《Countess Dracula: Vampire[ss]》 Act I: Scene 1: Theft of the Prince The bells of Targovi?te tolled a mournful tune, their echoes carried on the winter wind. Nauthizia sat alone in the hall of the castle, her hands trembling as she read the missive again. The parchment felt heavy, though its words were few. The Sultan requires your son for his service.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. She let the letter fall to the table, her breath shallow. Across from her, the chair once occupied by her husband, Constantine, stood empty. His absence felt sharper now, though it had been months since he fell in battle, defending Wallachia from Ottoman encroachment. In life, Constantine had been her shield, her stalwart defender. In his death, she had forged a new protector: her twin brother, Nauthiz. Act I: Scene 2: The Dual Ruler The hall doors creaked open, and Agrippina entered, her sharp eyes assessing the scene. ¡°They¡¯ve arrived,¡± she said curtly. ¡°The envoy is at the gates.¡± Nauthizia rose from her chair, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as she allowed the transformation to begin. She drew in a deep breath, steadying her voice as she molded it into something deeper, firmer. Her slender frame straightened, her gait shifted, and when she turned to face Agrippina, it was not the queen who stood there, but the Llieutenant of Wallachia, Nauthiz Dr?culea, secondary ruler in Constantine¡¯s stead. ¡°The boy remains here,¡± Nauthiz said, his tone commanding. Agrippina¡¯s lips twitched, almost a smile. ¡°You had better hope the Ottomans believe that.¡± Nauthiz brushed past her without a word, the clink of boots on stone punctuating his resolve. The gates yawned open to reveal the Ottoman envoy, his horse snorting in the bitter cold. His soldiers formed a silent line behind him, their curved swords sheathed but gleaming nonetheless. At their center stood Vlad, the boy barely ten winters old, his dark curls wild from the wind. He looked so small among them, so impossibly young. Nauthiz descended the steps with measured authority, his fur-lined cloak sweeping the frost-covered stones. ¡°You trespass on Wallachian soil,¡± he said without preamble. ¡°Explain yourself.¡± The envoy dismounted leisurely, his lips curling into a faint smirk. ¡°Lieutenant Dr?culea,¡± he said smoothly. ¡°The Sultan sends his regards.¡± A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ¡°Your Sultan has no authority here,¡± Nauthiz replied, the bite in his words cold as the air between them. The envoy ignored the slight, gesturing to Vlad. ¡°The boy is to be taken to the Sultan¡¯s court. He will serve with honor, a living symbol of Wallachia¡¯s loyalty.¡± Nauthiz stiffened, his gloved hands curling into fists. ¡°The child of Wallachia¡¯s ruler is not a pawn to be bartered.¡± ¡°Your queen¡¯s mourning has left her¡­ fragile,¡± the envoy said. His eyes glittered with condescension. ¡°The Sultan offers her a chance to redeem her loyalty.¡± Nauthiz stepped closer, his imposing form looming over the envoy. ¡°Your Sultan does not own this land. He does not own my people. And he does not own my sister¡¯s child.¡± The envoy¡¯s smirk faltered for the first time. ¡°You would defy the Sultan¡¯s will?¡± ¡°I defy no man,¡± Nauthiz said, his voice low and cutting. ¡°I rule my people as I see fit. You will leave now, or your bones will warm the ground beneath your feet.¡± For a moment, the air stilled. The soldiers exchanged uncertain glances, their hands hovering near their weapons. Vlad¡¯s wide eyes darted between the envoy and Nauthiz, his small frame trembling in the cold. But the envoy¡¯s confidence returned as quickly as it had wavered. ¡°A fine performance,¡± he said, his voice dripping with derision. ¡°But the Sultan¡¯s will is law.¡± He turned to his men. ¡°Take the boy.¡± The soldiers surged forward, pulling Vlad toward the waiting horses. Nauthiz lunged, his hand reaching for the child, but one of the soldiers struck him hard across the jaw. The blow sent him sprawling to the frozen ground, the icy mud biting into his skin. ¡°Mother!¡± Vlad¡¯s cry tore through the air, breaking the facade. The envoy paused, turning back just long enough to see the truth. Nauthiz¡¯s form flickered, his broad shoulders narrowing, his commanding presence crumbling under the weight of anguish. For the briefest moment, the envoy¡¯s smirk widened, understanding the depth of the deception. The gates closed behind the Ottoman party, their victory echoing in the hollow silence they left behind. Nauthizia lay in the dirt, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Behind her, the murmurs began. The people who had watched from the shadows now whispered among themselves. Words like weak and unfit drifted through the cold. But Nauthizia didn¡¯t hear them. She was staring at the empty horizon, at the place where her son had disappeared, her heart burning with grief and fury. By the time she stood, blood dripping from her palms where her nails had bitten into them, a new determination had taken root. If the world would not see her strength as a mother or a queen, then they would know it through something else entirely. Act I: Scene 3: Despair The castle of Targovi?te felt more like a mausoleum than a seat of power. Its halls, once lively with the sounds of courtly chatter and soldiers¡¯ drills, had fallen into a dreadful silence. The fires in the hearths burned low, their embers a feeble glow that did little to hold back the cold. The servants shuffled through the corridors, their heads bowed and their murmurs like ghosts. Nauthizia sat in her chambers, staring at the flickering flame of a single candle. On the table before her lay a letter, its edges curled from too many folds. It was her latest attempt, though she had already burned several drafts. The words on the page carried her heartache: To His Most Exalted Majesty, the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, I beseech you¡­ She stopped reading. The plea tasted like ashes in her mouth. What dignity was left in her to grovel before the man who had stolen her son? Yet, what choice did she have? She could not march into Ottoman territory alone, nor could her weakened army mount a campaign. She refolded the letter, her trembling hands betraying the composure she wore like armor, and tossed it into the fire. The flames devoured her words with indifferent ease, leaving only her reflection in the frost-dappled window. Gaunt, pale, and hollow-eyed, the woman staring back at her was unrecognizable. Constantine¡¯s death had taken one part of her; Vlad¡¯s abduction had stolen the rest. Nauthizia Dr?culea, the Queen of Wallachia, was a broken thing pretending to rule.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The weight of her deception as Nauthiz¡ªthe kingdom¡¯s lieutenant¡ªpressed down on her like lead. It had been necessary to maintain her people¡¯s faith, to give them a strong figure to follow after her husband fell. But Nauthiz¡¯s voice, his strength, his authority¡ªthey were a lie. And every time she donned his visage, the cracks in her soul widened. A knock broke the silence, a sharp rap on the heavy wooden door. Nauthizia stiffened, straightening in her chair. Her voice, steadied with practiced ease, carried a note of command. ¡°Enter.¡± The door creaked open, revealing Agrippina, her sharp eyes glittering in the dim light. The Telepath stepped inside without hesitation, her movements fluid and deliberate. She closed the door behind her, sealing the room in an uncomfortable intimacy. ¡°You haven¡¯t eaten,¡± Agrippina said, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. ¡°I¡¯m not hungry,¡± Nauthizia replied, her tone colder than intended. Agrippina¡¯s gaze swept over the untouched plates on the table, then returned to Nauthizia with a flicker of disapproval. ¡°The people whisper that their queen has gone mad.¡± ¡°They¡¯re half-right,¡± Nauthizia muttered, her lips curling into a bitter smile. Agrippina tilted her head, her expression softening. ¡°Grief does not have to consume you, Nauthizia.¡± ¡°And what would you have me do?¡± Nauthizia snapped, her composure splintering. ¡°Take up arms and march into Ottoman territory? Challenge the Sultan himself? My son is gone, and I cannot¡ª¡± Her voice cracked, and she turned toward the window, clutching the sill for support. Agrippina¡¯s voice was quiet but unyielding. ¡°You cannot bring him back. Not as you are.¡± Nauthizia turned, her glare sharp as the edge of a dagger. ¡°What are you suggesting?¡± Agrippina hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. ¡°There is a way,¡± she said finally, ¡°to ensure that no one ever takes from you again. A way to become something they cannot touch.¡± Act I: Scene 4: The Ritual The chapel loomed like a great, lifeless beast on the edge of the castle grounds, its jagged stones blackened by time and neglect. Inside, the torches sputtered weakly against the cold, their flickering light barely illuminating the circle etched into the floor with fresh blood. The air was heavy, oppressive, tinged with the coppery scent of sacrifice. Nauthizia stood in the doorway, her breath clouding before her in the icy air. Every instinct screamed at her to leave, to retreat into the comforting dark of her chambers, but the whispers of her son¡¯s name pushed her forward. She stepped inside, her boots echoing against the cracked stones. Agrippina, Sorinah, and Daciana stood at the points of the circle, their expressions hidden beneath their heavy cloaks. In the dim light, they resembled spectral figures¡ªharbingers of something ancient and cruel. ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± Sorinah said, her tone as sharp as the icy wind that followed Nauthizia into the chapel. ¡°Do you waver, Queen?¡± Nauthizia¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°I am here,¡± she said simply, though her voice faltered. ¡°Then kneel,¡± Daciana ordered, her lips curling into a smile that was more predatory than welcoming. ¡°No power worth having will bow to one who stands above it.¡± The command grated against Nauthizia¡¯s pride, but she obeyed, lowering herself to her knees at the center of the circle. The cold stone bit into her skin even through her dress. She glanced down at the runes etched beneath her, their lines intricate and jagged, pulsing faintly with an inner light. ¡°Tonight,¡± Agrippina began, her voice low and steady, ¡°we call upon the divinities who see the plight of our homeland. Tonight, we summon their wrath and their salvation.¡± Sorinah stepped forward, a bowl of dark liquid in her hands. She poured its contents over the runes, and the blood hissed as it touched the stone, the symbols flaring brightly. ¡°Tonight, Wallachia will have its savior,¡± she said, her words laced with a dark promise. Daciana laughed softly, a sound that sent a chill down Nauthizia¡¯s spine. ¡°Yes, our savior. A man to wield this kingdom¡¯s fury. A king to cleanse it of weakness.¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Nauthizia¡¯s head snapped up, her breath catching. ¡°A man?¡± she whispered. Agrippina¡¯s gaze met hers, calm and unwavering. ¡°The divinities do not answer the cries of the weak. They demand strength. They demand a vessel worthy of their power.¡± Her mind raced as the truth began to sink in. This ritual was not meant to empower her. It was meant to erase her, to replace her with the form she had worn as a mask: Nauthiz. ¡°No,¡± she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ¡°It is already decided,¡± Sorinah said coldly. ¡°You gave yourself to this, Nauthizia. You will thank us when the pain is done.¡± The torches dimmed as the chanting began, a cacophony of voices weaving through the air. Agrippina¡¯s words were sharp and deliberate, carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. Sorinah¡¯s were guttural, biting into the silence with raw power. Daciana¡¯s voice was a low, seductive hiss, her words like venom slipping into a wound. The first bat was brought forth, its wings trembling weakly. Agrippina held it carefully, her eyes distant as she murmured a prayer to Ralntahvix and Udokoht. Then, without hesitation, she sank her teeth into its neck. Blood dripped onto the runes, igniting them in crimson fire. One by one, the women followed suit. Sorinah invoked Padishah Ahraesh, her hands steady as she tore into the fragile body of another bat. Daciana¡¯s laughter rang out as she prayed to Abbadex, her teeth bared as she savaged her offering. Nauthizia stared in horror as the blood soaked into the runes, the light spreading like veins through the floor. The air grew heavy, pressing down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. ¡°Now,¡± Agrippina said, turning to her. ¡°The last one is yours.¡± Sorinah held out the final bat, its small body trembling in her hands. ¡°Take it,¡± she commanded. Nauthizia hesitated, revulsion twisting her stomach. The creature¡¯s tiny heartbeat fluttered against her palm as she reached for it. ¡°Do not falter,¡± Daciana said sharply. ¡°Do you wish to see your son again? Do you wish to protect him?¡± The mention of Vlad struck like a blow, shattering her resistance. With trembling hands, she raised the bat to her lips and bit down. Warm, bitter blood filled her mouth, and the world exploded into fire and shadow. Pain lanced through her, sharp and unrelenting. Her body convulsed, her limbs twisting as though pulled by invisible strings. She fell to the ground, her screams swallowed by the growing hum that filled the air. ¡°Let it consume you,¡± Sorinah¡¯s voice echoed distantly. ¡°Let it take you.¡± Her bones cracked, her muscles tore and reknit themselves. Her mind fragmented, caught between rage, grief, and something primal. She felt herself being pulled apart, her identity unraveling, and her very being rewritten. Her skin burned as though fire coursed beneath it, her senses sharpening to a painful degree. The taste of blood lingered on her tongue, hot and metallic, and she could hear her heart pounding like a war drum. The runes on the floor flared brighter, their light searing her vision even through closed eyes. She felt herself being dragged deeper into the void, her mind splintering into fragments. She was Nauthizia, she was Nauthiz, she was something else entirely. Her memories became muddled, her thoughts consumed by a voice that whispered of power, of vengeance, of eternity. Act II: Scene 1: The Blood Price When the light finally dimmed, silence consumed the chapel. The acrid stench of blood and burnt herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the oppressive weight of the transformation. Nauthizia lay at the center of the ritual circle, trembling as the aftershocks of the magic coursed through her altered body. The stone beneath her was cold and slick with blood, the symbols that had burned so brightly now dim and lifeless. Her hand grazed a shard of broken glass on the ground. With a strained breath, she turned her head toward it, catching a glimpse of her reflection. But it wasn¡¯t her¡ªat least not the version of herself she had always known. Her face was sharper, her jawline angular, her shoulders broad and powerful. Her lips curled back slightly as she caught the glint of her elongated canine teeth. This was not Nauthizia. This was Nauthiz. But different. ¡°You¡¯ve truly become him,¡± Agrippina said softly, her telepathic voice trembling with awe. Her usually sharp eyes softened as she stepped forward, her hands clasped before her. ¡°Nauthiz, the savior Wallachia prayed for.