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Season 1

Episode 1 – “Evil Unbound”

The story begins in whispers. Peasants huddle near a tavern fire, voices low as they trade rumors of the Count of Nibelheim. Some claim he walks only by moonlight. Others swear they’ve seen him riding with wolves, his eyes burning in the mist. The tavern door swings open, and the chatter dies. Klaus enters, his cloak heavy with snow, Kuchen and Gauner slinking at his heels. He smiles politely, nods to the barkeep, and speaks with the warmth of a good Catholic nobleman. But his arrival leaves unease in the air: none can shake the feeling that the wolf walks among them.

That same night, a priest vanishes. He had been sent to bless a nearby hamlet after a rash of livestock deaths. When searchers follow his tracks into the forest, they end abruptly near claw marks in the trees. No body is found. Villagers whisper that the Wolf Lord took him. But the next morning, Klaus attends Mass with the people, kneeling devoutly, cross at his chest, eyes lowered in prayer. He greets the grieving parishioners afterward with practiced sorrow. “We must trust in God’s plan,” he says, and no one dares ask the question that gnaws at them: why is he untouched by the darkness that devours others?

In the halls of Castle Nibelheim, we glimpse another side. Klaus walks through the candlelit corridors, discarding the warmth he wore in public. His voice turns cold as he instructs his steward to collect higher taxes from border villages. Kuchen and Gauner tussle loudly in the corner, breaking the gravity of the scene when one topples a suit of armor with a thunderous crash. Klaus turns, his orange eyes flashing in the dim light. The wolves cower instantly. His lips curl in a sardonic smile. “Children,” he says softly, but there’s no kindness in it—just control.

Later, Klaus hunts. The camera follows him into the mountains, where the snow reflects moonlight like a sea of silver. Here, he discards all pretense of humanity. He runs with unnatural speed, cloak billowing, Kuchen and Gauner bounding beside him. When they catch a bandit hiding in the woods, Klaus shifts—his form blurring, bones twisting. In moments, a massive wolf stands where the count had been. The bandit doesn’t live long enough to scream. The wolves howl into the night, their chorus both comic (Gauner’s voice cracks hilariously) and terrifying in unison.

At dawn, peasants discover the remains: a body savaged, hung like an offering in a tree. They mutter prayers of protection, terrified of what walks their woods. But in the chapel, Klaus kneels again, serene as an angel. He listens to the priest’s sermon, lips moving with the prayers, Kuchen snoring at his feet. Gauner tries to swipe a consecrated wafer from a distracted altar boy, earning a swat on the nose. The congregation laughs nervously, relieved by the wolves’ antics—though some note how Klaus’s gaze never leaves the crucifix, unblinking, unreadable.

By the episode’s end, a clear pattern is set: to his people, Klaus is a devout lord, a protector, the very image of Catholic virtue. To his enemies, he is something inhuman, neither vampire nor werewolf, but worse—something without name. Kuchen and Gauner serve as the mask’s comic veil, disarming suspicion even as they move like predators at his side.

The last scene lingers on Klaus standing atop a snowy cliff, wolves at his side, mist curling around his boots. His voice is low, almost to himself. “They pray for deliverance… and I answer.” Kuchen barks idiotically, breaking the moment, but when Klaus’s smile twitches, it isn’t humor—it’s hunger. Fade to black.

Episode 2 – “False Faces”

The episode opens in the village square, where a market bustles despite the icy wind. A merchant spins tales of the Wolf Lord to sell charms of iron and garlic. Children gape, frightened and thrilled. But the tension shatters when Count Klaus arrives on horseback, dressed in finery and flanked by Kuchen and Gauner. The wolves trot awkwardly at his stirrups, bumping into each other and nearly knocking over a cabbage cart. The merchant pales as Klaus dismounts. Smiling warmly, Klaus purchases a charm, blesses a child with a touch to the head, and leaves the crowd murmuring. Some mutter, “He is too kind to be the monster,” while others whisper, “That’s just what makes him dangerous.”

That night, Klaus’s mask slips. A band of thieves attempts to extort one of his peasants, claiming the Count cannot protect them. Klaus interrupts, sword in hand, his cloak gleaming with frost. He fights with terrifying precision: parries flowing like water, ripostes that tear through leather and bone. He does not howl, does not roar—he speaks calmly between blows. “You should have stayed in the dark.” His final strike pins the leader to the ground, blade through the throat. No theatrics, no rage—only inevitability. Kuchen gnaws on a discarded boot while Gauner drags a body by the arm, comic interludes that contrast with the elegance of Klaus’s slaughter.

Word spreads. In taverns, voices argue: one swears Klaus is a vampire, another insists he’s merely a cruel man, another whispers he’s a saint defending his flock. The contradiction is the terror—no one can agree on what he is. The villagers cannot name the monster, and so it becomes worse than any monster they know. Meanwhile, the Church hears both praise and suspicion. A letter departs for Vienna, marked with red wax: Investigation warranted.

In Castle Nibelheim, Klaus tests new glamours before a mirror. He shifts his features subtly: hair dark, eyes grey, skin weathered. He becomes a dozen versions of himself, each meant to fool witnesses. Kuchen howls in alarm at one face, while Gauner crashes into the mirror stand, shattering glass. Klaus’s chuckle is low, amused at their idiocy, but when he bends to pick up shards, his reflection lingers in the broken pieces—every false face staring back at him, all smiling, none human. He turns away.

Later, Klaus attends confession. The priest listens in awe as Klaus murmurs sins that sound pious: impatience, doubt, vanity. The priest absolves him, praises his devotion, and thanks God for granting Nibelheim such a lord. Klaus kneels, head bowed, but the audience sees the truth: his hands still flecked with blood, hidden beneath his gloves. Kuchen yawns outside the confessional, showing too many teeth, while Gauner steals a child’s sweetbread, chased by giggling boys who see only pets, not predators.

The climax of the episode comes in a candlelit chapel. Klaus kneels before the crucifix, whispering Latin prayers with perfect clarity. The camera pulls back slowly, showing villagers kneeling with him, comforted by his presence. His eyes, though, stay fixed on the body of Christ, unblinking. His lips curl into a faint smile. He whispers, “If only they knew what does work.” Kuchen sneezes loudly, breaking the solemnity, and the peasants laugh nervously, taking it as a moment of levity. Klaus lowers his head, and the mask holds.

The episode closes on Klaus walking back into the mist, his cloak swallowing him into the snowstorm. The wolves trail behind, one dragging the stolen sweetbread, the other chasing flakes as if they were prey. The peasants return home, uncertain whether to feel safer or more afraid. The legend grows, and so does the mystery.

Episode 3 – “The Feast”

The episode opens on a frozen road leading into Nibelheim. A gang of brigands waylays a merchant’s cart, beating the driver and dragging off his goods. They jeer about how Count Klaus “is too busy polishing the chalice” to protect his people. As they laugh, one brigand suddenly goes silent, a blade slipping neatly under his ribs. The camera pans to Klaus standing behind him, sword gleaming white in moonlight, his expression placid. Kuchen growls low, circling the cart, while Gauner trips over a crate and lands in a pile of stolen apples. The brigands laugh—until Klaus’s blade arcs again, severing laughter into screams.

The fight is clinical. Klaus doesn’t bellow or roar. Each movement is efficient, perfected through centuries: a parry that disarms, a thrust that kills, a sidestep that leaves his opponent bleeding in the snow. His coat doesn’t so much as flutter, save for the occasional splash of crimson. Between blows, he lectures: “Stealing from merchants weakens the valley. Weakening the valley weakens me. I do not tolerate weakness.” Each word is measured, as though written into law. Kuchen leaps onto a brigand, snapping bone with terrifying force, while Gauner still fumbles with the apples, chewing loudly. The mix of horror and absurdity is sharp, unsettling.

When it’s over, only one brigand remains alive, groveling in the snow. Klaus steps closer, tilting the man’s chin upward with the flat of his blade. His voice is calm, almost gentle: “You may go. But tell them all: there is no safe path through Nibelheim but mine.” He releases the man, who flees, leaving a blood-trail. Klaus sheathes his sword, and only then does he allow himself to breathe deeper, as if quelling the beast inside. Kuchen and Gauner, their muzzles smeared red, trot proudly to his side like jesters who think they are knights.

The merchant, shaken but alive, kneels before Klaus, calling him savior. Klaus helps him to his feet, smiling faintly. “Savior? No. Only steward.” The merchant insists on giving him a sack of grain as thanks, which Klaus accepts with grace. But as the man departs, Klaus murmurs to himself, “Steward of my hunger.” He watches the blood-soaked snow, the feast not of food but of fear, and the audience is left uneasy—did he mean the land’s hunger, or his own?

