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As the sun's last vestiges succumbed to the embrace of night, a sombre glow emanated from within Castle Dracula. The soft flicker of candles, their light more arcane than illuminative, played upon the walls, casting shifting shadows that seemed to dance to an otherworldly rhythm. And into this mystic ambiance, a procession of vehicles wound their way, arriving at the castle's foreboding entrance. Within these vehicles, harboured in the shadows, sat an assembly of formidable beings - an assembly of the supernatural, the elite members of the Council of Night.

Among them was Aria Nightshade, her spectral presence wrapped in an aura of melancholic elegance, as she slowly emerged from one of the vehicles. Her dark attire seemed to meld seamlessly with the night as she walked, a testament to her mastery of shadows. Sunglasses shielded her ethereal eyes from the faint light, an unspoken necessity in the presence of the moon's pale glow. Her heart, despite its centuries of existence, quickened with anticipation and a touch of uncertainty. Dracula's message had carried an urgency that transcended time and distance, a siren call that had drawn the council members from diverse corners of the world to converge upon this clandestine gathering.

The banshee's gaze swept over the assembly, each member a representative of their own unique breed of darkness. Werewolves, vampires, creatures of lore - all united under the Council's banner, all bound by an alliance that straddled the fine line between coexistence and chaos. Aria felt a kinship with them all, an unspoken understanding that stretched beyond words.

With a steadying breath, Aria’s ghostly form glided gracefully over the ancient stones. Her voice, hauntingly beautiful and imbued with centuries of sorrow, remained silent for now, held in reserve for the moments to come. The air itself seemed to whisper in reverence as she traversed the threshold of Castle Dracula, a testament to her millennia-long existence and her role within the Council of Night. She made her way to the Council chamber, the large doors opening as if by magic once she was near. 

The banshee often chose silence in a realm where words held immense weight. It was a choice born not of timidity, but of reverence for the gravity of a situation. Instead of verbal greetings, she offered a subtle incline of her head to her fellow council members seated inside, acknowledging their presence in a manner that transcended language. Her steps were nearly soundless against the polished floors as she walked to her seat, placing her glasses on the table once seated and awaiting the Count’s appearance with familiar patience.