(Sable POV)
I didn't sleep.
I tried. Got horizontal, closed my eyes, counted proxy pulses like they were sheep. Didn't matter. Every time I blinked, the inside of my head decided to replay the highlights: Dracula's face when he realizes Lisa's alive, Lupu as a pile of charred lumber, me stuck between the two like the filling in an angry, medieval sandwich.
The thread of my anchor to Rumi was steady, but it didn't help. It was like having one hand on a lifeline in another world while the one I was standing in started to tilt.
I ended up back at the gully's lip, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the thin slice of road visible between the trees. The proxies took turns sweeping the approach. No torches. No movement. Just cold air and the quiet hiss of needles shifting in the wind.
"You keep watch like a man waiting for someone to come take your head," Lisa's voice murmured behind me.
I turned. She was propped on one elbow, hair falling unevenly over her face, the coat still under her. No accusation in her tone—just observation.
"Not my head I'm worried about," I said.
Her brow furrowed slightly, but she let it go. Instead: "If you're set on Lupu, you'll want to cut through the river roads. Faster than the main track, and the soldiers keep to the latter."
"You've got a map in your head?"
"I lived there," she said simply. "Every road in and out. And every ditch deep enough to hide in if you must."
"Good to know." I tried to make it sound casual. It didn't come out casual.
We broke camp before the horizon thought about turning gray. Cold bit at my knuckles as I packed my coat away and slung the rest of my gear. Lisa walked without complaint, though her ribs slowed her pace; she kept her gaze ahead, on the thin blue hint of mountains to the northwest.
The forest thinned after an hour, giving way to frozen pasture and the skeletal shapes of orchards. A low mist clung to the ground, making the hoofprints and ruts in the dirt road look like veins under pale skin. In the distance, squat farmhouses huddled against the cold, each one with its own curl of chimney smoke.
"Quiet," she murmured as we passed the first cluster of houses.
She was right. Too quiet. No children's voices, no dogs. Just the sound of the wind and the low creak of shutters. The first door we passed closed before we reached it. A second house went dark as if someone had snuffed a candle.
"Friendly," I muttered.
"They think I'm dead," she said without looking at me. "They think anyone with me is dangerous."
A mile later, we found the first sign we weren't the only ones on this road. Boot prints—heavy ones, fresh enough to still have crisp edges. Iron-shod, the kind worn by men who think their uniform makes them invincible. Alongside them, deep gouges in the mud from cart wheels, and here and there, black flecks that caught in the frost. Ash.
Lisa crouched, running a finger over the marks. "Church wagons," she said.
"How far ahead?"
"Half a day, if they've camped. Less if they kept moving."
My internal clock started ticking faster. If the Bishop's men were already on this route, we'd be on the same stretch of road as them before midday. If Dracula was anywhere nearby—
I cut that thought before it could finish itself.
We pushed harder. The river road wound like a lazy snake, sometimes flanked by trees, sometimes bare as a scar across the fields. Lisa spoke only to point out forks or warn of spots where the road narrowed. I found myself matching her pace without thinking.
By late afternoon, the air had the dry, sharp taste it gets before snow. We crested a low ridge, and the mountains loomed closer—dark teeth against a dimming sky.
Lisa slowed. Her eyes fixed on something ahead.
I followed her gaze.
Smoke. Thick, black, rising in a single ugly column from somewhere below the ridge.
We took the last few yards in silence. The ridge fell away into a shallow basin, and there it was—Lupu. Or what was left of it.
A handful of houses still stood, though most looked gutted. The tall church at the center was half-collapsed, its steeple listing like it was ashamed to still be upright. The largest ruin sat off to one side, a skeletal frame surrounded by ash and scorched earth.
Lisa didn't need to tell me it was her house.
My gut went cold.
If Dracula wasn't here yet, he would be soon. And the second he arrived, this would stop being my problem and start being everyone's.
I glanced at Lisa. Her face was still, but her hands were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white.
The clock in my head hit zero.
I pulled the proxies without thinking—five this time, not the usual three. They flared into being around me, pale-blue spheres stretching themselves into bird-shapes before darting down toward the basin. My chest felt tight. Each one peeled off to scan different angles: two along the village perimeter, one toward the church, another to the far fields, the last—a hawk this time—heading straight for the ruin I already knew was hers.
"Give me a second," I told Lisa, keeping my eyes on the proxy feeds as they blinked into my head like windows. "I can get us to your house in just one jump if I've got a clean line."
She took a deep, shaky breath. "All right." Her voice didn't crack, but it wanted to. She nodded once, small and controlled.
The proxy diving toward her house skimmed over the road, past the church's charred doors, then tilted down. I braced myself for ash, empty walls, maybe a broken doorframe.
What I got was worse.
A man stood at the heart of the ruin, motionless in the curling smoke. Tall. Shoulders like carved stone. A long black travel coat fell around him, the wind tugging the hem just enough to show polished boots. A brown travel bag hung from one shoulder. His hair—long, wavy, black—shifted in the same breeze. His hands, pale as polished ivory, hung at his sides, perfectly still.
And he was not happy.
'This,' I thought, 'is the look of someone planning to make the world smaller by a few million people.'
I swallowed, the weight in my throat settling into my gut.
Turning from the vision, I found Lisa watching me. I tried for neutral but landed somewhere between strained and… yeah, probably a little sad. Like I was walking into my own execution, except it wasn't me I was most worried about.
"I'm ready," I said quietly, holding out my hand to her. "Are you?"
Her gaze dropped to my hand. For a moment, she didn't move. Then, with a small inhale, she reached out and took it, her fingers firm despite the tremor in them. She nodded once.
I folded us both toward the hawk's vantage point.
The world snapped. Cold air, smoke, and the ruin were suddenly right there—so was him.
Vlad Dracula Țepeș didn't turn yet. He just stood in the smoldering skeleton of a home, as if the whole earth had gone quiet to make room for what he was about to say or do.
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A/N: so we travel and me meet fang daddy
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