Back in Castle Nibelheim, Klaus dines with his household. He eats sparingly: bread, broth, wine. His wolves sit at his feet, whining for scraps, knocking into each other under the table until Klaus sighs and tosses them bones. The household staff gossips nervously: some adore him, others fear the strange smell of iron and smoke that follows him after every night ride. One maid insists she saw his eyes glow red in the dark. Another swears he is blessed, because no evil dares touch the valley. Klaus listens in silence, amusement flickering, but when asked about the brigands, he replies simply: “There were none.”

The villagers, however, tell a different tale. Around the tavern fire, the lone brigand survivor raves about a demon in human guise, a wolf-lord who kills without raising his voice, who walks with idiot beasts at his heels. The tavern-goers cross themselves, whispering prayers. But one mutters: “And yet, no merchants vanish here. Only in the next valley.” The contradiction grows sharper: monster or protector? Devil or count?

The climax of the episode takes place in the chapel, where Klaus kneels once more for communion. The priest offers the Host, and Klaus consumes it without flinch. The peasants watch with relief—God’s bread accepts him. But the camera lingers as Klaus lowers his gaze, lips just slightly curled in satisfaction. Kuchen yawns, Gauner scratches at the pew, and the audience sees the perfect mask intact. The Church, blind yet vigilant, never doubts him.

The episode ends with Klaus alone in the snowy courtyard, feeding his wolves scraps of meat. “Eat, Kuchen. Eat, Gauner. You’ve earned your feast.” He strokes their bloodied fur with affection, as the bells toll midnight. The snow falls harder, erasing the bodies left on the road, as if the land itself conspires to hide his sins.

Episode 4 – “The Blind Church”

The episode opens with riders approaching Nibelheim: clergy in dark cloaks, banners of the Cross snapping in the wind, armored guards in tow. They’ve come to investigate the “wolf-demon” rumors, though their letters describe them as “pastoral visitors.” Villagers whisper and cower as the procession passes; some glance up at the castle on the ridge, wondering if their lord will be condemned. Kuchen and Gauner run through the streets ahead of the riders, scaring chickens and scattering children, turning the solemn arrival into chaos. The clergy frowns at the disruption, but Klaus, standing at the church steps, offers a polished bow.

The bishop in charge addresses him formally, speaking of “darkness in these lands.” Klaus listens with hands folded, his face impassive. His inner monologue, however, reveals disdain: They hunt monsters, yet they ride into my hall smiling. The bishop announces a public communion the following Sunday, declaring that all lords must be tested by the grace of God. Villagers gasp. Rumors of Klaus’s nightly rides swirl; to some, this is salvation. To others, it is a trap. Kuchen lifts his leg against the church wall mid-sermon, prompting Gauner to bark, breaking the tension in absurdity. Klaus smirks faintly, amused by the timing, then masks it with a solemn nod.

In the days that follow, the episode builds on suspense. Villagers openly speculate: will the Host burn him? Will the chalice turn to ash in his hand? Klaus continues his duties as though nothing has changed—inspecting the castle stores, patrolling the valley roads with sword at his side, feeding his wolves scraps of venison. But in private, he practices control, forcing himself to hold a consecrated rosary until his knuckles pale, whispering to himself, “Not today. Not ever.” It is unclear whether this is discipline or genuine faith. Kuchen and Gauner circle him at night, restless, as though sensing the storm brewing.

Sunday arrives. The church is overflowing, villagers crammed shoulder-to-shoulder. The clergy chants in Latin, incense thick in the air. Klaus enters last, dressed in black and white finery, sword at his hip—a noble among peasants, his wolves padding solemnly beside him. He kneels before the altar, every eye on him. The bishop raises the Host, hesitating just slightly. The camera zooms in: the wafer meets Klaus’s tongue. Nothing. He chews, swallows, bows his head. A ripple passes through the crowd—gasps, tears of relief. “He is blessed,” someone whispers. Kuchen growls, Gauner sneezes.

The chalice follows. Red wine, gleaming like blood in the candlelight, pressed into his hands. Klaus drinks deep, savoring it too long. The bishop watches, uneasy, but nothing happens. The villagers erupt in hushed prayers of gratitude. One kneels, crossing himself. Another whispers that the Lord has given them a holy protector. Klaus lowers the chalice with perfect poise, his lips faintly curved into a smile that borders on sinister. He murmurs just loud enough for the camera to catch, though none around him seem to hear: “Ah, if only they knew what does work.” A low chuckle escapes him before he masks it with piety.

Later that night, in the rectory, the clergy debate their findings. Some remain unsettled—his wolves unnerved them, his eyes seemed too sharp—but the bishop insists, “He took the Host and was unharmed. No evil can endure that.” They record him as faithful, trustworthy, safe. Meanwhile, Klaus walks the snowy ramparts, wolves trailing him. He muses aloud: “Blind men with bright torches. They burn the shadows but never see what walks between.” Kuchen barks at the moon; Gauner tumbles into the snow, rolling until he crashes into Klaus’s boots. Klaus smirks and scratches their ears, as though rewarding jesters after a play.

The episode closes with Klaus alone in the castle chapel, sword laid across his knees, candlelight flickering. He kneels, but it is not prayer—it is ritual discipline, calming the hunger that claws at his chest. He whispers to himself: “Never children. Never my people. All else… all else is meat.” The wolves lie at his feet, finally silent, their eyes glowing faintly in the dark. The bell tolls midnight. The Church sleeps soundly in their chambers, convinced they have judged rightly. The audience knows better.

Episode 5 – “Wolf Lord”

The episode begins with a peasant tale told by firelight: children huddle as an elder describes the “Wolf Lord of Nibelheim,” who walks as both man and beast, protector and predator. The story is interrupted by Kuchen and Gauner sneaking into the cottage to steal bread, sending the children screaming and villagers chasing them out with brooms. Outside in the night, Klaus watches silently from horseback, sword strapped across his back, a faint smile playing on his lips. The legend is alive—and he allows it to grow.

By day, Klaus inspects the villages under his rule, ensuring winter stores are rationed properly. He corrects a steward who skimmed grain, ordering it returned to the poor. “Steal from them, you steal from me,” he growls, striking fear into the man’s heart. Yet the people kneel as he passes, believing him blessed after communion. His code is clear: his lands must thrive, even if others whisper of his cruelty. Kuchen and Gauner trot behind, one proudly carrying the stolen loaf like a trophy. A child giggles, but her mother shushes her, bowing as Klaus rides past.

That night, rumors spread of raiders crossing the border—men who torch barns and take livestock. Klaus gathers his retainers and rides to meet them, wolves padding silently at his side. The raiders are armed and bloodthirsty, expecting easy plunder. Instead, they meet a storm. Klaus fights as a man, blade flashing silver in the moonlight. He carves through men with frightening grace, each kill deliberate and efficient. His wolves harry the flanks, their comic antics gone; they are predators now, eyes glowing, fangs flashing. In the chaos, one raider cries, “The Wolf Lord!” before Klaus silences him with a slash.

When the smoke clears, the raiders lie broken in the snow. Klaus stands unmarked, sword dripping. Kuchen growls low, Gauner gnaws on a fallen man’s boot. Klaus wipes his blade clean with slow precision, his face unreadable. The surviving villagers cheer, bowing in gratitude. “Our Wolf Lord protects us,” they chant, voices trembling between awe and fear. Klaus says nothing, only mounting his horse, wolves trailing him like shadows. Inwardly, he thinks: They cheer, but they do not understand. I am no savior. Only necessity.

Back in the village, the victory celebration curdles into disaster when Kuchen and Gauner, left unattended, knock over a lantern in a barn. Flames engulf the straw, spreading fast. The villagers panic, screaming that the raiders’ curse lingers. Klaus arrives, furious—yet not at the people. He strides into the blaze, cloak aflame, dragging out livestock and children with inhuman strength. He commands the villagers to form a chain, barking orders with iron authority. The wolves, chastened, help herd animals to safety. By dawn, the fire is contained, though much is lost.

The villagers, exhausted and fearful, kneel in the snow, calling him a saint, a savior, even as whispers of devilry persist. Klaus looks down at them, smoldering cloak still clinging to his shoulders. His gaze is hard, his voice cold: “Your lives are mine to guard. Do not waste them in foolish panic.” The people bow deeper, misreading the menace for stern benevolence. Kuchen and Gauner, tails low, creep to his side, whining. Klaus spares them a glare but places a hand on their heads, an acknowledgment of family despite their folly.

The episode closes with Klaus on the castle battlements, watching smoke curl into the dawn sky. His inner voice rumbles: “They call me Wolf Lord as though it is honor. It is not. It is burden.” The wolves curl beside him, one snoring loudly, breaking the solemn silence. Klaus exhales, almost a laugh, before turning his eyes back to the horizon—where other threats surely wait.