¡± Sorinah knelt near the edge of the circle, her expression earnest as she whispered, ¡°We did it. The divinities answered us. You are power incarnate now¡ªa king who will protect Wallachia.¡± Daciana, always the boldest, smirked faintly, though her relief was evident in her voice. ¡°This is what you were meant to be, Nauthizia. Or rather, what you¡¯ve always been. The divinities merely stripped away the weakness to reveal your true strength.¡± Nauthiz rose slowly, his towering frame casting long shadows across the dimly lit chapel. Every movement felt foreign yet unnervingly natural. His heightened senses drank in the fear and awe radiating from the three women¡ªhis mentors, his confidants, his betrayers. ¡°You think you¡¯ve saved Wallachia,¡± Nauthiz said, his voice deep, resonant, and devoid of warmth. He turned his glowing eyes on Agrippina first. ¡°You think you¡¯ve given it a king.¡± Agrippina straightened her back, meeting his gaze with steady conviction. ¡°We did what had to be done. Wallachia needed a protector¡ªone who could stand against the Ottomans. Nauthizia¡¯s grief was consuming her. You are Wallachia¡¯s only hope.¡± If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Hope?¡± Nauthiz¡¯s laugh was low and sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. ¡°You call this hope?¡± He gestured to his transformed form, his voice rising with fury. ¡°You didn¡¯t just strip away weakness. You stripped away me. You made a monster!¡± Sorinah flinched, her hands curling into fists. ¡°We didn¡¯t destroy you, Nauthiz. We freed you. This is who you were always meant to be.¡± ¡°You decided who I was meant to be,¡± Nauthiz snarled, his glowing eyes narrowing as he took a step forward. ¡°You decided that Nauthizia was not enough. You didn¡¯t even tell me in time what you planned. You offered me to the divinities like a lamb to the slaughter!¡± Daciana stepped forward, her defiance cutting through the tension. ¡°You knew what was at stake! You knew what we prayed for! We gave you the strength to protect Wallachia. To protect Vlad.¡± At the mention of the boy, Nauthiz¡¯s fury boiled over. His fangs bared as he snarled, ¡°You dare speak of Vlad? You couldn¡¯t even keep him safe! You failed him. You failed me. And now you have the audacity to call this betrayal salvation?¡± Agrippina raised a trembling hand. ¡°We didn¡¯t betray you, Nauthiz. We saved you. Wallachia needed strength, and you¡ª¡± ¡°Enough.¡± Nauthiz¡¯s voice was cold and final, his towering form advancing on Agrippina. ¡°You don¡¯t understand what you¡¯ve done. But you will.¡± Before Agrippina could react, Nauthiz struck. His claws tore through her throat with inhuman precision, silencing her cry. Blood poured down his arms, and he drank deeply, the taste of her life force fueling the fire raging within him. Sorinah gasped, scrambling backward, her magic sparking weakly at her fingertips. ¡°Stop!¡± she shrieked, her voice trembling. ¡°We only wanted to save you!¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t save me,¡± Nauthiz growled, his voice low and venomous. ¡°You destroyed me.¡± Sorinah raised her hands, chanting a desperate incantation. A bolt of black magic crackled through the air, but Nauthiz moved with unholy speed, sidestepping the attack. In an instant, he was upon her, his claws sinking into her chest as she screamed. ¡°You prayed for a savior,¡± Nauthiz whispered, his voice chillingly calm. ¡°Instead, you¡¯ve unleashed a curse.¡± With a bite, he drained her life force in seconds, letting her body fall to the blood-soaked floor. Daciana¡¯s composure cracked as she backed toward the chapel doors. ¡°We gave you power!¡± she shouted, desperation lacing her voice. ¡°We trusted you to protect Wallachia!¡± ¡°You trusted me?¡± Nauthiz¡¯s laughter echoed, dark and unrelenting. ¡°No. You trusted your vision of me¡ªone you forced upon me without my consent.¡± Daciana turned to flee, but the shadows seemed to conspire against her, twisting and writhing as if alive. Nauthiz emerged from the darkness, his glowing eyes locking onto hers. ¡°You cannot escape me,¡± he said, his voice reverberating through the stone. ¡°You made me into this. Now face the monster you created!¡± With a feral snarl, he lunged, his fangs sinking into her throat. Her screams were brief, silenced as her blood burned through him like fire. As her lifeless body fell, the chapel descended into a heavy silence. Nauthiz stood among the bodies of the women who had once been his mentors. The crimson light of the runes flickered one last time before extinguishing, leaving only the glow of his eyes to illuminate the darkened chapel. ¡°You wanted a savior,¡± he murmured, his voice cold and hollow. ¡°Instead, you have a monster.¡± Act II: Scene 2: Staged 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¡ªor rather, Nauthiz¡ªstood 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¡ªa torn piece of her dress¡ªwas 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.¡± Act II: Scene 3: Transformations As the sun climbed higher, a dark energy stirred in the shadows of the impaled bodies. The souls of Agrippina, Sorinah, and Daciana, ripped from their mortal shells, hovered above the courtyard as pale, translucent forms. Their faces, once so composed in life, now twisted with rage and sorrow as they turned into phantoms. ¡°She betrayed us,¡± Agrippina¡¯s phantom hissed, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. ¡°We gave her power, and she used it against us,¡± Sorinah said, her spectral hands curling into fists. Daciana¡¯s phantom sneered. ¡°She will regret ever defying us. We will drag her into the Underworld ourselves.¡± Unseen by the three, another presence stirred in the distance. Constantine, spectral and silent, watched from the shadows of the castle¡¯s highest tower. His ghostly form shimmered faintly, his expression unreadable as he listened to their plotting. The mentors¡¯ phantoms drifted toward the castle, their anger growing with every whispered word. They spoke of vengeance, of unmaking the monster they had created, of tearing Dracula¡¯s soul apart piece by piece. They never saw Constantine coming.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The air grew colder, the shadows deepening as the ghost of the fallen king regent descended upon them. His form was darker now, his presence heavier, his eyes burning with an otherworldly light. ¡°You dare plot against her?¡± Constantine¡¯s voice rumbled, low and furious, echoing like a storm through the courtyard. The phantoms turned, their ethereal forms recoiling in shock. ¡°Constantine!¡± Agrippina gasped. He laughed, the sound cold and humorless. ¡°You think I would stand idly by while you sought to destroy her?¡± Without warning, Constantine lunged. His spectral form moved with terrifying speed, his hands ripping through Agrippina¡¯s essence like claws. Her scream was a piercing wail, cut short as he consumed her ectoplasm, her energy dissolving into him. Sorinah and Daciana tried to flee, their ghostly forms darting toward the edges of the courtyard, but Constantine was relentless. He caught Sorinah next, his grip unyielding as he pulled her essence apart piece by piece. ¡°You will not harm her,¡± he growled, his voice thick with rage. ¡°You will not undo what she has become.¡± Daciana, the last, tried to fight. Her spectral form flared with energy as she hurled herself at Constantine, but he absorbed her attack effortlessly. ¡°You betrayed her,¡± he said, his tone venomous. ¡°And now you are nothing.¡± With a final, bone-chilling scream, Daciana¡¯s phantom dissolved into him, her essence consumed like the others. The courtyard fell silent once more, the air heavy with the weight of what had transpired. Finally, Constantine stood alone beneath the pale morning sky, his form flickering faintly. The power he had consumed coursed through him, amplifying his presence. He looked toward the castle, his gaze lingering on the chambers where Nauthiz rested. ¡°You are not alone,¡± he murmured, though the words were for himself as much as for him. Above, the impaled bodies swayed in the wind, their lifeless faces a grim reminder of what had been sacrificed. Nauthiz would emerge as the ruler Wallachia needed, but Constantine would remain in the shadows, guarding the one who had given him purpose even in death. Act II: Scene 4: Guardian The moon cast a pale glow over Targovi?te Castle, its light fractured by the jagged silhouettes of the battlements. The air was still and biting, the frost settling on the stone like the memory of battles fought and lost. On the highest tower, Dracula¡ªcloaked in the guise of Nauthiz¡ªpaced with measured steps, his sharp eyes scanning the darkness beyond the walls. Below, the courtyard hummed with muted activity as soldiers drilled in tight formations, their weapons glinting dully in the faint moonlight. Unseen, another figure stood in the shadows of the tower. Constantine¡¯s ghost, half-formed and shimmering, watched silently. His spectral form was a blend of substance and void, his presence a whisper against the stone. His gaze never left the figure pacing before him, a mixture of sorrow and admiration etched into his translucent features.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. He stood vigilant. Constantine had lingered after death, his spirit bound by an oath unspoken but unbreakable. He had watched her transformation from afar, felt the surge of power that had both remade and unmade her. She was his queen still, though she now bore a name and face that were not entirely her own. Dracula paused, his boots scraping against the frostbitten stone. His expression was unreadable, but there was tension in the way his hands curled at his sides, leather gloves creaking under the strain. ¡°They¡¯re growing bolder,¡± he muttered, his voice low, almost lost to the wind. ¡°Each raid is closer than the last.¡± ¡°They won¡¯t break you,¡± Constantine whispered, though his words reached no ears but his own. Dracula stiffened slightly, his gaze darting to the shadows as though sensing something just out of reach. After a moment, he shook his head and turned his attention back to the forest beyond the walls. Act II: Scene 5: Subtle Intervention Below, in the training yard, a soldier faltered. His spear clattered to the ground with a sharp clang, cutting through the rhythm of the drill like a discordant note. The man¡¯s comrades turned to glare at him, their movements faltering as the formation broke. Dracula¡¯s gaze snapped downward. He descended from the tower with fluid grace, landing silently before striding into the yard. His steps were measured, each one carrying an unspoken weight. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you?¡± Dracula¡¯s voice carried across the space, low and sharp as a blade. The soldier stammered, his hands fumbling as he bent to retrieve the spear. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t know, my lord. It slipped¡ª¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Dracula¡¯s frown deepened, but before he could speak, the spear skittered away from the soldier¡¯s grasp as if tugged by an invisible force. The man froze, his face pale and wide-eyed. From the shadows, Constantine reached out, his spectral hand brushing the spear. The weapon stilled, settling perfectly in the soldier¡¯s trembling hands. ¡°It won¡¯t happen again,¡± Constantine murmured, his voice a soft hum carried only by the wind. Dracula narrowed his eyes, glancing briefly at the darkened edges of the courtyard. His instincts pricked at him, but the moment passed as quickly as it had come. ¡°Hold your weapon,¡± he said curtly, turning away. ¡°If it falls again, you¡¯ll wish it hadn¡¯t.¡± The soldier swallowed hard, clutching the spear as though it might slip from his grasp again. Constantine lingered for a moment longer, watching the man¡¯s shaking frame before turning his gaze to Dracula. ¡°Not all battles are fought with spears,¡± he said quietly, his tone touched with something close to regret. Act II: Scene 6: Calculations The fire in the great hall burned low, its embers glowing faintly in the oppressive silence. Dracula sat at the head of a long table, his focus fixed on a map spread before him. Letters and reports were scattered across the surface, their ink blotted and hurried, detailing Ottoman movements and the vulnerabilities of the outer villages. His hands rested on the table¡¯s edge, his fingers tapping absently against the wood as his gaze darted between the markers. He was still, but his mind worked furiously, calculating the risks and rewards of his next move. ¡°You work too hard,¡± Constantine whispered, his spectral form materializing near the hearth. His voice was soft, more a memory than a sound. Dracula tensed, his head tilting slightly as though listening to something distant. His sharp eyes scanned the shadows, lingering on the flickering darkness near the edges of the hall. But the moment passed, and he turned back to the map. ¡°No distractions,¡± Dracula muttered to himself, his voice low. ¡°Focus.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Constantine stepped closer, his form shimmering faintly in the firelight. He studied the man before him¡ªor rather, the woman behind the mask¡ªwith a mix of sorrow and pride. The fierce determination in her gaze was unchanged, but the weight she carried now was heavier than it had ever been. ¡°You¡¯re not alone,¡± Constantine said quietly, though he knew the words would not reach her. ¡°I won¡¯t let you fall.¡± For a long moment, he stood there, watching as Dracula traced a finger along the map, his lips pressed into a hard line. Then, as silently as he had come, Constantine faded back into the shadows. Dracula rose from the table, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the heavy doors of the hall. The fire¡¯s glow caught on the edge of the chair beside him, a reminder of the man who had once occupied it. He paused briefly, his gaze flickering to the empty seat before shaking his head and continuing forward. The castle felt heavier these days, the shadows darker and the silence deeper. But for all the weight he bore, he remained steadfast. Wallachia would not fall. From the darkness of the great hall, Constantine watched him go, his ghostly form blending seamlessly with the void. His presence remained unseen, his influence unfelt¡ªbut his resolve was unwavering. ¡°You don¡¯t need me,¡± he said softly, more to himself than to her. ¡°But I¡¯ll stay.