ALBUM EXPLANATION

My mother told me
that when the night grows bold,
a hunter must rise.

Not for crowns.
Not for songs.
But because someone must walk
where the light will not.

She sang of shadows wearing human faces,
of wolves that howled with stolen voices,
of kings who drank the blood of fear.

And she spoke one name
like a blade drawn slow:
Van Helsing.

He was raised on warning,
not comfort.
Taught that mercy must be earned,
and courage must be chosen.

When the road called,
he answered.
Village to village,
each quieter than the last,
doors barred, prayers whispered.

In the forests,
wolves rose on two legs.
Silver spoke.
The night listened.

He learned that strength alone would fail him.
So he studied the dark,
named it,
and still walked forward.

Steel was forged for dawn.
Faith was carried, not worn.
The weapons did not make him holy—
they only followed his will.

Not all monsters roared.
Some wept in stone chambers,
remembering love.
Some victories were quiet.

All shadows led upward,
to a throne of bone and night.
Dracula waited.
The hunter came.

Below the world they met,
where sunlight feared to follow.
Steel sang.
Chains broke.

When dawn rose,
it did not ask who won.
It simply shone.

My mother told me
heroes do not die.
They become songs.
They become warnings.

Van Helsing did not end the night.
He proved…
it could be fought.

Remember him.
When the darkness listens.