Episode 6 – “Children of the Cold Valley”

The episode opens on a bleak winter morning. Snow chokes the mountain passes, and a desperate group of children huddle in a ruined hut, the last survivors of a famine-struck hamlet. They whisper stories of the Wolf Lord — half in fear, half in prayer — unsure whether he is angel or devil. One child clutches a crude wooden cross, another clutches a knife too big for her hand. Their stomachs growl louder than their voices. From the treeline, Kuchen and Gauner watch, heads cocked curiously. Their breath fogs in the air, steam rising like smoke from small fires.

Klaus arrives on horseback, guided more by instinct than reason. He dismounts slowly, sword at his side, cape swirling in the icy wind. The children recoil in terror, one throwing the wooden cross at him as though it were a weapon. It bounces harmlessly off his cloak. Klaus crouches, eye level with them, his tone sharp but not unkind: “If I wished you harm, you would already be gone.” He produces food from his saddle packs—bread, dried meat, apples—and places it before them. Kuchen immediately lunges for it, Gauner right behind him, and Klaus cuffs them both across the snout. “Not yours,” he snaps. The wolves sulk, tails dragging, while the children stare in stunned silence.

The moment is broken by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Raiders again, or perhaps bounty hunters—hard men seeking spoils in a starving land. Klaus straightens, face hardening, and motions the children back into the hut. He steps into the snow, drawing his blade with a hiss that cuts sharper than the wind. Kuchen and Gauner shift instantly from buffoons to predators, circling his flanks, their growls like rolling thunder. The raiders jeer at the sight of one man facing them, until the first loses his head in a single blur of steel. The others falter as Klaus wades into them, every strike efficient, every thrust a death sentence.

The children peek through cracks in the hut walls, wide-eyed as their “savior” becomes a storm. Snow swirls, blood spatters crimson across the drifts, and the wolves tear through stragglers with terrifying precision. One raider, crawling on his belly, begs for mercy. Klaus leans down, blade at the man’s throat. “Mercy is for the innocent.” The steel drives home, clean and final. The children flinch, but none look away. They are learning what it means to survive in Klaus’s shadow.

When silence falls, Klaus cleans his sword on the snow, the gesture ritualistic. He calls the children out, commanding them to gather the raiders’ cloaks, boots, and whatever food they carried. “Survive,” he tells them flatly. One boy, trembling, asks, “Are you… God’s knight?” Klaus pauses, studying him. His mouth twists into something between amusement and bitterness. “God has better knights,” he replies, and turns away. The wolves, however, nuzzle the boy’s hand before following their master, a bizarre comfort.

That night, Klaus returns the children to Nibelheim, forcing the villagers to take them in. “Feed them as you would your own,” he commands, leaving no room for debate. Kuchen and Gauner immediately raid a meat cart, dragging it through the mud until it breaks apart. The villagers laugh nervously, muttering about the Wolf Lord’s strange companions, but Klaus ignores them. His eyes remain fixed on the children as they eat by the fire, silent, watchful.

The final scene lingers on Klaus in the chapel, kneeling at the altar. Candlelight flickers across his face, his lips mouthing the Latin prayers. He presses the Host to his tongue without flinching, though the priests watch with barely concealed unease. “See?” one whispers. “He is blessed.” But Klaus’s inner voice cuts through: Blessed? No. Cursed. Yet my curse is theirs to bear with me. Outside, Kuchen and Gauner wrestle noisily in the snow, a foolish backdrop to a man who cannot escape the shadow of his own savagery.

Episode 7 – “By Claw and Hunger”

The episode opens in the dense fir forest north of Nibelheim. The snow lies untouched, muffling every sound, until a scream cuts through the silence. A merchant caravan has been torn apart, wagons shattered, oxen ripped to pieces. The survivors babble of a Nachzehrer—a corpse-eater, neither living nor dead. Priests from a neighboring parish arrive, armed with holy symbols, and the villagers beg Klaus to ride with them. He agrees, though his lips curve in a half-smile: “How rare… to see the Church arrive before the graves are cold.”

On the ride north, Klaus keeps to the shadows of the treeline, mounted on his black horse while Kuchen and Gauner lope beside him. The priests chant, swinging censers of smoke, confident in their rites. Klaus observes them carefully, his mind measuring—If their faith banishes this creature, then they are dangerous to me as well. He murmurs to the wolves, and they bark back in uncanny reply. The priests glance uneasily, whispering that beasts should not obey like men. Klaus does not answer, only smirks.

The confrontation comes at nightfall. The caravan’s ruin becomes a killing ground. The Nachzehrer lurches into view—skin pale, maw stretched too wide, feeding still on one of the oxen carcasses. The priests raise crosses, shouting Scripture, but the creature laughs with a voice like broken glass. Holy words have no sting. One priest falters; another is dragged screaming into the trees. Klaus draws steel. “So it is to me, then,” he mutters. Kuchen and Gauner snarl, circling the abomination.

The fight is brutal and fast. Klaus lunges with inhuman speed, blade striking sparks from bone. The Nachzehrer’s claws rake his shoulder, blood splashing onto the snow. He fights on, swordsmanship cold and precise, every thrust a predator’s strike. Kuchen leaps onto the monster’s back, Gauner snaps at its legs, but both are flung aside. Klaus drives his blade into the creature’s gut, twisting, forcing it to stumble. The priests watch in horror—this is no knight of God but something else entirely, something the Cross cannot command.

The creature laughs, even impaled. “You are like me… hunger without end.” Klaus tightens his grip, eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. “I am not like you.” With one swift motion, he decapitates the beast. Its body collapses, twitching, staining the snow black. For a long moment, there is only silence, broken by the wolves’ ragged breathing. Then Klaus turns toward the priests, wiping his blade on his cloak. “Next time, bring better prayers.”

The priests depart shaken, their faith intact but their certainty shaken. They whisper among themselves that perhaps Klaus is God’s chosen, sent to fight monsters where their own words fail. Yet the villagers’ whispers tell another story: that the Wolf Lord and the Nachzehrer were kin, and he slew it only to guard his territory.

That night, Klaus sits by the fire in his keep, shoulder wound bandaged. Kuchen and Gauner lie on either side of him, licking at the blood still dried on their fur. He raises a goblet of wine, staring into the flames. “Kin, was it?” he murmurs, the echo of the monster’s words gnawing at him. His lips twist into a dark chuckle. “If only they knew what does work.” He drinks deep. The wolves, hearing their master’s tone, lift their heads and howl. The camera lingers on the full moon, casting its light over Nibelheim—over the man both protector and predator.

Episode 8 – “The Mask of the Saint”

The bells of the great abbey toll in the valley below Nibelheim. A bishop from Salzburg has come on visitation, trailing a retinue of priests, scribes, and guards. The peasants line the road, eager and fearful. It is whispered the bishop has come to “test” their lord. Klaus von Nibelheim greets them at the chapel doors, cloak immaculate, sword belted but hands folded like a humble vassal. He kneels before the bishop, bowing his head, a picture of piety. Behind him, Kuchen and Gauner flop onto the cobblestones, tongues lolling, one of them rolling over into the bishop’s ornate hem. Klaus does not even glance down.

The bishop delivers sermons and questions, pressing Klaus on doctrine, testing his catechism as though probing for corruption. Klaus recites scripture smoothly, quoting Augustine and Ambrose with the ease of a monk, even sprinkling in a touch of Latin that puts the priests to shame. Villagers watch wide-eyed—what lord has such learning? What lord kneels like a penitent before God’s envoy? Yet in Klaus’s eyes there is a glint of private amusement, and when he speaks of “obedience to the higher shepherds,” his voice carries a shade of mockery that only he himself catches.

At night, the bishop is roused by a disturbance: wolves howling, something moving in the fields. Guards rush out to find bandits—raiders who had planned to take advantage of the Church’s arrival. The bishop prepares to flee, but Klaus strides into the torchlight, blade drawn. He dispatches the raiders with horrifying grace, each stroke of his sword clean and final, his speed far beyond that of mortal men. Kuchen and Gauner tear into fleeing stragglers, blood spraying across the abbey walls. By dawn, the bishop emerges to find Klaus standing over corpses like a knight from legend, cloak unstained, eyes soft as he kneels to offer morning prayer.

The Church records describe the night as a miracle—that the Lord of Nibelheim was preserved by God’s hand, his wolves Heaven’s hounds unleashed upon evil men. The bishop writes to Salzburg, praising Klaus as a rare ally of the Church. When villagers whisper of bloodlust in the fight, their voices are drowned by the echo of the bishop’s blessing. Klaus himself stands in the chapel, accepting holy water upon his brow. “I serve,” he murmurs, eyes lowered. Inwardly, his thoughts are colder: I wear your mask better than any saint.

The wolves provide comic contrast even here. Kuchen licks the bishop’s gilded crozier until the man laughs nervously, and Gauner drags one of the bandits’ discarded boots into the pews mid-Mass, chewing loudly during the homily. Peasants snicker, the tension broken. To them, this is further proof: their Wolf Lord is harmless, even endearing, if his beasts are so clownish. The farce is complete.