¡± The faint sound of the heavy doors closing echoed through the empty hall, and Constantine stood alone with the fading embers of the fire. Act II: Scene 7: Ghostly Seduction The fire burned low in the hearth, its light flickering against the cold stone walls of his chambers. The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the flames and the faint whistle of wind through the narrow windows. Nauthiz Tepes Dr?culea sat in a carved wooden chair near the fire, his form draped in a fur-lined cloak. His face was shadowed, the glow of his eyes muted as he stared into the embers. The weight of the day pressed heavily upon him¡ªanother night spent maintaining the illusion of control, another day spent tightening the leash on his soldiers, ensuring no one questioned their commander. Yet, beneath the mask of Nauthiz, there lingered something rawer, more fragile. For as much as Nauthiz was a mask, it had also become a reality¡ªone that carried its own burdens. From the shadows near the far wall, a figure began to form. At first, it was no more than a faint shimmer, like moonlight on water, but it grew sharper with each passing moment. Constantine¡¯s ghost stepped forward, his translucent form catching the flickering light. His presence filled the room with a coldness that wasn¡¯t entirely unwelcome. ¡°You wear him well,¡± Constantine said, his voice low and edged with something unreadable. Nauthiz stiffened, his gaze snapping to the figure in the shadows. He rose slowly, his movements measured and deliberate, like a predator assessing a threat. ¡°Constantine,¡± he said, the name escaping his lips with an edge of disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re¡ª¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Dead,¡± Constantine finished, stepping closer. His form was sharper now, the details of his armor and the faint lines of his face illuminated by the firelight. ¡°And yet, I¡¯m still here.¡± Nauthiz¡¯s glowing eyes narrowed. ¡°Why?¡± The word was flat, almost accusatory. ¡°Why now?¡± Constantine tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering on Nauthiz¡¯s form. ¡°Because you¡¯ve become him,¡± he said softly. ¡°The man you pretended to be is no longer a mask, is he? You are Nauthiz now.¡± Nauthiz tensed, his jaw tightening. ¡°Nauthiz was a fabrication. A necessity.¡± He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over the spectral figure. ¡°He was never meant to be real.¡± ¡°And yet, here you stand,¡± Constantine said, his lips curling into a faint smile. ¡°I knew Nauthiz when I was alive. I knew him as more than a mask. And now, I see him for what he truly is.¡± Nauthiz¡¯s eyes flashed, his voice dropping into a low growl. ¡°What are you saying, Constantine?¡± Constantine stepped closer, his ghostly form almost brushing against Nauthiz¡¯s chest. ¡°I knew you, Nauthiz,¡± he murmured, his voice softer now. ¡°I knew your strength. Your fire. You were more than a creation. You were more than Nauthizia¡¯s trickery. You were... real to me.¡± The words struck like a blow, silencing whatever protest Nauthiz had been ready to make. For a long moment, the room was filled only with the sound of the fire, its faint crackling a counterpoint to the tension thrumming in the air. Constantine¡¯s hand rose, ghostly and translucent, brushing against the line of Nauthiz¡¯s jaw. The touch was cold, like frost on bare skin, but it lingered, leaving a shiver in its wake. ¡°You weren¡¯t just a mask, Nauthiz,¡± he said softly. ¡°You were something more. You are something more.¡± Nauthiz¡¯s glowing eyes narrowed, his voice sharp. ¡°You never said anything in life.¡± ¡°Because I didn¡¯t know how,¡± Constantine admitted, his gaze steady. ¡°You were Nauthizia¡¯s creation, her illusion, but you were also... mine.¡± His hand moved down, ghosting over the line of Nauthiz¡¯s chest, the coldness seeping through the layers of fabric. ¡°You were the part of her that I couldn¡¯t have, and now you are the only part left.¡± Act II: Scene 8: Surprise Visit Nauthiz¡¯s hands twitched at his sides, his body tense as Constantine leaned in, their faces inches apart. The ghost¡¯s breath was cold against his lips, sending a shiver through him. ¡°You don¡¯t belong here,¡± Nauthiz said, his voice strained. ¡°And yet, here I am,¡± Constantine replied before closing the distance between them. The kiss was cold and electric, a clash of sensations that sent a jolt through Nauthiz¡¯s body. The monster froze, his breath hitching as Constantine pressed against him, his spectral form solidifying in ways that defied the laws of the living world. For a moment, Nauthiz let himself lean into it, his hands rising to grip Constantine¡¯s shoulders, the sensation both alien and familiar. The coldness of Constantine¡¯s form burned against his skin, a stark contrast to the fire that flared within him. But then he pulled back sharply, his glowing eyes wide. ¡°This isn¡¯t real,¡± he said, his voice trembling with something he couldn¡¯t name. Constantine¡¯s smile was sad but unwavering. ¡°It feels real enough, doesn¡¯t it?¡± Nauthiz said nothing, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Constantine''s spectral form grew more solid as his lips pressed against Nauthiz¡¯s again, a ghostly hunger radiating from his touch. His cold hands trailed lower, brushing over Nauthiz¡¯s waist, his fingers grazing the place where illusion and reality intertwined. Nauthiz shuddered under the weight of the sensation, his glowing eyes closing for the briefest moment as he let himself lean into the touch. ¡°You¡¯ve hidden for so long,¡± Constantine murmured against his lips, his voice both a plea and a demand. ¡°But I¡¯ve seen you¡ªboth of you. I loved you as Nauthizia, and I want you as Nauthiz. You are everything I¡¯ve ever desired, and I cannot stop wanting you.¡± Constantine¡¯s words were a match to the fire burning in Nauthiz¡¯s veins, and for a moment, he let the facade drop. His hands grasped Constantine¡¯s waist, pulling him closer as their bodies collided, the cold of Constantine¡¯s spectral form merging with the heat of Dracula¡¯s unnatural vitality. ¡°Constantine¡­¡± Nauthiz¡¯s voice was raw, barely a whisper, and laced with both longing and hesitation. But the moment shattered like glass as a sharp slap rang through the room.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Constantine stumbled back, his ghostly form flickering for a moment as his cheek bore the imprint of an ethereal hand. He stared at Nauthiz, stunned, but the glowing eyes before him no longer belonged to the man he had been kissing. The sharp, fierce gaze of Nauthizia cut through the air like a blade. ¡°Enough!¡± she snarled, her voice reverberating through the chamber with a ferocity that could have torn stone from the walls. ¡°You think you can distract me? That you can replace what¡¯s been taken from me with your games and your lust?¡± Constantine straightened, his ghostly form solidifying once more. His eyes, previously filled with desire, darkened with something more pragmatic. ¡°I¡¯m not trying to replace anything,¡± he said calmly. ¡°I¡¯m trying to save what¡¯s left of you.¡± ¡°Save?¡± Nauthizia spat, her fists clenching at her sides. ¡°Where were you when they took Vlad? Where was this devotion when our son was ripped from my arms? You stood there and watched him taken, and now you come back, whispering lies to a part of me that isn¡¯t even whole!¡± Constantine flinched, the words striking deeper than any blade. For a long moment, he said nothing, his spectral form trembling faintly as he took in the fury of the woman he had once called his wife. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but laced with sorrow. ¡°I couldn¡¯t save him,¡± he said simply. ¡°I wanted to. I would have torn the world apart for him, but I couldn¡¯t.¡± He stepped forward, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that matched her own. ¡°And now, I can¡¯t save you either¡ªnot unless you let me.¡± Nauthizia¡¯s glowing eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of something else beneath her anger¡ªpain, raw and unyielding. ¡°You¡¯re playing both sides, Constantine,¡± she hissed. ¡°You¡¯re seducing a specter.¡± Constantine¡¯s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. ¡°Perhaps I am,¡± he said, his tone soft but unrepentant. ¡°But you¡¯re wrong if you think I¡¯ve forgotten you, Nauthizia. You are still my queen, my wife, my¡­ everything.¡± His gaze softened, the weight of his emotions evident in every word. ¡°But Nauthiz is you, too. The part of you that you created to survive, to rule, to endure when no one else could. Do you think I didn¡¯t love him too? That I didn¡¯t see the fire in his eyes, the strength that mirrored your own?¡± Nauthizia faltered, her fists unclenching slightly as her breathing slowed. ¡°You¡¯re a fool, Constantine,¡± she said quietly, her voice trembling. ¡°You think this is love? This madness you¡¯ve tethered yourself to? You¡¯re as broken as I am.¡± Constantine stepped closer, his spectral hand brushing her cheek once more. This time, she didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°Perhaps I am,¡± he admitted. ¡°But I¡¯ve spent death chasing what I couldn¡¯t hold in life. I loved you, Nauthizia. And I love Nauthiz. You don¡¯t have to choose one over the other.¡± Nauthizia turned sharply, her back to him as she gripped the edge of the table. Her voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. ¡°And what of our son? What of Vlad? You stand here, pleading with me, while he is still lost.¡± Constantine¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°I am bound by death¡¯s rules as much as you are bound by life¡¯s burdens. But I stayed¡ªI stayed¡ªbecause I knew you would fight for him. And when the time comes, I will fight beside you.¡± Nauthizia¡¯s shoulders trembled, her fury and grief warring within her. Slowly, she turned back to face him, her glowing eyes meeting his. ¡°Then stop distracting me with your lust,¡± she said, her tone colder now, more controlled. ¡°If you¡¯re here, Constantine, be here for him. Not for me. Not for... us.¡± Constantine nodded, his expression solemn. ¡°For him,¡± he said quietly. But as he stepped back, his gaze lingered on her, filled with an unspoken longing that neither of them could deny. Nauthizia sank into the chair by the fire, her hands trembling as she pressed them to her face. Constantine lingered in the shadows, his form faint and fading, but his presence still tangible. And then he was gone, leaving Nauthizia alone with the crackling fire and the weight of what had been said¡ªand what had not. Act II: Scene 9: Reclamation The hours crawled by, the fire dwindling to embers in the hearth as Nauthizia sat in silence. The glow of her eyes dimmed, the rawness of Constantine¡¯s words gnawing at her. She pressed trembling fingers to her temples, as if to push away the storm of thoughts that threatened to consume her. Her reflection stared back at her from the cracked surface of the mirror across the room. Though her features were sharp, regal, unmistakably feminine, they seemed hollow¡ªan echo of the queen she had once been. The figure in the glass shifted subtly, the edges of her form blurring, and for a moment, it was not Nauthizia who stared back but Nauthiz: cold, commanding, male. The face she had worn to deceive the world. Her breath hitched. She stood abruptly, her hands gripping the edge of the table as she fought the sudden surge of pain that coursed through her. It started as a tremor in her hands, spreading outward like wildfire. Her muscles seized, her bones crackled with a sound like splintering wood, and her vision blurred. ¡°No,¡± she gasped, her voice trembling. ¡°Not now. Not¡ª¡±This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. The transformation struck with unrelenting force, dragging her to her knees. Her fingers clawed at the table, her nails leaving gouges in the wood as her body twisted and contorted. She screamed, the sound raw and guttural, filling the chamber with echoes of agony. Her body betrayed her, shifting beneath her skin like an animal trying to escape its cage. The delicate lines of her face sharpened, her jaw becoming square and angular. Her limbs elongated, sinew and muscle rebuilding themselves with a horrifying efficiency. She felt her chest constrict, her breathing labored as her form compressed and redefined itself. Her dress tore along the seams as her torso broadened, her curves flattening into the rigid planes of Nauthiz¡¯s body. She clawed at the fabric, desperate to strip herself of it, as though removing the garment would halt the transformation. It didn¡¯t. The pain was unrelenting, every nerve alight with fire as her body became something she hadn¡¯t chosen, something that felt more prison than liberation. Her voice, when it came, was deeper, a guttural shout of anguish that reverberated through the empty halls. By the time the transformation ceased, the room had fallen into silence. Nauthiz knelt on the cold stone floor, his body heaving with the effort of breathing. His hands, now broad and calloused, gripped the remnants of the dress that had once clung to Nauthizia¡¯s form. He stared at them in silence, his glowing crimson eyes wide with a mixture of fury and despair. ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± he whispered, his voice hoarse. ¡°She¡¯s gone.¡± Act II: Scene 10: Dance of Shadows The Eastern Orthodox chapel was suffused with silence, the heavy stillness of prayer and penance weighing down the air. Candles flickered weakly, their light casting shadows that seemed to twist and shift against the frescoed walls of saints and martyrs. At the center of the nave, the clerics gathered, their whispers growing softer as the heavy wooden doors creaked open. Nauthiz Tepes Dr?culea, the self-proclaimed king of Wallachia, entered with a presence that seemed to draw the air from the room. His black cloak swirled behind him like the shadow of death itself, his sharp features illuminated briefly by the wavering candlelight. The glowing embers of his eyes dimmed just enough to pass for mortal, though the faint glint of his fangs betrayed the monster beneath the kingly mask. The Metropolitan, Gherasim, stepped forward, his lined face pale but resolute. He clutched a gilded cross tightly, the trembling of his hands betraying his composure. ¡°Your Majesty,¡± he said, the title laden with hesitation. ¡°To what do we owe this... visit?¡± Nauthiz smiled faintly, his fangs glinting in the low light. ¡°Come now, Metropolitan. Is that how you greet your King? Or do you reserve a warmer welcome for those who hide behind pulpits and prayers?¡± The clerics exchanged uneasy glances, their murmurs growing louder. Nauthiz raised a gloved hand, and the room fell silent. ¡°Let us dispense with formalities,¡± he said, his voice carrying easily in the still air. ¡°You all know why I am here. And you know what I am.¡± Gherasim stepped forward cautiously, his gaze steady despite the slight tremor in his voice. ¡°We know what you claim to be, Majesty. A protector of Wallachia, a ruler in place of Queen Nauthizia.¡± He hesitated, then added, ¡°May God have mercy on her soul.¡± Nauthiz¡¯s smile widened, though it did not reach his eyes. ¡°Ah, yes. My dear sister.