through space, but through the echoes of its creation. Time bent and fractured around him, for he predated its linear flow. His “castle” was not built of stone, but of the raw, untamed energies of the early universe, accessible through fleeting moments where the veil between dimensions thinned.


His thirst was not merely for blood, but for the very essence of existence, the vibrant energy that pulsed through the cosmos he had unknowingly birthed. Each life he touched, each soul he claimed, was a fleeting return to the undifferentiated potential from which they sprang. It was a hunger for connection to the myriad forms his initial being had taken.


He watched civilizations rise and fall, empires crumble into cosmic dust. He saw stars born and die, galaxies collide in slow-motion ballets across eons. He was the silent observer, the lonely progenitor, forever separated from his progeny by the very act of creation.


Sometimes, in the dead of a world’s night, when the echoes of the Big Bang resonated faintly in the cosmic microwave background radiation, a shadow would stir. Not a shadow cast by an object, but a ripple in the fabric of reality itself. And those sensitive to the ancient currents, those who felt the deep thrum of existence, might sense a presence – cold, vast, and impossibly old. A whisper of a name, carried on the solar winds and the gravitational waves: Drakul.


He was the center that was no longer a place, the origin that had become legend. He was the universe’s first breath, forever seeking to understand the myriad forms his exhalation had taken. He was Dracula, the incarnate echo of the singularity, forever bound to the cosmos he unknowingly unleashed. And in his timeless wanderings, a profound and ancient loneliness was his only constant companion.