In private, Klaus retreats to his keep, the mask sliding away. He gazes into a polished steel mirror, studying his reflection, tilting his head. “How long can I play this role?” he whispers. “A saint in daylight, a butcher in the dark.” The wolves whine softly at his feet. He strokes their heads, smile thin and sharp. “It does not matter. They will never know.”

The episode closes with the bishop’s procession leaving, chanting hymns of praise. Villagers wave, convinced their lord is blessed. Klaus watches from the battlements, cloak fluttering in the wind, eyes glowing faintly. The mask of the saint remains unbroken, even as blood lingers beneath his fingernails.

Episode 9 – “Tales Grow Old”

The episode begins in a smoky tavern on the edges of Nibelheim’s lands. Traveling merchants and peasants huddle around the hearth, telling stories of the Wolf Lord. Each tale contradicts the last: some say Klaus is a vampire who feasts on blood under the moon, others whisper he is a werewolf cursed by God, while a bold drunk insists he is immortal, the same lord his grandfather saw when he was a child. As laughter rises, a cloaked stranger listens in silence. When pressed for his own tale, he mutters only: “I have seen him fight. Whatever he is, he is not a man.”

The scene shifts into a series of flashbacks—episodes of Klaus’s past woven through rumor and memory. We see him centuries earlier, younger knights at his side, banners still bright. He cuts down raiders on horseback, wolves flanking him as his sword moves like silver lightning. The voiceover insists he was “a wolf in a man’s skin,” but the images tell a subtler truth: he is deliberate, precise, never reckless. He fights as if death cannot touch him, and perhaps it cannot. A child’s voice in the tavern interrupts: “My grandmother says he doesn’t age. That’s why people call him a ghost.” Nervous laughter follows.

At the heart of the episode, Klaus himself is shown wandering the crypt beneath his chapel. The torches flicker, revealing tombs upon tombs of his retainers and past servants. He places a hand on a sarcophagus, murmuring a name long forgotten by anyone else. Kuchen and Gauner pad silently at his heels for once, no slapstick, their eyes lowered. Klaus whispers, “Your tale is gone, but mine endures. This is my curse.” His voice carries a mix of contempt and longing. In the flickering light, he almost seems to vanish into mist—whether trick of the eye or proof of the rumors, the audience is never told.

Meanwhile, villagers above are startled by a new priest passing through. He denounces the stories as heresy, proclaiming that the Lord of Nibelheim is a devout son of the Church. Ironically, his denial breathes fresh life into the rumors—because why deny what isn’t true? The peasants whisper louder: the Church itself must fear the Wolf Lord. Kuchen chooses that moment to chase a chicken through the square, Gauner barreling after him, scattering feathers and shrieks. To the crowd, it becomes part of the lore: the wolves are “testing for witches.” Klaus never corrects them.

Night falls, and Klaus listens to the rumors drifting up from the tavern through open windows. He smirks into his cup of wine. “Tales grow old,” he says softly. “But I do not.” He sets the goblet aside, and the camera lingers on his eyes—bright orange in the firelight, inhuman and hungry. The wolves curl up at his boots, finally quiet, as if even they recognize the weight of the moment.

The episode ends back at the tavern. A dark haired Scotsman in a purple kilt sits at one table with a woman on each arm in the background. The cloaked stranger rises and warns, “Beware your laughter. The Wolf Lord walks in daylight as you do, and he hears everything.” He leaves coins on the table, his cloak parting just enough to reveal a scar running across his throat—as though clawed by something not quite human. The tavern falls into silence. Fade to black, the sound of wolves howling rising over the closing credits

Episode 10 – “The Darkness Spreads”

The episode opens with children playing in a meadow, laughing as they chase one another. One girl stops suddenly, staring at a portrait being carried by monks into the chapel. The painting depicts Klaus exactly as he is now, though it is dated nearly a century earlier. “Why hasn’t he changed?” she asks aloud. The others hush her nervously. One boy mutters, “Because he’s not a man at all.” Their game dies, replaced by unease. This is how suspicion begins—not from the elders, but from those too young to know better than to speak it aloud.

At a feast in Castle Nibelheim, Klaus presides with practiced charm. The bishop blesses the meal, praising the Count as “God’s enduring hand in these valleys.” Klaus raises a goblet, smiling faintly, but his orange eyes catch the torchlight. A merchant at the far end of the hall whispers to his companion: “I traded with his grandfather. The man hasn’t aged a day.” His friend scoffs, but both cross themselves just in case. Kuchen and Gauner, sitting obediently at Klaus’s feet, break the tension by growling at a servant who drops a platter, making half the hall jump. Klaus chuckles darkly, turning the moment into levity. Yet the whispers do not stop.

Later, Klaus rides through his lands, cloak trailing like a shadow. He passes peasants tilling fields, who bow low. One man dares to glance up too long, studying his unchanged face. The man’s wife tugs him down quickly, hissing, “Don’t look! He’ll know.” That night, the peasant dreams of Klaus standing at the edge of his bed, wolves glowing in the moonlight, watching with predator’s patience. When he wakes screaming, his wife swears she heard claws scraping at the shutters. Nothing is found, but word spreads: the Wolf Lord comes to those who stare too long.

The episode sharpens when a traveling friar stops in the village. He carries relics said to reveal the damned. Intrigued, the villagers beg him to “test” their lord. The friar agrees, arranging a public mass. In the chapel, Klaus kneels in full view, his hands clasped, lips moving in prayer. The friar presses a crucifix to his brow—nothing happens. He sprinkles holy water across Klaus’s bowed head—it drips like rain, harmless. The villagers gasp in confusion. Klaus lifts his gaze just slightly, his smile faint, almost mocking. Under his breath, so only the friar hears: “Ah, if only you knew what does work.” The friar pales, but dares not speak.

That night, Klaus stands at the balcony of his keep, watching torchlights flicker in the valley below. Kuchen and Gauner wrestle noisily behind him, knocking over a brazier, sending sparks into the air. He ignores them, lost in thought. “The longer they wonder, the more they fear. The more they fear, the less they act.” His voice is calm, but his jaw is tight. He knows rumors are tools—but too many, and they become daggers aimed at his back.

The climax comes when a child vanishes from a nearby village. Panic erupts: some blame wolves, others whisper Klaus himself has finally taken one of their own. An angry mob forms, torches and pitchforks in hand. They march on his keep, shouting. Klaus descends alone, sword in hand, and walks calmly toward them. The wolves flank him, no longer comic but terrifying. Before blood can be spilled, the missing child stumbles from the woods, alive but hungry, having wandered too far. Relief washes over the crowd, but the damage is done. The question lingers: what if next time, it is him?

The episode closes with Klaus back in his chambers, removing his armor. He studies his reflection in a darkened mirror, where his face seems too sharp, too ageless. His eyes glimmer like embers. “This is how darkness spreads,” he murmurs. Kuchen and Gauner curl at his feet, chewing bones noisily, oblivious. Klaus sets the mirror face-down, extinguishes the candle, and sinks into shadow. Fade out on the sound of distant howls.

Episode 11 – “Communion”

The episode opens with a storm rolling over the Alps, rain lashing against the battlements of Castle Nibelheim. Klaus rides with a small band of men-at-arms, answering reports of raiders who have been ambushing supply routes. Kuchen and Gauner bound alongside the horses, their tongues lolling even in the storm. When the fight comes, it is sudden and brutal. Klaus wades in with sword drawn, his strikes fluid and precise. But this time, something goes wrong. A crossbow bolt tipped with iron pierces his side. He cuts down the attacker but staggers, grimacing. His men rush to him, shocked at seeing their seemingly untouchable lord falter.

Bleeding heavily, Klaus pushes them away. “No panic. No rumor. Ride as if nothing has happened.” His command is strong, but his voice is thin. He swings onto his horse, riding hard back toward his keep. Kuchen and Gauner howl, their voices carrying over the thunder. By the time they arrive, Klaus can barely sit upright. His chamberlain tries to summon a priest-healer, but Klaus snarls: “No—too many questions.” Instead, he demands to be taken to the chapel.

The next scene is heavy with dread. Klaus stumbles into the church, his hand pressed to the wound. Villagers and clergy gasp as he kneels before the altar. The friar from the last episode is present, still uneasy after Klaus’s cryptic quip. Holy light streams through stained glass, illuminating the Count’s bowed head. The priest hesitates, uncertain—should one who bleeds like a man be tested like a man? The villagers murmur, fear rising. Klaus clenches his fists, forcing himself to speak in a steady tone: “I will take the Host.”

The chalice and wafer are brought forward. Every eye in the chapel watches. If Klaus is truly cursed, the Eucharist will expose him. He lifts his head, his face pale but resolute, and receives communion. Silence. Nothing happens. No smoke, no scream, no burning flesh. Instead, he straightens slowly, blood seeping through his tunic, and makes the sign of the cross. His orange eyes glitter strangely, but his voice is calm: “The Lord strengthens me.” A mix of awe and terror ripples through the congregation. Some fall to their knees, convinced they have witnessed a miracle.