¡± His tone was laced with mockery, the lie dripping from his lips with practiced ease. ¡°A tragedy, is it not? Nauthizia, so overcome by grief, taking her own life.¡± He gestured to himself with a faint flourish. ¡°And now, the burden of the throne falls to me.¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. The tension in the room thickened, the clerics shifting uneasily. Gherasim¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°And yet her suicide leaves questions, Majesty. Questions we cannot ignore.¡± ¡°Questions,¡± Nauthiz echoed, stepping forward. His boots struck the stone with a deliberate, measured rhythm. ¡°What questions could possibly matter now, Metropolitan? Wallachia has its King. The Ottoman wolves linger at our gates. And you, with all your divine wisdom, still call upon me to protect you.¡± Gherasim¡¯s face hardened, but he said nothing. Nauthiz smirked, his fangs just barely visible. ¡°You should thank me, Metropolitan. For my strength, my sacrifice, my... monstrousness.¡± He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping over the assembled clerics. ¡°Without it, your beloved Wallachia would already be ash.¡± One of the younger clerics stepped forward, clutching a silver censer. His hands shook as he raised it, the smoke curling toward Nauthiz. ¡°Your Majesty,¡± the young man began, his voice cracking slightly, ¡°we cannot ignore what you are. The Church¡ª¡± ¡°The Church,¡± Nauthiz interrupted, his voice low and cold, ¡°allowed this transformation to take place. Your chapel became the altar of my rebirth. Your prayers consecrated my rise. Do not preach to me about your Church¡¯s morality.¡± The young cleric faltered, his censer lowering slightly. Gherasim stepped in, his voice firm but cautious. ¡°Whatever past sins have been committed, they do not justify your monstrosity, Majesty. You have become something unholy, something that threatens the very faith you claim to protect.¡± ¡°Unholy?¡± Nauthiz¡¯s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper as he stepped closer to Gherasim. ¡°Is it unholy to defend our people? To strike fear into the hearts of our enemies? Or is it unholy because it exposes your weakness?¡± Gherasim held his ground, though his grip on the cross tightened. ¡°Your existence defies the will of God.¡± ¡°And yet,¡± Nauthiz said, leaning in slightly, ¡°I stand here. Your protector. Your King.¡± Gherasim¡¯s composure wavered for the first time, his voice faltering. ¡°The Church does not condone your actions. Nor does it recognize your... claims.¡± Nauthiz laughed, a low, cold sound that echoed through the chapel. ¡°Then why do you rely on me?¡± He gestured toward the clerics, his movements sharp and deliberate. ¡°You send your prayers heavenward, yet it is my hands that keep the Ottomans from your gates. My strength that preserves your precious Church.¡± Gherasim¡¯s shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of his position pressing down on him. ¡°We do what we must to protect our faith.¡± ¡°And I do what I must to protect Wallachia,¡± Nauthiz countered, his voice icy. ¡°But don¡¯t think for a moment that I serve you. Your prayers are hollow. Your rituals meaningless. I am the shield between this land and ruin.¡± Gherasim said nothing, his face a mask of resignation. Nauthiz smirked, turning toward the doors. ¡°Pray for Wallachia, Metropolitan. Pray for your flock. And pray that I never lose my patience.¡± Act II: Scene 11: Persistence As Nauthiz strode into the cold night air, the tension in the chapel remained palpable. The clerics whispered among themselves, their fear mingling with the weight of their complicity. Outside, Nauthiz paused, his glowing eyes scanning the darkened courtyard. He felt the faintest ripple of something familiar¡ªa presence lingering just beyond perception.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°You¡¯ve grown bold,¡± he said softly, his voice carrying on the wind. A faint laugh echoed from the shadows. ¡°You wear the crown well,¡± came Constantine¡¯s voice, distant yet unmistakable. Nauthiz¡¯s lips curled into a faint smile, his breath visible in the frosty air. ¡°And you still haunt me.¡± Constantine¡¯s voice softened. ¡°Always.¡± Act III: Scene 1: Reflection The great hall of Castle Targovi?te stood empty, its soaring ceilings echoing with the faint whispers of wind slipping through the cracks. Its edges fraying with age, a heavy black fabric shrouded the long mirror hung on the far wall. For months, the castle¡¯s inhabitants had grown accustomed to these veils, assuming them to be part of the mourning for their queen, Nauthizia. But tonight, there was no mourning. Only rage. Nauthiz stood before the covered mirror, his glowing eyes narrowing as he stared at its blank, lifeless surface. The phantom chill of Constantine¡¯s absence prickled at his awareness, a reminder that his spectral ally was out hunting. He didn¡¯t need Constantine here, not for this. He needed to confront what lay beneath the fabric. With a sharp motion, he tore the veil away. The heavy cloth crumpled to the floor, revealing the mirror¡¯s cracked surface. For a moment, he saw only his surroundings: the dark stone walls, the faint glow of the firelight. And then he saw her. In the fractured glass, Nauthizia stared back at him. Her dark hair hung loose around her face, her eyes sunken with grief and weariness. Her lips, once full of warmth, were stained with blood. The weight of her sorrow and despair was etched into every line of her face, as though the mirror itself refused to let her forget.Stolen novel; please report. Nauthiz clenched his fists, his towering form trembling with suppressed fury. ¡°Why do you haunt me?¡± he growled, his voice low and resonant. ¡°I¡¯ve shed your skin. I¡¯ve become what you could not.¡± The reflection didn¡¯t respond. It simply stared, unyielding and accusatory. ¡°You were weak,¡± Nauthiz snarled, stepping closer to the mirror. His breath fogged the surface, but the image remained clear. ¡°You let them take Vlad. You let them take everything.¡± The reflection tilted its head slightly, the motion subtle but deliberate. It wasn¡¯t just a passive image. It was something more. The air in the room grew colder, and the faint scent of ozone prickled at Nauthiz¡¯s senses. The mirror began to ripple, its cracks seeming to widen as though the reflection was pushing against the glass. Nauthizia¡¯s image leaned closer, her gaze piercing through the veil of her grief. ¡°You let them take him too,¡± she whispered, her voice faint but sharp as a blade. ¡°You wore my face, my name. But you let them take my son.¡± Nauthiz recoiled slightly, the accusation striking deeper than any physical wound. ¡°I had no choice,¡± he snapped. ¡°The Ottomans¡ª¡± ¡°Excuses,¡± the reflection hissed, her voice growing louder, more forceful. ¡°You let them make you their pawn. Just as you let them steal Vlad.¡± The surface of the mirror cracked further, a spiderweb of fractures spreading outward. Nauthiz¡¯s breathing quickened, his glowing eyes flickering with rage. ¡°I am no pawn,¡± he growled, his voice rising. ¡°I am the king of Wallachia. I am the monster they fear.¡± ¡°And yet,¡± the reflection whispered, her voice dripping with venom, ¡°you still see me.¡± Act III: Scene 2: New Dominion The spectral plains stretched endlessly, a shifting expanse of gray and black where the faint whispers of the mortal world barely reached. Here, time was meaningless, and the air¡ªif it could be called that¡ªhung heavy with the weight of forgotten memories and unspoken regrets. Phantoms drifted aimlessly, their forms half-real, clinging to fragments of who they had been in life. Constantine moved through this realm like a shadow given purpose, his ghostly form crackling with newfound energy. His translucent figure pulsed faintly, the remnants of his spectral conquests trailing behind him like a wisp of smoke. Each step he took sent ripples through the ether, drawing the attention of the restless spirits. They came to him, some drawn by curiosity, others by hunger. They believed themselves predators, seeking to consume him and grow stronger in their endless wandering. They were wrong. The first phantom lunged at Constantine, its form shifting into something monstrous¡ªa writhing mass of jagged teeth and hollow eyes. Constantine didn¡¯t flinch. He raised his spectral hand, and a tendril of shadow lashed out, coiling around the phantom¡¯s form. The creature writhed and screamed, its shrieks echoing through the plains as Constantine pulled it closer.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°You¡¯re nothing,¡± he said, his voice low and devoid of mercy. His grip tightened, the tendril of shadow seeping into the phantom¡¯s core. Its cries grew weaker, dissolving into a faint whisper as Constantine absorbed its essence. The faint glow of ectoplasm coursed through him, his form solidifying slightly as his strength grew. Another phantom, emboldened by desperation, charged from the darkness. Constantine turned to face it, his eyes narrowing. This one was larger, its form more defined¡ªa reflection of the life it had clung to in death. It wielded electric energy, its jagged edges sparking as it struck at Constantine. The blow landed, a surge of electricity rippling through Constantine¡¯s form. He staggered slightly, but the faint smirk that crossed his lips betrayed his lack of concern. ¡°You think pain matters to me?¡± he said, his voice a ghostly growl. He raised his arms, the air around him growing colder. A wave of mist rolled outward, swallowing the phantom and blinding it. Constantine moved through the fog like a wraith, his presence a chilling void. He emerged behind the phantom, his hand plunging into its core. The creature howled as its energy was drained, its body collapsing into nothingness as Constantine consumed it. Act III: Scene 3: The Hunt The spectral plains began to shift as Constantine¡¯s presence grew stronger, the phantoms no longer attacking out of hunger but fleeing in fear. He pursued them relentlessly, his steps silent and his movements precise. Each one he caught added to his power, their forms dissolving into him as their anguished cries faded into silence. His cold aura expanded with each kill, the temperature of the spectral realm dropping to an unnatural chill. The air itself seemed to resist him, the faint glow of the plains dimming as his power consumed the essence of those who dared to challenge him.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. As he moved deeper into the plains, he encountered stronger phantoms¡ªspirits of warriors who had died violent deaths, their forms brimming with latent power. They came at him with weapons forged from their memories, their strikes imbued with desperation. Constantine faced them with grim determination. He wielded ectoplasm like a weapon, shaping it into jagged spikes and tendrils that tore through his enemies. The shadows at his feet rose like living things, dragging the warriors down as he drained them. Their weapons shattered against his ghostly form, their resistance only fueling his hunger. Act III: Scene 4: Echo of an Anchor As Constantine grew stronger, he felt the faint pull of the castle. It was like a thread tugging at the edge of his consciousness, a reminder of the turmoil brewing in the mortal realm. He could feel the ripple of Nauthiz¡¯s anger, the raw energy of Dracula¡¯s power clashing with the faith of the paladins. But he didn¡¯t turn back. ¡°Not yet,¡± he muttered, his voice echoing faintly in the spectral air. He clenched his fists, the ectoplasmic glow around him flaring as he absorbed another phantom. ¡°Not until I¡¯m ready.¡± If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The pull of the castle grew stronger, but Constantine ignored it. He could sense the danger¡ªknew that Nauthiz was facing a threat that could unmake them both. Yet he knew his current strength wouldn¡¯t be enough. The power he had now was a fraction of what he would need to protect her¡ªor him. And so, he continued his hunt, tearing through the spectral plains with a singular focus. Each phantom he consumed brought him closer to the strength he craved, the power he needed to stand against the forces that threatened their fragile kingdom. As he absorbed the last of a powerful warrior spirit, Constantine paused, his gaze drifting toward the faint glow of the mortal world in the distance. His form rippled with energy, his presence a cold, unyielding force. ¡°Soon,¡± he said softly, his voice carrying both a promise and a threat. ¡°Soon, I¡¯ll be ready.¡± With that, he turned and vanished into the mist, the spectral plains trembling in his wake. Act III: Scene 5: Breaking Point Back in the great hall, Nauthiz stood trembling before the mirror, his reflection still staring with unrelenting intensity. ¡°You are a ghost,¡± he hissed, raising his hand. ¡°A relic of the past. I will not be bound by you.¡± The reflection¡¯s lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. ¡°You already are.¡± With a roar, Nauthiz slammed his fist into the glass. The mirror shattered, shards raining down around him in a cascade of silver and shadow. For a moment, the room was silent, the fractured pieces glittering like fallen stars at his feet.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. But the reflection lingered, her face now fragmented across the shards. No matter where he looked, her eyes followed him, her presence inescapable. Nauthiz staggered back, his breath ragged. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, its light unable to chase away the cold that had settled in the room. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he fought to steady himself. ¡°You are gone,¡± he muttered, his voice hoarse. ¡°You are nothing.¡± From the shadows, a faint voice echoed. ¡°And yet, you cannot escape me.¡± Nauthiz froze, his glowing eyes scanning the room. But there was nothing¡ªno presence, no movement, only the fragments of the mirror scattered at his feet. He turned sharply, his cloak swirling behind him as he strode from the room. The shards of the mirror remained, their broken reflections watching as he disappeared into the darkness. Act III: Scene 6: Self-Persuasion The great hall of Castle Targovi?te was a mausoleum of silence, the air dense with the weight of ghosts unspoken and truths denied. The shattered mirror lay scattered like a constellation of jagged stars across the cold stone floor, each shard catching the flicker of firelight from the distant hearth. The fractured reflections mocked him, showing glimpses of a face and a form that did not belong¡ªan amalgamation of identities he could not reconcile. Nauthiz sat naked on the edge of the long banquet table, his fur-lined cloak cast aside like the discarded remnants of a life he refused to claim. His broad shoulders slumped forward, the musculature of his new form taut with tension and something darker¡ªsomething unspoken. His breaths came shallow and uneven, the rise and fall of his chest betraying the tempest within. His glowing eyes, twin embers in the dim room, fixed on his hands as though they belonged to someone else. He turned them over, tracing the rough callouses and blunt strength that had replaced the slender delicacy he remembered. They were not her hands. They could never be. And yet, the memory of their touch haunted him, a phantom sensation lingering at the edges of his consciousness. ¡°She¡¯s gone,¡± he murmured, his voice hoarse, as though speaking the words might make them true. But even as he said it, his fingers curled into fists, trembling with the weight of denial. ¡°She¡¯s gone, and I¡¯m what¡¯s left.