The dawn was cold and cruel, casting the castle of Targovi?te in a harsh, unforgiving light. Outside its gates, three bodies hung impaled on iron spikes, their blood staining the frost-covered ground. Agrippina, Sorinah, and Daciana, once Nauthizia’s closest confidants, now served as a grim declaration of the kingdom’s rebirth and the price of failure. The impalements would also warn the Ottomans and cement the illusion that Nauthizia, the grieving queen, had succumbed to despair.


    Nauthizia—or rather, Nauthiz—stood before the grisly display, his cloak billowing in the icy wind. The transformation had solidified overnight, and while Nauthizia still lingered within, her guise as Nauthiz now served a greater purpose. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Servants murmured in hushed tones as they moved through the courtyard, their eyes wide with fear. None dared approach the towering figure of Nauthiz, who oversaw the scene with cold detachment.


    Inside the castle, Nauthizia’s chambers were staged to perfection. The bed was unmade, the floor strewn with fragments of a shattered mirror. A bloodied garment—a torn piece of her dress—was placed near the open window, its edges darkened to suggest a fall.


    “The people will mourn her,” Nauthiz said aloud, his voice low and even. “But they will follow me.”