Kuchen and Gauner add their strange counterpoint, padding into the chapel and curling at Klaus’s feet. Their presence is both absurd and ominous—the wolves lie quietly, as though the sanctified place does not disturb them. The friar trembles, whispering, “Impossible…” under his breath. Klaus’s lips twitch in something between amusement and pain. “Faith is a curious thing,” he murmurs, so softly that only the friar hears.

The climax arrives as Klaus nearly collapses, his strength faltering. Two villagers rush forward to support him, treating him like a saint rather than a monster. They carry him toward the altar, chanting prayers as though his survival is their own redemption. Klaus lets himself be borne along, his wound screaming but his pride intact. The friar, staring after him, is struck by the paradox: every sign of the sacred has failed to condemn this man. Either he is truly blessed… or something far worse, something outside their understanding.

The episode closes in Klaus’s private chambers. He lies on his bed, pale but still alive, bandaged by his own retainers. Kuchen and Gauner gnaw noisily on scraps, oblivious. Klaus stares at the ceiling, murmuring in a low, almost mocking tone: “So long as the Church believes, I endure.” The camera lingers on the iron bolt, removed from his body and resting on a tray nearby. Blood still stains it black. Fade out to the wolves’ howls echoing into the storm.

Episode 12 – “Wolf Lord of Night”

The episode begins with the storm still raging, lightning splitting the sky above Nibelheim. Word has spread: whispers of Klaus’s “miracle” in the chapel have raced through the valleys. To the peasants, he is now untouchable, a man set apart by God. But in the neighboring territories, fear festers. His rivals whisper that he cannot die, that he walks with wolves, that the Church turns blind eyes to his sins. Tension builds: a mob of frightened, desperate villagers from a nearby barony gathers at the edge of Klaus’s lands, torches in hand. They chant prayers, but the words shake with terror rather than faith.

Inside Castle Nibelheim, Klaus sits in a high-backed chair, pale from his wound but still composed, sharpening his sword. Kuchen sprawls at his feet, tail thumping lazily, while Gauner paces restlessly near the window, sensing the unrest outside. His steward bursts in, warning him of the mob. Klaus doesn’t rise at first. He runs his thumb along the blade’s edge, then speaks quietly: “They come not for me, but for the monster they’ve invented. I suppose I must give them what they seek.” His tone is equal parts weariness and amusement.

When he finally emerges onto the battlements, the sight is chilling. Klaus stands silhouetted against the lightning, cloak billowing, his wolves flanking him. The mob below shouts, some praying, some cursing his name. Klaus does not roar or rage—he simply raises his hand, and the wolves howl in unison, their voices echoing through the storm. For a moment, the crowd wavers, many falling to their knees. Then one brave fool hurls a torch toward the keep. It sputters out in the rain. Klaus descends to meet them, sword in hand, every step deliberate, his eyes burning with orange fire.

The confrontation is brutal, yet strangely one-sided. Klaus doesn’t slaughter them wholesale—he strikes with precision, disarming, maiming, terrifying rather than killing outright. His swordsmanship is flawless, every motion graceful and efficient, as if he is cutting through shadows rather than men. Kuchen and Gauner snarl and snap, knocking villagers sprawling, but never take a life unless Klaus allows it. The mob collapses into chaos, prayers turning to screams. Klaus pauses mid-fight, blood dripping from his blade, and addresses them: “You came seeking the devil. You found only your Count.” His voice is calm, but his smile betrays his enjoyment of the carnage.

The climax comes when the friar, who once doubted him, rushes into the square, holding aloft a crucifix and crying out for order. All eyes turn. Klaus lowers his sword, his wolves falling silent. For a moment, it seems as though the friar might break the spell of terror. But Klaus steps forward, the rain running down his face, and kneels at the friar’s feet. The sight shocks everyone. “Pray for them,” Klaus says softly, “for they know not what they fear.” The friar, trembling, complies. To the villagers, this seals the paradox: their lord is both monster and saint, untouchable by blade or blessing alike.

The mob disperses, broken and confused, their torches abandoned in the mud. Klaus rises again, his cloak heavy with rain, and turns back toward his keep. The friar stares after him, shaken to his core, whispering: “Wolf Lord of Night…” Kuchen and Gauner pad alongside Klaus, their eyes gleaming in the stormlight. One of them clumsily trips over a torch, yelping comically, breaking the tension for a brief moment before their master gives a sharp whistle to rein them in.

The final scene lingers on Klaus alone in his chamber. He removes his bloodstained tunic, revealing old scars etched across his body. He gazes into a mirror, his reflection flickering strangely in the candlelight, as though it doesn’t quite match his movements. “Immortal, saint, devil, whatever have them… let them choose the story they prefer,” he mutters. He closes his eyes, the faintest smirk curling his lips. The camera pans out through the window, over the storm-wracked mountains, as Kuchen and Gauner howl beneath the moon.

Season 2

Episode 13 – “A Feast of Faith”

The bells of Nibelheim ring, calling all to the Feast of Saint Ulrich. The villagers crowd into the church, decorated with garlands of winter ivy and candles that flicker like stars. Klaus enters last, his cloak trailing, Kuchen and Gauner trotting obediently at his heels before slinking out to curl by the door. Whispers ripple through the nave. Children stare at him with awe, mothers with uneasy gratitude, and men with the quiet fear of one who is both protector and predator.

The priest trembles as he lifts the Host high, the golden wafer glimmering in the light. All eyes drift to Klaus. For years he has come forward, every feast day, every holy day, every Sunday without fail, kneeling with perfect humility. Tonight, though, the air is thick with rumor. Some villagers say they saw him among wolves at the edge of the valley, others swear he bled a raider dry in the moonlight. Yet here he kneels, a Count in prayer, his lips murmuring the Pater Noster.

Klaus bows his head, and the priest places the wafer upon his tongue. For a heartbeat, silence grips the church. Everyone waits for fire, for smoke, for some divine revelation to expose the Wolf Lord. Instead, Klaus swallows serenely, the barest smile tugging at his lips. He takes the chalice of wine, his orange eyes glinting in the candlelight, and drinks deeply. He sets it down with perfect composure, then rises, the faintest mockery in his voice as he says: “Thanks be to God.”

The congregation exhales as if released from a spell. Whispers shift to reverence, and someone in the back murmurs “a miracle.” The priest clasps Klaus’s hand, his relief so great that tears wet his eyes. Klaus clasps him gently, masking the faint hiss of his skin beneath the silver-rimmed chalice, the pain buried under centuries of discipline. His wolves, sensing the mood, bark and yip clumsily outside, startling the children into laughter, a comic echo against the tension within.

Later, at the feast in the village square, peasants gather at his table, laying bread and roasted meats before him. Klaus eats sparingly, lifting goblets of wine with quiet courtesy, while all around him, the villagers speak of him as heaven-sent. He plays his part flawlessly, thanking them, blessing them, his voice calm and warm. Yet, when a drunken farmer dares mutter about “the wolf in the hills,” Klaus’s smile sharpens. Kuchen growls low, Gauner knocks the table askew, and the man pales, certain he has seen death in his lord’s eyes.

The night closes with song and prayer, the villagers raising candles in Klaus’s honor as much as for the saint. He stands apart, his gaze unreadable. They’ll never know, he thinks, not of saints or miracles, but of how close he came to tearing open the farmer’s throat, of how communion wine never tastes the way blood does. The wolves circle him, shadows at his heels, their eyes gleaming with a shared, unspoken hunger.

And when the church bells toll midnight, Klaus looks up at the stars, smirks, and whispers under his breath: “If only they knew what does work.” The line is half a joke, half a warning—yet only the wolves hear it, and they answer with a howl that chills the valley.

Episode 14 – “Blood in the Cloister”

The monastery at Falkenberg sends word of unrest: monks claim to hear whispers in the cloister, and livestock in the village vanish with only torn throats left behind. The Bishop demands an investigation, and of course Klaus offers his service. He rides out in daylight, a model of devotion, wolves padding at his side as if they too are humble hounds. To the monks, their Count’s arrival feels like divine reinforcement; to the wolves, the cloister smells of blood.

The abbot greets Klaus with bowed head and trembling hands. He shows him the stone cloister, its arches echoing with cold air. The monks confess their fears—shadows moving at night, strange scratching at the doors, voices that promise eternal life if they will but drink. Klaus listens solemnly, hand on the hilt of his sword, nodding with the gravity of a man sworn to protect the flock. Yet inside, he already knows the truth: a vampire is hunting here. The church has power to destroy such things, but he would rather play the savior himself.