¡± His gaze dropped to his chest, the broad expanse of muscle and sinew alien beneath his own scrutiny. It was a body built for war, for dominance¡ªa form that radiated power but felt hollow, bereft of the softness he once knew. It was her absence that defined it, her ghost woven into the fibers of his being. Slowly, hesitantly, his hands began to roam, tracing the contours of his chest and abdomen. The motion was deliberate, almost reverent, as though searching for some thread of familiarity in the foreign landscape of his flesh. His touch lingered, his breath catching as his fingers ghosted lower, brushing over the undeniable proof of his transformation. It was there, undeniable and unyielding¡ªa symbol of everything he had gained and everything he had lost. His hand hovered for a moment, trembling, before he let it settle, his fingers curling around the heat of his own form. A shiver ran through him, sharp and electric, as though the act itself was an invocation of something forbidden.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°She¡¯s gone,¡± he said again, his voice thick with desperation, the words a prayer and a curse. His movements were tentative at first, exploratory, as though testing the boundaries of this borrowed body. Heat bloomed beneath his touch, the cold of the room retreating as sensation began to take hold. It wasn¡¯t pleasure he sought¡ªnot entirely. It was something deeper, more primal¡ªa reclaiming of power over the flesh that felt more like a prison than a home. His strokes grew firmer, more deliberate, his breath quickening as his head fell back. The firelight danced across his skin, illuminating the tension etched into every line of his body. Yet with every motion, her presence loomed larger. She was there, in the fractured mirror, in the aching hollows of his chest, in the trembling of his own hands. Her grief, her sorrow, her love¡ªit all clung to him like a second skin, suffocating and inescapable. The tension coiled within him broke like a wave, crashing against the hollow shore of his soul. His grip tightened, the friction of his hand a futile mimicry of something that once felt natural, intimate¡ªalive. His body responded, yes, but only in the mechanical way of a clockwork creature, gears turning without a spark to drive them. The warmth that flickered within him felt stolen, artificial, a cruel parody of the fire that had once burned freely in her¡ªthe fire that was hers, and hers alone. As his strokes quickened, his breath hitched, the fragile illusion that he might reclaim even a shadow of that passion shattered like the mirror on the floor. The rise of heat turned to ice, the crescendo of sensation faltering into a hollow silence that left him gasping for air and drowning in absence. No release came, only the aching, empty reminder that what he sought had been buried with her. His pace faltered, frustration surging through him like a tide. His free hand clawed at the edge of the table, the sharp wood biting into his palm as his voice rose in a snarl. ¡°Why won¡¯t you leave me?¡± he hissed, his glowing eyes snapping open, ablaze with an unearthly light. His chest heaved as he glared into the darkness, his grip tightening in defiance. ¡°You¡¯re dead!¡± he roared, the words echoing off the stone walls, their force reverberating through the hollow chamber. ¡°You¡¯re gone!¡± But the silence that followed was deafening. No matter how fiercely he tried to drown her out, she was there, as much a part of him as the blood that now sustained his immortal form. The act, far from exorcising her ghost, only solidified her presence, her memory entwined with his every breath, his every motion. His hand fell away, trembling, as he doubled over, his forehead pressing against the cool surface of the table. The fire at the end of the hall crackled softly, indifferent to his struggle, as he whispered one last, broken plea into the void: ¡°Why can¡¯t I be free?¡± Act III: Scene 7: Interruptus The air in the hall grew colder, a biting chill that stilled Nauthiz breath and sent a shiver down his spine. The shadows shifted, curling like smoke along the edges of the room. He froze, his hand falling away again as a familiar presence filled the space. He didn¡¯t need to turn to know who it was. ¡°Well,¡± Constantine¡¯s voice broke the silence, low and edged with disdain. ¡°This is how the king of Wallachia spends his nights? Tearing himself apart instead of building himself up?¡± Nauthiz¡¯s glowing eyes flicked to the figure now standing near the shattered mirror. Constantine¡¯s ghostly form was more solid than it had been before, his translucent features sharper, his presence heavier. His expression was unreadable, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. ¡°What do you want?¡± Nauthiz snapped, his voice sharp with anger and embarrassment. He yanked his cloak over his lap, though the gesture felt futile under Constantine¡¯s penetrating gaze. Constantine stepped closer, his movements fluid and deliberate. ¡°I want to know what you think you¡¯re accomplishing,¡± he said, his tone colder now. ¡°Sitting here, wallowing in self-pity, trying to convince yourself that she¡¯s gone. Do you think this will make you stronger? Do you think this will silence her?¡± Nauthiz¡¯s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists as he rose to his feet. The cloak slipped to the floor, but he didn¡¯t bother to retrieve it. Instead, he squared his shoulders, his towering frame casting a long shadow over Constantine¡¯s spectral form. ¡°She is gone,¡± he growled. ¡°And I don¡¯t need your judgment.¡± Constantine tilted his head slightly, his smirk fading. ¡°Judgment? Is that what you think this is?¡± He gestured to the shattered mirror, his spectral hand brushing over the shards. ¡°You¡¯re haunted, Nauthiz. Not by me. Not by anything outside of yourself. You¡¯re haunted because you can¡¯t let her go.¡± ¡°Enough,¡± Nauthiz snarled, his glowing eyes blazing. ¡°You know nothing of what I¡¯ve done¡ªwhat I¡¯ve sacrificed.¡± Constantine¡¯s expression darkened, his gaze narrowing. ¡°And while you¡¯re here, drowning in your own shadow, I¡¯ve been out there,¡± he said, his voice rising. ¡°I¡¯ve been fighting, killing, consuming. Growing stronger. Because that¡¯s what you should be doing. Not... this.¡± Nauthiz stepped forward, his voice a low growl. ¡°You think I don¡¯t know what I need? You think I need your lectures?¡± ¡°What you need,¡± Constantine interrupted, his voice cold and sharp, ¡°is to stop lying to yourself. Stop running from her. From yourself. Because until you do, you¡¯ll never be more than a ghost of what you could be.¡± The tension in the room was suffocating, the firelight casting long, flickering shadows across the cold stone walls. Constantine¡¯s form loomed near the shattered mirror, his translucent edges sharp and vivid against the fractured reflections on the floor. Nauthiz stood tall, his body trembling with a mix of rage and something deeper¡ªsomething he couldn¡¯t yet name.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. ¡°You speak as if you know what it means to lose yourself,¡± Nauthiz growled, his glowing eyes blazing with defiance. ¡°You speak as if you have any idea what this feels like.¡± Constantine¡¯s gaze softened slightly, though his stance remained firm. ¡°I know more than you think,¡± he said, his voice steady. ¡°I know what it means to lose someone you love. I know what it means to lose yourself in the process.¡± Nauthiz¡¯s hands curled into fists at his sides, his body taut with restrained fury. ¡°She¡¯s gone,¡± he hissed. ¡°I¡¯ve buried her. I¡¯ve become something more.¡± ¡°And yet,¡± Constantine countered, stepping closer, his voice low and deliberate, ¡°you still see her. You still feel her.¡± Nauthiz¡¯s lips curled into a snarl. ¡°She is nothing.¡± ¡°She is everything,¡± Constantine shot back, his voice rising. ¡°She¡¯s the reason you¡¯re still standing. The reason you haven¡¯t collapsed under the weight of what you¡¯ve become. You think you¡¯ve buried her, but she¡¯s still here¡ªstill you.¡± Before Nauthiz could respond, Constantine closed the distance between them. His ghostly hand reached out, brushing against Nauthiz¡¯s cheek. The touch was cold, like the first bite of winter, but it lingered, sending a shiver through Nauthiz¡¯s body. For a moment, he froze, his glowing eyes wide as the cold seeped into him, mingling with the heat that still burned beneath his skin. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Nauthiz asked, his voice trembling. Constantine tilted his head slightly, a faint smile playing at the edges of his lips. ¡°Reminding you of who you are,¡± he said softly. ¡°Of what you¡¯ve always been.¡± He leaned in, his lips brushing against Nauthiz¡¯s in a kiss that was both cold and electric. Nauthiz stiffened, his breath catching as Constantine¡¯s spectral form pressed against him, solidifying in ways that defied the laws of the living world. The kiss deepened, a clash of warmth and frost, power and vulnerability. Nauthiz¡¯s hands rose instinctively to push Constantine away, but they faltered, his fingers curling into the fabric of Constantine¡¯s ghostly tunic instead. The cold of Constantine¡¯s form seeped into him, grounding him in a way he hadn¡¯t felt in years. It was strange and unsettling, but it was also undeniable. Constantine¡¯s touch trailed lower, his ghostly hands gliding over Nauthiz¡¯s chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath the fabric. ¡°You¡¯ve changed,¡± he murmured, his voice a low rumble. ¡°But you¡¯re still the person I loved. The person I love.¡± Nauthiz¡¯s breath hitched, his glowing eyes narrowing as he stared at Constantine. ¡°I¡¯m not her,¡± he said, his voice rough and unsteady. ¡°I¡¯m not¡ª¡± ¡°You¡¯re more than her,¡± Constantine interrupted, his hands stilling. ¡°You¡¯re her, and you¡¯re Nauthiz. You¡¯re everything you were meant to be.¡± The words struck something deep within Nauthiz, a crack forming in the carefully constructed walls he had built around himself. He sagged slightly, his hands gripping Constantine¡¯s shoulders as though they were the only thing keeping him upright. Constantine guided him gently, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush. His ghostly form was warm now, the cold fading as their connection deepened. He pressed his lips to Nauthiz¡¯s neck, his touch soft but insistent, and Nauthiz tilted his head back, his breath escaping in a shuddering gasp. ¡°You¡¯re still you,¡± Constantine whispered, his voice filled with quiet conviction. ¡°And that¡¯s enough.¡± The firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room as Nauthiz let himself go, surrendering to Constantine¡¯s touch. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to feel¡ªto truly feel. The fear, the anger, the grief¡ªthey all melted away, replaced by something softer, something warmer. As Constantine¡¯s hands roamed over his body, Nauthiz¡¯s glowing eyes dimmed slightly, his mind quieting. He could feel her now, the part of himself he had tried so desperately to bury. She wasn¡¯t gone. She had never been gone. She was still here, still alive within him, woven into the very fabric of who he was. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, though they didn¡¯t fall. He gripped Constantine tighter, his voice a broken whisper. ¡°She¡¯s still here.¡± Constantine pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, his spectral form shimmering faintly. ¡°She¡¯s always been here,¡± he said softly. ¡°And she¡¯s always been enough. Enough for me, enough for Wallachia.¡± Act III: Scene 8: Return to Normal The first light of dawn spilled through the narrow windows of Castle Targovi?te, its pale glow casting soft beams across the cold stone walls. Nauthiz stirred on the edge of the banquet table where he had finally succumbed to exhaustion. The fur-lined cloak that had been discarded earlier now draped over him like a shroud, but the weight pressing on his body felt... different. Wrong. He blinked slowly, his glowing eyes adjusting to the dim light. And then he froze. His hands were the first thing he noticed. They were smaller, softer¡ªthe calluses he had come to associate with Nauthiz¡¯s form gone. Panic rippled through him as he sat upright, the cloak falling away to reveal a slender frame draped in the loose tunic that had fit him only hours before. His hands trembled as they traced the curve of his hips, the softness of his thighs, and finally, the unmistakable absence between his legs. ¡°No,¡± he whispered, his voice higher, lighter¡ªa voice he hadn¡¯t heard in months. He scrambled off the table, his feet touching the cold stone floor as he stared down at his body. ¡°This isn¡¯t possible.¡± Rushing to the shattered mirror on the floor, he knelt before the largest shard. The reflection that stared back at him was unmistakably Nauthizia¡ªher dark hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, her sharp but feminine features etched with panic. Her glowing eyes, still imbued with Dracula¡¯s monstrous essence, flickered in the fractured glass.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. ¡°It¡¯s not just a glamour,¡± Nauthizia murmured, her hands trembling as they moved to her chest and lower again. ¡°It¡¯s real¡­ and it feels¡­ permanent this time.¡± A faint shimmer in the air signaled Constantine¡¯s arrival. He appeared near the remnants of the mirror, his spectral form sharper and more vivid than it had been before. His eyes locked onto Nauthizia, widening slightly as he took in her form. ¡°You¡¯ve changed,¡± Constantine said, his voice low with awe. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out as if to confirm what his eyes saw. ¡°Nauthizia¡­¡± Nauthizia turned sharply, her glowing eyes narrowing. ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± she snapped, pulling the cloak tightly around her body. ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that.¡± Constantine¡¯s hand fell back, though his gaze lingered. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ yourself again,¡± he said softly, his voice tinged with something almost reverent. ¡°It¡¯s not just an illusion this time, either.¡± Nauthizia¡¯s lips tightened. ¡°I don¡¯t know how or why, but this isn¡¯t permanent. It can¡¯t be.¡± She stood, pulling the cloak tighter as she gestured toward the shattered mirror. ¡°Go. Remove the veils from the castle¡¯s mirrors.¡± Constantine tilted his head, his expression unreadable. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because I need to see,¡± Nauthizia said firmly. ¡°All of me. If this is real, I need to know the extent of it.