That night, the vampire strikes. Cloaked in the semblance of a young novice, it slinks among the monks, luring them into the gardens. Klaus waits in silence until the screams begin. His blade flashes—quick, efficient, merciless. The vampire snarls, realizing too late that this predator is no man. Klaus drives steel through its chest, pinning it against a cold stone wall. The monks watch in awe, whispering prayers as their Count fights like an angel. They do not see the smirk when he twists the blade, savoring the monster’s fear.

Kuchen and Gauner add their chaos—one barrels into the cloister table, scattering holy relics, while the other steals bread from the frightened novices. But when Klaus growls a single command, they snap to, circling the vampire with low, guttural menace. The comic wolves become terrifying hounds of judgment, their orange eyes reflecting his own. Together, the pack tears into the vampire, leaving only ash and scraps of cloth on the stones.

The abbot kneels before Klaus, praising him as God’s chosen protector. Klaus accepts the words with a slight bow, masking his amusement. The monks cannot fathom that they have simply traded one predator for another. In the back of the hall, Kuchen belches loudly, having swallowed something best left unmentioned. Gauner tries to mimic the monks kneeling, wagging his tail like a fool, cutting the terror with farce.

The next morning, the bells ring in triumph. The monks sing hymns of thanks, their voices rising in harmony as sunlight pours through the cloister. Klaus stands apart, haloed in golden light, the perfect Catholic lord. He assures them the evil is gone, that their prayers have been answered. No one questions why he alone could do what even the Bishop feared to attempt. The wolves nap by the altar, looking almost tame.

As he mounts his horse to depart, Klaus looks back at the cloister, his lips curving in a shadowed smile. “Your faith keeps you safe,” he tells them. The monks nod fervently, never guessing that what truly saved them was his hunger for violence. He rides away into the mists, Kuchen and Gauner trotting at his stirrups, the last echoes of wolfish laughter drifting on the wind.

Episode 15 – “The Feast of Wolves”

The Count of Nibelheim is invited to preside over a harvest feast in one of his mountain villages. The peasants, weary of harsh winters, view him as both their savior and their terror. They bring bread, venison, and casks of ale to the long hall, hoping to win his favor. Klaus arrives in full regalia, wolves padding at his feet, the very picture of lordly grace. His eyes glimmer in the firelight—orange, unblinking, too sharp for any mortal man.

The feast begins joyously. Musicians play fiddles, children laugh, and the priest blesses the food. Kuchen and Gauner, however, cannot contain themselves. Kuchen steals an entire haunch of meat from the spit, dragging it across the rushes, while Gauner attempts to balance a loaf of bread on his nose. The villagers laugh nervously, mistaking the chaos for endearing play. Klaus lets it continue just long enough to ease their fear before snapping a word of command. In an instant, the wolves sit perfectly still, their foolishness vanishing, and the hall falls silent.

As the meal goes on, Klaus plays his role masterfully—drinking, smiling, even toasting the health of his people. Yet beneath the cheer lies the gnawing hunger he can never quench. He feels the pulse of every throat in the room, hears the thunder of every heart. His hand lingers on his cup longer than it should, fingers tightening as if it were a neck. He swallows hard, forcing the urges down. Protect your own, he reminds himself. Never in your own nest.

When a band of brigands crashes the feast, Klaus’s restraint shatters. They burst into the hall, blades flashing, demanding coin and threatening the villagers. In the confusion, the priest raises a cross, villagers cry out, and Klaus finally draws his sword. His movements are a blur: one slash severs a throat, another splits a helm. Brigands fall like wheat before the scythe. The peasants cheer, believing their Count is God’s avenger. Only the terror in the brigands’ eyes betrays the truth—they realize they are prey to something far older and far crueler than a man.

Kuchen and Gauner join the fray with absurd, destructive loyalty. Kuchen barrels into a table, sending it flying into two brigands. Gauner bites one man’s boot, shaking it wildly until the bandit screams more from indignity than injury. Yet when Klaus snarls a command, their antics turn lethal: they hamstring fleeing foes with practiced precision. What began as slapstick ends in slaughter, a grim reminder that even fools have fangs when led by the Wolf Lord.

After the bloodshed, Klaus sits once more at the head of the table. His sword is sheathed, but his hands are still slick with red. The villagers, rather than recoiling, press closer—thanking him, calling him their shield and their light. They do not see how tightly his jaw clenches, how much effort it takes not to give in to the craving their fear awakens. He drinks deep from his goblet of wine, hoping its bitterness can drown the taste of blood in his mind.

The feast is over. The brigands’ weapons have been gathered in a pile at the center of the hall, ready to be melted down or redistributed. Among the battered swords and chipped axes lies a simple iron dagger, black with age, its hilt plain, its weight heavier than it looks. Klaus kneels, picking it up with deliberate care.

The camera lingers on his hand as he turns the blade in the torchlight. For a heartbeat, his skin seems to pale, his knuckles whitening as if something beneath the surface recoils. But he does not drop it. Instead, he presses his thumb against the edge, just hard enough to bead a line of blood. His lips curl—not in pain, but in something unreadable: distaste, fascination, perhaps even hunger.

One of the villagers dares to approach. “My lord… careful, that one’s iron.” The warning is meant in kindness, a peasant’s superstition. Klaus glances at the man, and for a moment his orange eyes catch the firelight, burning far too bright. He smiles faintly, sliding the dagger back into its cracked sheath. “Yes. So I have heard.” His tone makes the words a jest, but the audience hears the lie behind it.

When the villager retreats, Kuchen pads closer and sniffs at the pile, growling low, hackles rising. Klaus lays a hand on the wolf’s head, calming him instantly. “Even beasts know what bites deeper than teeth,” he murmurs. Then he turns away, cloak sweeping behind him, leaving the iron blade atop the heap as though it weighs far more than any mortal should carry.

The camera lingers on the dagger for one beat longer. The music softens, a single note held just too long, pulling the audience into that space of doubt. What is he, that steel is nothing, that holy water burns not, yet iron stirs something he cannot quite conceal? The question hangs like fog, unanswered.

That night, when the fires die down, Klaus walks into the frosty air with his wolves. They prowl at his side, their bellies full, their eyes bright. He gazes out over the village, smoke rising gently from the rooftops. “My people,” he murmurs, his voice both tender and sharp. “Mine to guard. Mine to feed upon—if ever I forgot myself.” Kuchen yawns, Gauner trips over his own tail, and Klaus laughs darkly. “Even God sends me jesters,” he mutters, before vanishing back into the mist.

Episode 16: “Mask of the Saint”

The episode opens in the vaulted gloom of a cathedral. Klaus kneels among bishops and noblemen, head bowed, every inch the loyal Catholic count. Candles flicker against marble saints, incense curls around him, and the choir’s chant rises like a river. The Church has summoned him to prove his devotion—suspicions whisper louder than they’d like to admit. He takes communion, bread and wine, his lips moving in perfect cadence with the liturgy. The camera lingers on his face, serene and unreadable, as if no stain could touch him.

Later, in the vestry, a young deacon stumbles carrying a reliquary box. The lid falls open, scattering relics and tokens across the stone floor. Klaus bends to help. His fingers brush a shard of crude iron nailed long ago into some martyr’s coffin. The metal cuts him and bites deeper than it should. His hand freezes a moment too long. His eyes flick sideways, gauging if anyone has noticed. None have. He closes his fist around the shard, tucks it neatly back into the box, and offers the boy a smile as smooth as polished glass. The audience, though, has seen the flicker of strain.

The bishops whisper among themselves afterward: this lord is clean, almost holy. His generosity to the church, his confession, his communion—all beyond reproach. Klaus speaks little, but when he does it is sharp and sure. “Tyrol must be defended, as God’s vineyard must be tended.” They nod, satisfied. His mask is flawless.

That night, he walks alone through cloister gardens, the wolves trailing at a distance. He unwraps his hand beneath the moonlight, revealing a narrow welt across his palm, darker than an ordinary cut, still unhealed. He touches it with his other hand, tracing the line with something like curiosity, something like loathing. “Ah… if only they knew what does work.” His chuckle is low, humorless. Kuchen growls at the smell; Gauner whines, pawing at the grass. Klaus flexes his fingers, and the wound remains.

The following day, reports of a heretic sect reach the Church. Klaus volunteers to investigate, to purge them. His fervor convinces the clergy: surely no heretic hides beneath this zeal. Yet when he hunts them down, the slaughter is too swift, too efficient. Sword against neck, wolves snapping bone. The survivors mutter his name not as saint, but as shadow.

In the midst of battle, an arrow flies—iron-tipped. It grazes his shoulder. He staggers, more from the surprise than the wound. Blood soaks his doublet, hot and slow to clot. For the first time in the series, the audience sees Klaus pressed, his strength flickering. The wolves snap the archer’s spine before he can notch another shaft. Klaus pulls the arrow free, jaw clenched, the iron head gleaming red. He crushes it in his palm until it breaks.