¡± For a moment, Constantine hesitated, his gaze softening. ¡°You know I¡¯d do anything for you,¡± he said quietly. ¡°But I¡¯ll want to touch you for an eternity.¡± ¡°Not now,¡± Nauthizia said sharply, turning away from him. ¡°Just do it.¡± With a faint nod, Constantine disappeared into the shadows, leaving Nauthizia alone with her thoughts. Act III: Scene 9: Totality Nauthizia stood before the tall mirror in her chambers. She stared at her reflection, tracing the contours of her body, her face. She was Nauthizia again, fully and completely, but the glowing red of her eyes and the faint glint of her fangs reminded her that she was still Dracula. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and concentrated. Slowly, she felt her body shift, the soft curves of her form hardening, broadening, as she assumed the form of Nauthiz. When she opened her eyes, the mirror reflected the sharp, imposing figure of her fabricated twin brother. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. She tried to hold the transformation midway, to blend aspects of Nauthizia and Nauthiz, but the magic resisted. Her body snapped between the two forms, either fully male or fully female, with no room for ambiguity. ¡°It¡¯s all or nothing,¡± Nauthiz murmured, his frustration evident as she shifted back into Nauthizia¡¯s form. ¡°There¡¯s no in-between.¡± Constantine appeared behind her, his reflection faint in the glass. ¡°Perhaps that¡¯s the point,¡± he said softly. ¡°You¡¯re not meant to be divided. You¡¯re meant to embrace both.¡± Nauthizia glanced at him, her glowing eyes narrowing. ¡°Spare me the philosophy. This complicates everything.¡± Constantine¡¯s gaze darkened slightly. ¡°Then uncomplicate it. Decide who you need to be.¡± Act III: Scene 10: Challenge Before Nauthizia could respond, the distant sound of horses¡¯ hooves echoed through the castle¡¯s courtyard. She turned sharply, her heightened senses catching the faint murmur of voices. She moved to the window, her eyes narrowing as she saw a company of armored men assembling outside the gates. Their white surcoats, emblazoned with the symbol of the cross, gleamed in the morning sun. ¡°Paladins,¡± Constantine said from behind her, his tone grim. ¡°They¡¯ve come for you.¡± Nauthizia¡¯s lips curled into a snarl, her fangs glinting. ¡°And who leads them?¡± Constantine¡¯s gaze flicked to the leader of the group¡ªa man clad in ornate armor, a golden cross hanging prominently from his neck. His voice was laced with contempt as he said, ¡°The Metropolitan himself.¡±Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Nauthizia¡¯s glowing eyes flared as she turned away from the window. ¡°So the Church thinks it can rid itself of me and claim my throne.¡± ¡°They want to install him as the new king of Wallachia,¡± Constantine said, his voice darkening. ¡°This is a coup.¡± Nauthizia¡¯s laugh was low and dangerous, her fingers curling into fists. ¡°Let them come,¡± she said, her voice cold and resolute. ¡°If the Church wants a war, I¡¯ll show them the wrath of Dracula.¡± Constantine¡¯s spectral form flickered faintly, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. ¡°Don¡¯t underestimate them. They¡¯ve come prepared.¡± ¡°Let them try,¡± Nauthizia growled, her voice rising. ¡°Wallachia is mine. And I will show them what it means to challenge a monster.¡± As the paladins approached the gates, the shadows of the castle seemed to deepen, as though the very walls were preparing for battle. Nauthizia stood tall, her glowing eyes blazing as she prepared to defend her kingdom¡ªand her identities¡ªagainst those who sought to destroy Dracula. Act III: Scene 11: Confrontation The sky above Castle Targovi?te churned with crimson streaks and boiling clouds, as if the heavens themselves rebelled against the carnage to come. The wind carried the scent of snow and blood, stirring the golden banners of the paladins who now stood in perfect formation outside the gates. At their head, the Metropolitan¡¯s gilded armor caught the dim light, making him appear as though divinity itself had descended to walk among men. Nauthiz Dracula stepped from the shadows of the castle¡¯s inner courtyard, his blackened armor glistening with the faint sheen of mist clinging to him like a living thing. His crimson eyes burned with an unnatural light, cutting through the pale fog that swirled around his boots. He moved with a measured grace, each step resounding with unholy authority. ¡°Dracula!¡± the Metropolitan¡¯s voice rang out, heavy with both condemnation and resolve. His staff blazed with a holy light that cast long shadows across the stone walls. ¡°This land will be free of your corruption. Stand and face judgment!¡± Dracula tilted his head, a faint smirk curling his lips. His fangs glinted as he spoke, his voice low and resonant. ¡°Judgment? By your hand?¡± He laughed softly, a sound that echoed through the courtyard, chilling even the most stalwart of the paladins. ¡°Wallachia thrives under my rule, Old Man. Your god abandoned this land long ago. And now you seek to destroy the only thing keeping your flock from the wolves?¡± The paladins shifted uneasily, their shields reflecting the faint light of the Metropolitan¡¯s staff. The old man raised it high, his voice booming. ¡°You have brought ruin to this land! Your darkness will be extinguished, and Wallachia will rise from the ashes of your tyranny!¡± Dracula¡¯s smile widened, and the mist at his feet began to writhe, tendrils snaking outward to lick at the edges of the paladins¡¯ golden shields. ¡°Then come,¡± he said, his voice a dark invitation. ¡°Let me show you the futility of your light.¡± The paladins surged forward as one, their swords and spears raised high. The sound of clashing metal filled the air as the mist thickened, swallowing their movements and muffling their cries. Dracula strode into the fray, the shadows around him alive with his will. From the darkness emerged wolves, their glowing red eyes and jagged teeth flashing as they leapt at the golden-clad warriors. Their howls filled the air, mingling with the screams of the dying. The Metropolitan slammed his staff into the ground, sending a wave of holy light rippling outward. The mist recoiled, and the wolves dissolved into shadow, their forms evaporating into the air. Dracula staggered slightly as the light struck him, his armor hissing and smoking. He snarled, his iron claws flexing as he raised his hand. The mist surged forward again, thicker this time, swallowing the holy warriors whole.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Above the din of battle, Dracula¡¯s laughter rang out. ¡°You think your light can cleanse this land?¡± he taunted, his voice cutting through the chaos. ¡°Light is fleeting. Shadows endure.¡± The air grew colder as Dracula¡¯s powers intensified. With a single beat of his wings, he unleashed a gale-force wind that sent the paladins tumbling backward. He leapt into the air, his form shifting and twisting as he transformed into a massive bat. His wings unfurled with a deafening crack, blotting out the light as he descended upon the clerics. His claws tore through their robes, and his fangs found flesh, each bite spreading his virulent essence. The Metropolitan advanced through the chaos, his staff blazing brighter with each step. He chanted a hymn, his voice steady and commanding, and golden fire erupted from the tip of his staff, arcing toward Dracula like a divine spear. The flames struck true, searing Dracula¡¯s armor and driving him back. He staggered, his wings folding as he landed heavily on the ground. The vampire lord hissed, his crimson eyes flaring with rage. ¡°You¡¯ll need more than fire to kill me,¡± he growled, his voice a guttural snarl. He lunged forward, the mist rising around him like a tidal wave. The shadows converged on the Metropolitan, clawing at his armor as Dracula closed the distance between them. The old man raised his staff once more, its light pulsing with holy power. ¡°Your arrogance will be your undoing, creature of the night!¡± he bellowed, unleashing another blast of radiant energy. The light seared through the mist, striking Dracula square in the chest and forcing him to his knees. But the vampire lord was not so easily defeated. With a roar, he surged to his feet, his claws raking the air as the shadows surged forward, enveloping the Metropolitan. Dracula¡¯s voice, low and resonant, echoed through the courtyard. ¡°Your faith is a crutch, old man. And now it will fail you.¡± He closed the distance in an instant, his claws tearing the staff from the Metropolitan¡¯s hands. The holy man staggered, his armor cracked and bloodied. Dracula¡¯s fangs bared as he lunged forward, sinking them into the Metropolitan¡¯s neck. The old man gasped, his struggles weakening as Dracula drained him of his blood and will. The golden light of the staff dimmed, flickered, and finally went out. The Metropolitan¡¯s body slumped to the ground, lifeless. Dracula straightened, his lips stained with blood, his wounds knitting themselves shut as the stolen power coursed through him. A faint red glow surrounded him, his eyes blazing brighter than ever. From the shadows, Constantine emerged, his spectral form shimmering with residual energy from his own conquests. He surveyed the carnage with a grim smile. ¡°You¡¯ve changed,¡± he said, his voice low and cautious. Dracula turned to him, his fangs bared in a sharp grin. ¡°I¡¯ve evolved,¡± he said, his voice laced with dark power. ¡°The blood of the Metropolitan¡­ it awakened something.¡± Constantine¡¯s expression darkened as he studied Dracula. ¡°Be careful,¡± he warned. ¡°Power like that always comes with a price.¡± Dracula glanced at the battlefield, littered with the bodies of holy warriors, and smirked. ¡°Let others come,¡± he said, his voice cold and resolute. ¡°Wallachia is mine. And I will show them the true meaning of fear.¡± As the last vestiges of mist faded into the morning light, Dracula turned and strode into the castle, the shadows curling around him like a dark mantle. Constantine lingered a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the vampire king before he too disappeared. Act VI: Scene 1: Predator The moon hung low over the Balkan Mountains, casting a silvery glow upon the dense forests of Bulgaria. Night creatures stirred as a figure moved silently through the shadows, a wraith among the trees. Dracula had crossed the Danube under the cloak of darkness, leaving Wallachia behind to hunt in foreign lands. His crimson eyes pierced the gloom, seeking prey worthy of his predatory hunger. The village of Tarnovo lay nestled in a valley ahead, its thatched roofs clustered like sheep huddled against the cold. Once the proud capital of the Bulgarian Empire, it now languished under the oppressive yoke of Ottoman rule. Soldiers patrolled the streets, their torches flickering like will-o''-the-wisps in the night. The villagers slept fitfully, shadows of fear etched upon their faces even in slumber.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. Dracula observed from a ridge, his senses attuned to the heartbeat of the village. He could hear the muffled conversations of Ottoman guards, the restless turning of villagers in their beds, the soft weeping of a mother who had lost her son to conscription. But none of this stirred compassion within him; he was beyond such mortal concerns. He descended upon the village like a specter, his movements swift and soundless. The first to fall was an Ottoman captain¡ªa towering man with a reputation for brutality. Dracula appeared behind him as he made his rounds, his cloak enveloping them both. Before the captain could utter a sound, fangs pierced his neck. The man''s struggles were brief, his strength no match for the vampire''s power. Dracula drank deeply, savoring the rich, spiced flavor of his blood. Act IV: Scene 2: The Blacksmith Dracula moved through the forest, his hunger a restless ache. He craved not just blood, but vitality¡ªstrength, passion, life itself. The steady pounding of a hammer reverberated through the night, drawing him to a small forge on the edge of a village. Its glow pulsed like a living heart, casting flickering light onto the shirtless blacksmith. The man was a study in raw power. Sweat slicked his body, highlighting the broad expanse of his chest and the rippling muscles of his arms as he raised the hammer and brought it down with practiced force. Sparks erupted with each strike, the flames painting his skin in shades of gold and bronze. His breath came in rhythmic grunts, his every motion purposeful, deliberate. Dracula paused in the shadows, his crimson eyes gleaming as he watched. The blacksmith¡¯s strength was magnetic, his raw masculinity a force of nature. Every swing of the hammer sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through the air, mixing with the scent of molten metal and sweat. The vampire¡¯s gaze lingered on the curve of the man¡¯s back, the taut muscles of his thighs braced against the ground. The blacksmith finished his work with a final strike, plunging the blade into water. Steam rose in a hiss, curling around his body like smoke. He set the hammer aside, rolling his shoulders with a low groan. His hand drifted over his chest, tracing the ridges of his muscles and the lines of an old scar. He stepped away from the anvil, wiping his brow before moving to the cot at the edge of the forge. Dracula followed his every motion, his hunger sharpening as the blacksmith sank onto the cot. The man leaned back, exhaling heavily, his hand trailing absently over his abdomen. And then it began. The blacksmith¡¯s fingers moved lower, brushing the waistband of his trousers. His breath hitched as he slid his hand beneath the fabric, his other hand bracing against the cot. The rhythm of his breaths quickened, each exhale deep and guttural. Dracula¡¯s eyes burned with intensity as he watched the man¡¯s muscles tense and relax, his body arching slightly as he stroked himself. The intimacy of the scene was electric, every sound and motion amplified in the stillness of the night. The blacksmith¡¯s moans escaped his lips in raw, unfiltered waves, unburdened by shame or restraint. His hand moved with a primal urgency, the fabric of his trousers pulled taut against the motion, revealing the hard lines of his thighs and the tension coursing through his body. His breath hitched, breaking the rhythm of his strokes, and a low, guttural groan filled the air, merging with the crackling of the forge. His head tipped back, exposing the strong column of his throat. The firelight painted his skin in hues of gold and bronze, the pulse beneath his skin hammering in time with the lingering heat of the forge. Dracula¡¯s eyes fixated on that pulse, the lifeblood surging through the veins just beneath the surface. Each droplet of sweat that trickled down the blacksmith¡¯s chest seemed to catch the fire¡¯s glow, carving rivulets along the hard ridges of muscle before disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. His chest heaved with every gasp, the muscles contracting and releasing in a rhythm that spoke of unrestrained vitality.