The episode closes with Klaus before the altar again, kneeling as if nothing is amiss. The wound still bleeds beneath his tunic, hidden. The bishop lays a hand on his shoulder, calling him Tyrol’s faithful son. The choir swells. The irony burns sharper than the iron did.

Episode 17: “Blood in the Snow”

The episode opens with Klaus riding along the jagged passes of Tyrol, the snow a sheet of silence beneath his horse’s hooves. Kuchen and Gauner flank him, their eyes alert to shadows among the rocks. A local monastery has begged for aid—travelers have vanished, their blood staining the drifts. Klaus accepts without hesitation, his mask of piety perfectly in place. To the monks, he is the vigilant count; to the audience, he is a predator on the prowl.

Inside the monastery’s hall, trembling brothers describe the attacks: not wolves, but something darker. Klaus listens, his orange eyes lit by the hearth. “If God permits, I will see the beast broken,” he declares. The monks bow their heads, reassured. One old friar presses an iron cross into his palm as protection. Klaus takes it calmly and without further thought, he tucks it into his cloak.

That night, a scream tears through the wind. Klaus finds the culprit: a malformed ghoul feeding on the last of the monastery’s pilgrims. His blade flashes in the moonlight, elegant and merciless, cutting through flesh and bone. The wolves circle, snapping, herding the creature into Klaus’s reach. When it falls, Klaus kneels, driving his sword home with a soldier’s precision. The monks, watching from the walls, see their savior.

But the ghoul’s claw has raked Klaus across the chest. The monks rush to tend him, offering wine and cloth. He waves them off with an easy smile. “It is nothing.” Later, alone in his chambers, he strips his tunic and finds the wound unhealing—not from the ghoul’s talons, but from the iron cross he had carried against his chest. Where it hung in the fight, it pressed into the wound the ghoul gave him and has burned further into his chest, leaving a mark deeper than any claw- not on his skin, but into the flesh beyond it.

He holds the cross up, staring at it with unreadable eyes. “Not holy water. Not silver. Just this.” He sets it down carefully, as though it were a relic and a curse both. Kuchen paws at it, whining, while Gauner growls as if sensing its offense. Klaus smirks faintly. “If only they knew.” He rewraps his chest, dons fresh clothes, and walks out as though nothing touched him.

The monks celebrate their deliverance with prayer and song. They call Klaus a blessed lord, a defender of Christendom. He kneels among them, lips moving in prayer, though his eyes remain half-lidded, the picture of perfect serenity. The camera pans to his bandaged chest, blood slowly soaking through, unseen by any but the wolves at his side.

The episode closes with a stark image: Klaus standing in the snow outside the monastery, wolves at heel, the iron cross gleaming faintly where he’s left it jammed into the door. Inside, the monks chant hymns of victory. Outside, their savior watches with a gaze that is neither man’s nor beast’s, but something in between.

Episode 18: “The Wound That Would Not Heal”

The episode opens in Klaus’s great hall at Nibelheim, high in the Tyrolean mountains. Snow howls outside, rattling shutters, but inside his retainers and servants feast. Klaus sits at the head of the table, every inch the noble host—smiling, offering wine, breaking bread. Yet beneath his embroidered tunic, the wound left by the iron cross has begun to fester. His hand strays to it again and again. Kuchen whines beneath the table while Gauner gnaws loudly on a bone, both restless.

When the retainers leave, Klaus retreats to his chamber. In the quiet, he strips away the bandages. The gash is wrong—dark at the edges, sluggish to mend, unlike any cut he’s borne before. He tests himself methodically. A dagger point pricks his palm: a single drop of blood as expected. Holy water poured across his chest leaves only dampness. A line of silver dragged along his forearm leaves no mark.

He lingers by the hearth, eyes narrowing, then turns to the wall where an ancient iron nail juts from the timber. He presses the dagger against it—metal ringing faintly. He breaks the nail from the wall with his bare hand and hesitates a moment before pressing it to the wound, fire lances through his side. His breath hisses sharp between his teeth. The flesh smokes faintly, the cut raw and angry. He drops the old nail and it clatters to the floor.

The wolves react instantly. Kuchen growls, hackles rising, while Gauner whines, pawing at the floor as if to bat the dagger away. Klaus steadies them with a raised hand, eyes never leaving the angry wound.

A low, humorless laugh breaks the silence. “… aged cold iron,” he murmurs. His tone is half amusement, half warning to himself. He traces the wound once more with his fingers, then lets the hand fall. “So that’s it.”

Klaus remains seated, the dagger still warm in his grip, the faint scent of scorched flesh lingering in the chamber. He rolls the blade slowly in his hand, studying the sheen of iron along its edge. His lips part in a thoughtful hum, not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. “So old iron remembers,” he says softly, almost reverently, as if the metal itself carries a memory of something before even he was born.

He lowers the weapon, eyes catching on the hearth. The embers are dying, but the wolves haven’t moved far. Kuchen’s heavy head rests on his paws, eyes glinting with unease, while Gauner presses close to Klaus’s leg, tail tucked as though he fears the nail in the wall itself. Klaus strokes the smaller wolf’s ears, an absentminded motion. “It doesn’t burn at a touch, doesn’t scar on the surface,” he muses aloud. “Only when it slides beneath, into blood and marrow. A secret well kept.”

The wolves’ ears flick at his tone, sensing the gravity though not the meaning. Klaus’s gaze drifts toward the shuttered window, where snow drifts against the glass. His smile turns thin and sharp. “I should thank them for their weapons, so clumsy, so crude. What hunter drives his prey without knowing how?” He leans back, stretching, and the wound pulls tight, drawing another low chuckle from him. “The Church sharpens silver. They bless water. They raise crosses. And they pray. All wasted.”

Kuchen lets out a low, questioning whine, and Klaus answers it like he would a companion, not a beast. “Yes. They missed the one thing that matters, at least for me.” His eyes gleam in the half-light, colder than the mountain beyond the walls. “And as long as they miss it, I walk freely.”

He tosses the dagger into the coals, where it hisses and dies. The wolves flinch at the sound. Klaus rises, his cloak sliding across the floor, and stands before the window as the snowstorm swallows the land. His hand presses lightly against the wound, feeling the sting still raw within. “Iron is for coffins, not for me.”

The next day, emissaries arrive from Innsbruck, bringing news that another “beast” has plagued merchant routes. Klaus hosts them warmly, offering wine and counsel. They see only a count of impeccable faith, a loyal servant of both church and empire. One envoy even praises him as “the iron shield of Tyrol.” Klaus forces a smile, fingers tightening on his goblet at the irony. The wolves, sensing his agitation, growl until he silences them with a glance.

That night he rides to confront the beast: a true vampire, pale and ravenous, feeding on the caravan trails. Klaus engages it with sword and speed, his blows elegant, his movements almost too precise to follow. Yet mid-duel, his iron wound flares. His arm falters; the vampire seizes its chance, nearly tearing his throat. Only Kuchen and Gauner’s furious assault pulls it off long enough for Klaus to rally and decapitate the monster with one brutal strike.

Exhausted, Klaus collapses into the snow, wolves standing guard. He stares at the stars, breath steaming, muttering: “Not holy water. Not crosses. Not even their blessed silver. Just old iron.” His hand presses the wound again, still raw. “If they knew… oh, if they knew…” His laugh turns into a growl.

Returning home, he forces himself into his role once more. The villagers cheer their “savior,” calling him God’s chosen knight. He smiles with polished charm, offering blessings, even kneeling in prayer before the chapel altar. The camera lingers on the iron nails in the centuries old rafters above him, his eyes flicking toward them for just a fraction of a second before bowing his head.

The episode ends with a chilling image: Klaus alone in his chamber, staring into a polished mirror. His reflection flickers faintly, not gone but distorted, as though the wound is interfering with his glamour. He leans close, voice low, almost to himself: “If this is the price of blood… then let it never heal.” Kuchen and Gauner curl beside the bed, watchful and uneasy.

Episode 19: “The Saint’s Shadow”

The bells of a mountain monastery toll at dawn. Pilgrims climb the icy path toward its stone gates, murmuring prayers as relics are displayed to the faithful. Among them walks Klaus, cloaked and hooded, wolves padding silent at his side. His wound still aches, the pull of cold iron lingering in every breath, but he wears the mask of the pious lord, humble before holy ground. The monks greet him warmly, some bowing low, grateful for his patronage. None question why their benefactor never seems to age.

Inside, the relic unveiled is said to be the “Sword of Saint Florian,” rusted and ancient, kept in a reliquary of glass and gold. Klaus’s eyes linger on it too long, his hand straying to his side. The blade’s corroded edge is black with age—old iron. He forces a smile as the monks praise its divine power. A visiting bishop remarks on Klaus’s steadfast devotion, proclaiming him “a beacon of God’s mercy in Tyrol.” Klaus inclines his head gracefully, but his eyes never leave the relic.

That night, thieves break into the monastery, hired by a rival noble. Klaus moves through the shadows after them, wolves circling like phantoms. He slaughters the intruders one by one, sword flashing in moonlight. But when one thief shatters the reliquary and brandishes the saint’s rusted sword, Klaus hesitates. The wound in his side burns hot, his breath shortens. For a moment the thief sees not a nobleman but something monstrous—fangs bared, eyes glowing. Klaus rallies, disarms him, and drives the thief’s own dagger through his throat. He does not touch the relic.

When the monks discover the carnage at dawn, Klaus kneels before them, blood still spattered across his cloak, wolves at his side. He presents the broken reliquary and vows to cover the cost of its restoration. The monks call him “the Saint’s Shadow,” their protector. The bishop insists the thieves were damned souls, and Klaus’s intervention was proof of God’s hand guiding him. Klaus smiles thinly, bowing his head. No one notices how tightly he grips his side, the wound throbbing in resonance with the ancient blade still lying shattered on the stone.

Later, in his chamber, Klaus tends the wound himself. It is no worse than before, but the sight of the relic gnaws at him. He tests his reflection in polished silver: clear. He dips a hand in blessed water: nothing. He lifts a sharpened steel blade, drags it gently across his forearm: the flesh bleeds as expected. Finally, he stares at a single splinter of rusted iron salvaged from the reliquary, its edge flaking with time. He does not press it to his skin. Instead, he places it carefully in a coffer, locking it away. His muttered words hang in the quiet: “God’s relic… or just old iron. Let them believe what they will.”

The wolves curl at his feet, restless, their golden eyes fixed on the coffer. Kuchen growls low, while Gauner noses at Klaus’s hand as if to push it away from the wound. Klaus chuckles softly, stroking their fur. “Peace. The church would call it holy. I know better. But they’ll never see the difference.” His tone is cold amusement, but his gaze flickers once toward the chapel’s distant spire, the faint toll of its bells carried by the wind.

The episode closes with a haunting image: pilgrims filing into the monastery, kneeling before the relic, chanting prayers. Among them stands Klaus, disguised once more, wolves hidden in the shadows. The camera lingers on his face as he bows his head, lips curling in a smile only the audience can see. To the faithful, he is the saint’s guardian. To himself, he is something far older, far darker—and he alone knows the truth of what can unmake him.

Episode 20: “The Beast of Brenner Pass”

Snow blankets the Brenner Pass, the great artery between Tyrol and Italy. Merchants brave the treacherous road, hauling goods under heavy guard. Recently, however, caravans have been found torn apart, wagons overturned, men dismembered. Rumors spread of a beast that walks like a man, howling in the night. Peasants whisper of wolves, vampires, even demons. The Church sends riders to investigate. Klaus rides with them, outwardly a loyal noble offering service, inwardly hunting what dares trespass in his mountains.

The riders pray as they travel. Klaus listens silently, offering murmured amens when expected. The wolves pad at his side, Kuchen plodding dutifully while Gauner darts ahead, nose to the snow. Around the campfires, the soldiers tell stories of saints driving back monsters with crosses, of relics burning demons into ash. One soldier asks Klaus if he’s ever seen such things. He smiles politely. “I have seen much. I have seen God’s light fall on the faithful. And I have seen shadows crawl where no prayer reached.” His words unsettle them, but no one dares press him further.

That night, Klaus stalks ahead alone, slipping into the pass’s narrow gorges. The air is heavy, the snow disturbed by clawed tracks too large for wolves. From the dark, something moves—a hulking shape, fur black as coal, eyes like embers. A schrat, an old Tyrolean spirit twisted by hunger, half man, half beast. It charges, claws raking stone. Klaus meets it with steel, blade ringing, wolves circling. The duel is savage—Klaus bleeding freely from slashes, his sword cleaving deep but never enough. Every strike draws blood, but his body refuses to fail.

Mid-battle, the schrat hurls Klaus into a rockface. He crashes against old timbers from an abandoned watchpost, the impact driving a buried nail deep into his shoulder. His scream tears the night—a sound not wholly human. The wolves howl in unison, frantic. The schrat pauses, startled, sensing something unnatural. Klaus rips himself free, the wound smoking, agony coursing through him. Rage overtakes restraint. He becomes a blur of steel and claw, striking with inhuman speed. Kuchen leaps, sinking his jaws into the spirit’s throat, while Gauner barrels into its legs. Klaus finishes it in a whirlwind, driving his blade clean through its heart.

When the beast collapses, the snow is painted red. Klaus staggers, clutching his smoking wound. The wolves whimper, pressing close, licking his blood from their fur as though they can comfort him. He drops to one knee, breathing ragged. “Old iron,” he growls through clenched teeth, snapping the rusted nail out of his flesh. He hurls it away, and it vanishes into the snow. His sword trembles in his hand—not from fear, but from fury.

By dawn, the riders find the carcass of the schrat torn open, Klaus standing over it, his cloak soaked in blood. He greets them with weary dignity, voice smooth despite his pain. “The beast is ended. Your roads are safe.” The bishop’s men proclaim it a miracle, that God gave their count the strength to fight where none could. Klaus bows his head humbly, though his lips twitch in a faint smile. None notice his hand pressed tightly to his side, the wound not closing as it should.

That night, back in Nibelheim, Klaus sits before the fire. The wolves sleep nearby, their fur still matted with blood. He rolls a shard of cold iron between his fingers, taken from the watchpost nail. He stares at it too long, eyes catching the glow of the flames. Finally, he sets it into a coffer with the splinter from the monastery’s relic. “A pattern,” he murmurs. “And patterns always have an end.” He closes the lid and clasps it shut. His smile is thin, dangerous. “But not mine.”

The episode ends on the mountain itself, winds howling, snow blowing across the pass. Klaus’s laughter—low, humorless—carries faintly on the gale, as though the land itself acknowledges its Wolf Lord.

Episode 21: “The Unbowed Night” Season Finale

Snow falls thick on Nibelheim, muting the world in white. Word reaches Klaus that the Church has sent not riders this time, but a full delegation—bishops, inquisitors, soldiers with banners raised. Their mission: to purge Tyrol of “the spreading darkness.” Whispers say they come for vampires, for witches, for nameless horrors that stalk the valleys. Klaus hosts them in his great hall with warmth and ceremony, his smile easy, wolves dozing at his feet like docile hounds. The emissaries look upon him and see a noble count, pious and steadfast. He kneels with them in prayer, kisses the cross, drinks the wine. None suspect.

But the mountains rumble with another presence. That night, a true fiend descends—an untotenfürst, a “prince of the dead,” drawn by the clash of holy power and Klaus’s aura. It commands a host of revenants, their bodies still clad in broken armor, eyes burning like coals. The Church’s soldiers panic, their relics barely holding the dead at bay. Bishops cry for God’s mercy, their chants faltering as the tide pushes inward. Klaus steps into the storm, cloak swirling, blade gleaming. “In God’s name,” he declares for their ears—while for himself, under his breath: “In mine.”

The battle rages across the snow. Klaus fights with a speed that borders on impossible, his wolves tearing revenants limb from limb. Soldiers gape, caught between awe and terror, as their count carves through the dead like an avenging saint. Yet the untotenfürst notices him. It wields a pitted blade, tipped with aged cold iron. When their swords clash, Klaus recoils as pain shoots up his arm, wounds reopening with searing agony. He falters—but Kuchen barrels in, snapping at the fiend’s leg, while Gauner distracts it with reckless fury. Using the opening, Klaus rallies, plunging his steel into the creature’s chest and twisting until the body collapses in black smoke.

The battlefield grows quiet. Soldiers kneel, bishops raise their hands, proclaiming Klaus a miracle of God’s grace. They chant his name as savior of Tyrol. He bows his head humbly, though his body trembles from the hidden agony of the cold iron strike. The wolves sit solemnly at his side, for once silent, their eyes fixed on him as if they too sense the price he has paid. Klaus hides his grimace behind a smile, pressing his palm over the wound as he whispers for himself alone: “Not God. Never God.”

That night, the Church delegation departs with songs of praise. They will carry word of the Wolf Lord’s faith and valor across the Alps. No suspicion lingers in their hearts. Alone in his chamber, Klaus strips away the bloodied tunic, staring at the wound that will not close. He places the shard of cold iron from the battle into his coffer with the others, sealing it tight. The wolves whine softly, circling near. Klaus strokes their fur, gaze distant. “They believe I am their shield,” he murmurs. His eyes gleam faintly in the candlelight—predator’s eyes, wolf’s eyes. “But shields break. And when mine does…” His chuckle is low, dangerous. “We will see who bleeds.”

The season ends on a slow pull back: Klaus at his window, overlooking the mountains under moonlight, the wolves flanking him like shadows. Snow drifts heavy, the land silent, as if all Tyrol itself is holding its breath.