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Dracula¡¯s own breath quickened, a rare and involuntary reaction. His hunger twisted into something darker, something that reached beyond his usual predatory urges. Desire, sharp as his fangs, coiled within him, entwining with his hunger until the two were indistinguishable. He stepped closer, his movements as silent as the night, his gaze locked on the blacksmith¡¯s flushed face. The man¡¯s jaw was tight, a bead of sweat sliding down the curve of his cheek to his neck, where it lingered tantalizingly before disappearing. His thighs trembled and clenched, the tendons in his arms straining with the force of his motions. Dracula could feel the life force radiating from him, so vibrant and immediate that it seemed to pulse in the very air. It was as though the blacksmith¡¯s heartbeat had become Dracula¡¯s own, a siren call drawing him closer with every thrum. Then the blacksmith gasped-a sharp, keening sound that sent a shiver through Dracula. His body arched, muscles rippling as pleasure overtook him. The vampire''s eyes burned as he watched the man shudder, his movements slowing as his release claimed him. The blacksmith''s hand stilled, falling away to rest limply at his side, and his chest heaved with the effort of recovering his breath. The flush of exertion painted the blacksmith''s skin a deep, warm hue, the afterglow of his passion radiating outward like a flame. Dracula could almost taste it in the air-the heat, the vitality, the raw energy of life. It was intoxicating, a feast for every one of his senses, and he felt his hunger crest to the point of pain. It was then that Dracula stepped from the shadows. The forge¡¯s glow seemed to dim as his presence filled the space. The blacksmith¡¯s eyes snapped open, his body tensing as he registered the figure before him. ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± he demanded, his voice hoarse, his hand reaching instinctively for the blade he¡¯d forged. Dracula¡¯s lips curved into a smile, his fangs catching the light. ¡°You¡¯ve labored well tonight,¡± he said, his voice smooth as silk. ¡°And indulged yourself even better.¡± The blacksmith rose, gripping the blade tightly. ¡°What do you want?¡± Dracula moved closer, his steps deliberate, his gaze never wavering. ¡°Your strength,¡± he purred. ¡°Your vitality. The fire that burns within you.¡± The blacksmith lunged, the blade slicing through the air, but Dracula caught his wrist with preternatural ease. The man¡¯s strength was formidable, his muscles straining as he fought against the vampire¡¯s grip, but it was a futile effort. ¡°You are strong,¡± Dracula murmured, his voice soft but commanding. ¡°And beautiful in your strength. But even the strongest must fall to the night.¡± The blacksmith gasped as Dracula¡¯s cold fingers trailed over his neck, brushing against the warmth of his skin. For a moment, the vampire paused, his gaze lingering on the man¡¯s flushed face, the remnants of his arousal still evident in the way his chest heaved, his pulse racing beneath the surface. Then Dracula struck. His fangs pierced the blacksmith¡¯s flesh with deliberate precision, and the man¡¯s struggles faltered as the vampire drank deeply. The blood was exquisite, rich with the heat of his earlier pleasure, spiced with vitality and strength. Dracula reveled in it, the taste igniting a fire within him that spread through every nerve, every sense. When it was over, the blacksmith¡¯s body went limp in his grasp. Dracula released him, letting the lifeless form fall to the ground. He stood over the man, his chest rising and falling as he savored the lingering echoes of the blacksmith¡¯s life. ¡°A fitting end,¡± Dracula murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. ¡°For one who lived by fire and steel.¡± He turned and stepped into the night, the shadows enveloping him once more. Behind him, the forge¡¯s glow dimmed, its light fading with the life it had once illuminated. Dracula moved on, his hunger sated, his purpose unshaken, though the memory of the blacksmith lingered¡ªa testament to the fragile beauty of mortal strength and desire. Act IV: Scene 3: The Garrison He infiltrated a garrison next, where Ottoman soldiers lounged around a fire, sharing tales of conquest and debauchery. They never saw him coming. Dracula was upon them in an instant, a whirlwind of iron claws and iron fangs. He moved from one soldier to the next, draining life with ruthless efficiency. The last soldier managed to draw his sword, the blade shaking in his grasp.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. "Monster!" the soldier gasped, his eyes wide with terror. Dracula smiled coldly. "To you, perhaps. But to my people, I am salvation." He struck, and the soldier''s sword clattered to the ground, his lifeblood joining the dark stains upon the earth. Act IV: Scene 4: Goodbye, Bulgaria As the night wore on, Dracula''s path of destruction wove through the village and into the surrounding countryside. He felled a Bulgarian rebel leader meeting secretly with his comrades, their plans to resist the Ottomans cut short in a flurry of shadow and blood. He slew Ottoman messengers, their vital dispatches undelivered. No distinction was made between Bulgar or Turk, oppressed or oppressor. All were equal before his insatiable hunger. By the time the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Tarnovo was a village in mourning. Bodies lay where they had fallen, discovered by horrified villagers and alarmed soldiers. Panic spread like wildfire, whispers of a dark creature haunting the night taking hold. From a distant hilltop, Dracula watched as chaos engulfed the village. He felt no remorse, no pity for the suffering he had wrought. Bulgaria''s fate was of no consequence to him; it was merely a hunting ground, a place to slake his thirst and hone his strength. The Bulgarians had fallen to the Ottomans, their lands consumed by the empire''s relentless expansion. That was their weakness, their failing. "Let them fear the darkness," he mused, turning away as the sun''s rays threatened to breach the clouds. "Let them cower and clutch at their frail lives. Wallachia stands because I will not allow it to fall. Their fate is not mine."Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. He vanished into the forest, a shadow among shadows, leaving behind only the chilling memory of his passing. As he made his way back toward the Danube and the borders of his own land, Dracula felt a grim satisfaction. Each life he had taken, each ounce of blood consumed, was a testament to his singular purpose: the preservation of Wallachia at any cost. Crossing the great river under the fading cover of night, he stepped onto Wallachian soil with renewed vigor. The familiar woods welcomed him, the very air seeming to pulse in recognition of its sovereign''s return. Here, he was not a predator in a foreign land but a guardian¡ªa dark sentinel watching over his people. But even as he resumed his mantle as Wallachia''s protector, there was a lingering darkness that clung to him¡ªa reminder of the lives extinguished without distinction, the innocence cast aside in his quest for power. Yet Dracula brushed such thoughts away. Compassion was a luxury he could not afford. The world was a brutal place, and only through unwavering resolve could his homeland remain unbroken. "Wallachia endures," he whispered to the silent trees. "And so shall I." He disappeared into the depths of his domain, the shadows closing around him like a cloak. Behind him, the sun rose over Bulgaria, casting light upon a land still shrouded in the darkness he had left. But that was not his concern. His gaze was fixed firmly on the horizon, ever watchful for the threats that might encroach upon his own borders. Act IV: Scene 5: Recruitment The village square lay still beneath the waxing moon, its silence broken only by the faint rustling of the winter wind. The air was heavy with the weight of those gathered¡ªboth living and spectral. At the center stood Dracula, his imposing figure shrouded in his black cloak, but it was not he who commanded attention tonight. Constantine, his ghostly form glowing faintly in the moonlight, hovered before the crowd of translucent figures. These were not the living but the restless souls of Wallachia¡¯s dead, clinging to the mortal plane with desperate yearning. Their ethereal forms shimmered with an eerie light, their hollow eyes fixed on Constantine, who radiated an unearthly power. ¡°You linger here,¡± Constantine¡¯s voice rang out, cold and commanding, ¡°clinging to the pain of your deaths, unable to let go. Many of you have wasted centuries skulking in the shadows, afraid to grasp the power that is yours by right.¡± A phantom stepped forward, her form flickering like a dying flame. ¡°And what power is that, Constantine? We are nothing but remnants¡ªmemories adrift in the wind.¡± Constantine¡¯s gaze hardened, and his form seemed to expand, tendrils of shadow curling around him. ¡°You are more than memories. I was once like you¡ªlost, fragmented. But I found strength. The Ottomans took my life, but in death, I have claimed power they cannot fathom. You can do the same.¡± Murmurs rippled through the spectral crowd, a mix of hope and fear.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Power comes at a price,¡± another ghost said, his form coalescing into that of a long-dead soldier. ¡°What would you have us do, Constantine?¡± Constantine stepped closer, his spectral presence oppressive yet magnetic. ¡°Follow me into Ottoman lands. There, we will find others like us¡ªwandering spirits clinging to their deaths. We will consume them, take their essence, and grow stronger. With each soul devoured, we will forge ourselves into weapons¡ªshadows, mist, electricity, wielders of steel. Together, we will become an army of ghosts.¡± A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. ¡°Cannibalize our own?¡± the soldier whispered. Constantine¡¯s expression was merciless. ¡°Would you rather linger here, powerless, while the Ottomans destroy what is left of Wallachia? Or will you rise above your fear and become something they cannot kill?¡± The ghostly woman stepped forward again, her translucent form trembling. ¡°And what of the living? What of those who wish to fight alongside us?¡± Constantine¡¯s gaze flickered briefly to Dracula, who stood watching in silence, his crimson eyes gleaming. ¡°The living will have their part to play. Let them drink of Dracula¡¯s curse and wield the strength of blood. But the dead...¡± His voice dropped, cold and sharp. ¡°The dead are mine.¡± Dracula smiled faintly, a gesture of approval, but said nothing. The spectral crowd surged, their forms solidifying as their resolve grew. ¡°I will follow you,¡± the soldier said, stepping forward. ¡°For Wallachia.¡± ¡°And I,¡± the woman added. ¡°For my children, who still live under Ottoman rule.¡± One by one, the ghosts pledged themselves to Constantine, their ethereal voices rising in a haunting chorus. Constantine turned, his form towering over them. ¡°Then prepare yourselves. We leave at dawn to hunt the hunters. Wallachia will no longer weep for her dead. She will fight with them.¡± The ghosts howled in unison, a chilling sound that echoed through the village and beyond, as Constantine led them into the night. Act IV: Scene 6: The Crimson Pact The castle courtyard teemed with life¡ªor what passed for it in Wallachia under Dracula¡¯s reign. A chill wind swept through the gathering of townsfolk, its sharp bite silenced by the magnetic presence of their ruler. They stood in hushed awe, their breaths visible in the moonlit air, as Dracula emerged from the shadows. His crimson-lined cloak billowed like the wings of a great bird of prey, and his glowing ember eyes swept across the crowd. "You have come willingly," Dracula said, his voice smooth and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries. "You seek power, immortality. But at what cost?" The citizens¡ªfarmers, merchants, even a mother clutching her young daughter¡ªshifted nervously but remained steadfast. Each had tasted the cruelty of Ottoman oppression, seen their loved ones impaled, their homes razed. They were desperate, and desperation made them bold. One man stepped forward, his head held high despite the tremor in his voice. "We would pay any cost to see our families free from fear, to fight for Wallachia as you do." This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Dracula¡¯s lips curved into a cold smile, revealing the glint of his fangs. "Then you shall have it. But know this: to serve me is to relinquish the mortal coil. What you gain in strength and eternity, you lose in warmth and light as my thralls. Are you prepared to cast away the sun forever?" A murmur rippled through the crowd, but no one turned away. Instead, they dropped to their knees as one, their gazes locked on their lord. "So be it," Dracula said, stepping forward. He raised his hands, the long, clawed fingers casting shadows like talons across the cobblestones. His voice dropped into a guttural chant, ancient and terrible, weaving a spell that chilled the very air around them. One by one, the citizens came to him, baring their necks in submission. Dracula¡¯s fangs pierced flesh with precision, the act almost tender, as he drank deeply and then gave back. His blood dripped into their open mouths, binding them to him in an eternal pact. The transformation was immediate. The man who had first stepped forward let out a strangled cry as his body convulsed, his veins darkening beneath his skin. His eyes flew open, crimson and fierce, and when he looked at Dracula, it was with newfound reverence. "You are reborn," Dracula intoned, helping the man to his feet. He turned to the others, his voice rising. "You are no longer the prey of the Sultan''s wolves. You are the hunters. You are mine." The crowd erupted into cries of triumph as more stepped forward, to join their brethren. By the time the ritual ended, the courtyard was filled with vamps, their eyes aglow with predatory light, their voices raised in a hymn of vengeance. Act IV: Scene 7: The Final Siege The frozen plains outside the Sultan¡¯s encampment stretched like an endless graveyard under the blood moon. Dracula¡¯s forces, a coalition of vampires and spectral warriors led by Constantine, waited in tense silence. On the horizon, the glittering banners of the Sultan¡¯s army came into view, their golden sigils shining with divine promise. The Sultan rode at the head of his forces, his white stallion a stark contrast against the sea of steel and banners behind him. Beside him marched his secret weapon¡ªangels. These warriors of heaven glowed with unearthly light, their armor radiant, their swords gleaming with holy fire. They moved with an unnatural grace, their very presence lifting the spirits of the Ottoman soldiers and striking dread into the hearts of their enemies. Dracula stood at the forefront of his army, his glowing crimson eyes narrowing as he took in the celestial reinforcements. Beside him, Constantine hovered, his spectral form flickering with unease. ¡°Angels,¡± Constantine muttered, his voice a spectral hiss. ¡°The Sultan calls on Allah Himself to strike us down.¡± Dracula¡¯s lips curled into a smirk, though there was no mirth in it. ¡°Let them come. Heaven¡¯s warriors are no more invincible than mortal men.¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. The Sultan raised his sword high, its edge shimmering with holy inscriptions. His voice boomed across the battlefield. ¡°Dracula! You call yourself the ruler of Wallachia, but you are nothing more than a demon masquerading as a king. Today, we end your blasphemy!¡± Dracula stepped forward, his voice carrying effortlessly over the plain. ¡°You call me a demon, yet you march with the angels of your foreign god. Wallachia is mine, Sultan, and tonight, you will learn the cost of trespassing into my domain.¡± The Sultan¡¯s sword dropped, signaling his forces to charge. The battlefield erupted into chaos as the Sultan¡¯s forces surged forward. Vamps met them head-on, their inhuman speed and strength cutting through mortal soldiers with terrifying ease. But the angels descended like a storm, their swords cleaving through the undead with precision. Dracula moved like a shadow among his enemies, his claws rending armor and flesh alike. He faced no mortal that could match him until an angel stepped into his path. This warrior, his form wrapped in blinding light, struck without hesitation, his flaming sword cutting through the air toward Dracula. The vampire lord dodged, the holy blade missing him by inches but searing the air around him. He retaliated with claws and fangs, but the angel parried effortlessly, his movements impossibly fast. ¡°You are a creature of the abyss,¡± the angel intoned, his voice resonating with heavenly power. ¡°You will find no mercy here.¡± Dracula smirked, his fangs glinting. ¡°Good. I have no use for mercy.¡± The two clashed in a deadly dance, the angel¡¯s strikes scorching Dracula¡¯s flesh even when deflected. Dracula¡¯s counterattacks tore into the angel¡¯s armor but failed to halt his relentless assault. Blood dripped from the vampire lord¡¯s wounds, staining the frost beneath him, yet he fought on, his movements growing more feral with each passing moment. Act IV: Scene 8: Constantine’s Battle Elsewhere on the battlefield, Constantine commanded his spectral army against the angels. His ghosts moved like a tide, their ectoplasmic weapons slicing through flesh and steel, but the celestial warriors fought back with devastating power. Each swing of an angel¡¯s blade dissipated multiple phantoms, their screams echoing into the void. Constantine himself faced two angels, their luminous forms towering over his shadowy figure. Their blades struck him simultaneously, their holy light tearing through his spectral essence. He howled, his form flickering and destabilizing, but he retaliated with raw force. Tendrils of shadow lashed out, coiling around one angel and dragging it into the ground.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. The second angel pressed the attack, its blade slicing through Constantine¡¯s torso. The ghost staggered, his form rippling like water, but he surged forward, plunging his ectoplasmic claws into the angel¡¯s chest. The holy warrior cried out, its light dimming as Constantine drained its essence, consuming its power to stabilize himself. But even as he stood victorious, Constantine was visibly weakened. ¡°Dracula,¡± he whispered, his voice carried on the spectral wind. ¡°We¡¯re losing.¡± Act IV: Scene 9: Turning Point The battlefield was a maelstrom of carnage. The Sultan¡¯s angels cut down vampires and phantoms alike, their divine wrath turning the tide in favor of the Ottomans. Dracula fought with ferocity, but his body bore the marks of countless wounds, his movements slower, more desperate. The Sultan advanced toward Dracula, his holy blade raised. ¡°This is your end, Nauthizia Dr?culea!¡± he declared, his voice filled with righteous fury. Before the Sultan could strike, Constantine appeared beside Dracula, his spectral form wavering but defiant. ¡°Not yet,¡± he rasped, summoning the remaining phantoms to his side. Together, Dracula and Constantine faced the Sultan and his angels, their combined power a last stand against overwhelming odds. Dracula lunged at the Sultan, their blades clashing in a deafening cacophony of steel and fire. Constantine unleashed a storm of shadows, his phantoms and his self swarming the angels, their ectoplasmic forms intertwining with holy light in a battle of wills.Stolen novel; please report. Despite their efforts, the angels began to overwhelm them. One angel drove its blade deep into Dracula¡¯s side, the holy fire searing his flesh. Constantine was struck down moments later, his form dissipating into a faint wisp as an angel¡¯s sword sliced through him. With a final, furious roar, Dracula unleashed his full power. Shadows erupted from his body, enveloping the battlefield in impenetrable darkness. The angels faltered, their light dimming as Dracula¡¯s darkness consumed them. The Sultan¡¯s soldiers broke ranks, their cries of terror lost in the abyss. Dracula emerged from the shadows, his eyes blazing. He seized the Sultan, his iron claws rending the man¡¯s armor. ¡°You will die as all tyrants do,¡± Dracula hissed before sinking his fangs into the Sultan¡¯s neck. The Sultan¡¯s lifeblood spilled onto the frozen ground, his body crumpling as Dracula released him. The remaining angels vanished, their light extinguished with their mortal charge gone. As the battlefield fell silent, Dracula stood alone, bloodied but unbowed. Constantine¡¯s spectral presence lingered faintly in the air, a reminder of the sacrifice that had secured their victory. ¡°Wallachia is free,¡± Dracula declared, his voice carrying over the field. ¡°But the price has been paid in blood and shadow.¡± The vampires and surviving phantoms gathered around him, their cries of triumph mingling with the howling wind. The night had claimed its victory, but the scars it left would linger forever. Act IV: Scene 10: The Price of Victory The battlefield was silent, save for the faint crackle of smoldering embers and the distant cries of the defeated. Wallachia¡¯s forces, led by the monstrous might of Dracula and the spectral dominance of Constantine, stood triumphant. The Sultan''s body lay among the ash, his once-mighty army reduced to hollow echoes of its former glory. Overhead, the crimson moon cast its unyielding gaze upon the carnage, its light illuminating the remnants of a war steeped in blood and shadow. Nauthizia Dracula stood at the heart of the battlefield, her guise as Nauthiz dissipating into the cold air. Her fangs gleamed, her body trembling not with exhaustion but with the weight of her purpose. Around her, an army of the undead rose, their forms grotesque yet loyal, summoned by her mastery of necromancy. Phantoms bound by Constantine¡¯s spectral will circled the battlefield, their mournful cries haunting the night. In the distance, a small figure emerged from the haze. Vlad. He was thin, pale, his youthful frame weighed down by years of servitude to the Sultan. His dark eyes, so reminiscent of his mother¡¯s, widened in recognition and disbelief. ¡°Mother?¡± he whispered, his voice trembling. Dracula¡¯s crimson eyes softened, and for a moment, the monstrous visage faded, replaced by the queen who had once cradled him in her arms. She stepped forward, her hands reaching for him, but the boy recoiled, his expression twisted in horror.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°What have you become?¡± Vlad¡¯s voice cracked, tears streaming down his cheeks. ¡°This is not my family. This is a nightmare.¡± Constantine materialized, his spectral form dim yet steady. ¡°Vlad,¡± he said gently, his voice carrying the weight of years lost. ¡°We did this for you¡ªfor Wallachia. To bring you home.¡± But the boy shook his head violently. ¡°You¡¯ve damned yourselves! Both of you!¡± His gaze shifted to the phantoms and undead soldiers surrounding them, the horrors of the battlefield reflected in his tear-filled eyes. ¡°This is not salvation. This is damnation!¡± Before either parent could respond, Vlad turned and fled into the ruins of the Sultan¡¯s camp. Nauthizia moved to follow, but Constantine¡¯s ghostly hand rested on her shoulder. ¡°Give him time,¡± he said softly. Time, however, was not on their side. By the time they reached him, Vlad had already made his choice. In the shadow of the Sultan¡¯s desecrated banner, they found his lifeless body hanging from a makeshift noose, a symbol of defiance and despair. His faith had been unshakable, his conviction resolute. To him, his parents had become abominations, their actions a betrayal of all he held sacred. Nauthizia fell to her knees, a raw, inhuman scream tearing from her throat. The sound echoed across the battlefield, silencing the undead and phantoms alike. Constantine knelt beside her, his spectral form flickering as if the weight of their loss threatened to unmake him. They had fought angels and men. They had sacrificed their humanity, their morality, and their souls. Yet, in the end, the one they fought for could not see past their monstrous forms. As dawn broke over the blood-soaked fields of Wallachia, Nauthizia and Constantine stood alone amidst the ashes of their victory. They had reclaimed their son, only to lose him again. Epilogue: Mourning Glory Two days later, the great hall of Castle Targovi?te was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the hearth''s flames. Nauthizia stood before the assembled court, her long cloak of crimson velvet trailing behind her. The air was heavy with expectation. Her people¡ªthe living and the undead¡ªgathered in silence, their faces a mosaic of confusion, anger, and hesitant hope. ¡°Mourning is all that binds us,¡± she began, her voice resonant, carrying both the weight of grief and the unyielding strength of resolve. ¡°We mourn for what was taken from us¡ªour faith, our sovereignty, and above all, our prince. But in our mourning, there is also glory. We remain. We endure. We rise.¡± The crowd shifted uneasily, and Nauthizia¡¯s sharp eyes did not miss their doubt. ¡°I have lied to you,¡± she continued, her voice steady, cutting through the uncertainty. ¡°I faked my death, forsaking the name of Nauthizia to shield myself and my kingdom. I assumed the guise of Nauthiz not out of cowardice but as a tool¡ªa weapon against those who sought to break us.¡± Murmurs rippled through the hall, but Nauthizia raised a hand, commanding silence. ¡°That mask is no longer needed,¡± she declared, her sharp eyes meeting those of her people. ¡°I am Nauthizia Tepes Dr?culea, your queen, and I will no longer hide behind a false visage. Nauthiz shall live only in whispers, called upon only when Wallachia demands a shield that a queen cannot wield.¡± Her voice grew heavier. ¡°But no truth of mine can overshadow the absence of my son, Vlad. His loss is a wound I will carry until my dying breath¡ªa loss that was not mine alone but Wallachia''s. I see it in your eyes, in the empty space where your prayers for his return once lingered. The heavens may have forsaken us, but they took him first.¡± The crowd bowed their heads, and a palpable wave of sorrow swept through the hall. Mothers clutched their children tightly, their hearts breaking anew at the memory of the prince ripped from their land. Vamps, creatures often regarded as beyond the frailty of human emotion, shared solemn nods, their faces etched with grief. Constantine¡¯s spectral form shimmered faintly in the firelight, his presence as steady as ever. He stepped forward, his voice breaking the silence. ¡°Vlad was not just a son. He was a future. He was the hope we all shared, the legacy we fought to preserve. And though he is gone, he is not forgotten. His name will live on in every stone of this castle, in every breath of the land he was meant to rule. Wallachia will mourn him forever, but we will not let his memory fade.¡±This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Nauthizia¡¯s gaze softened as she looked to Constantine. ¡°We will rule together, Constantine, as we once did. Not just for Wallachia but for Vlad¡¯s memory. His absence may haunt us, but it will also fuel us. We will ensure his sacrifice is not in vain.¡± A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Tears glistened in the eyes of the human peasants and the nobility alike. Even the vamps, whose cold demeanors rarely betrayed emotion, seemed moved by the shared grief. Nauthizia straightened her shoulders, her voice rising above the sorrow. ¡°Yesterday, the Eastern Orthodox Church condemned Wallachia entirely. They did not simply denounce us as heretics or abandon their pastoral duties. They sent their warrior angels¡ªbeings of celestial wrath¡ªto obliterate us. Constantine and I stood against them, not for our pride, but for you, for Wallachia, and for the son they stole from us. Together, we cast them down.¡± The crowd stiffened, torn between awe and unease, but Nauthizia¡¯s voice did not falter. ¡°The Sultan is dead,¡± she continued, her voice like tempered steel. ¡°Nauthiz and Constantine struck him down with the full weight of Wallachia¡¯s wrath. And now, the Ottoman Empire stirs, its fury inevitable. Their armies will march. Their generals will call for vengeance. They will come for our blood.¡± Gasps erupted, but Nauthizia raised a hand, commanding silence. ¡°Let them come,¡± she said, her voice growing cold and fierce. ¡°We do not cower. We do not kneel. We are Wallachia, and we have faced greater threats than the swords of men or the wrath of angels. We will face their vengeance with the same ferocity with which we have faced every trial. And we will prevail.¡± Constantine¡¯s spectral form shimmered beside her, his presence a steadying force. ¡°The Sultan¡¯s death was not vengeance,¡± he added, his deep voice cutting through the tension. ¡°It was justice. Justice for Vlad. Justice for the countless lives crushed under Ottoman boots. And if they seek to repay that justice with war, we will answer them¡ªnot as victims, but as warriors.¡± The hall erupted into applause, slow and uncertain at first, but growing into a resounding wave of loyalty and defiance. Nauthizia lifted her chin, her voice carrying above the cheers. ¡°For Vlad. For Wallachia. We rise!¡± The cry echoed through the hall and out into the night, a declaration of unity, of power, and of a future reclaimed. From that day forward, Nauthizia lived true to her word, donning the guise of Nauthiz only in times of dire necessity. The people, and even the vamps of Wallachia, came to forgive the lies she had spun, seeing them as the desperate measures of a ruler who had sacrificed much to protect them. And though Constantine¡¯s ghostly presence remained hidden to most, his influence and loyalty were felt in every corner of the land. Together, they forged a legacy that transcended life and death¡ªa rule built on strength, sacrifice, and defiance against both earthly and holy powers.