1836 – The Carpathian Mountains
The storm raged across the Carpathian peaks. Lightning split the sky, casting fleeting light over Castle Dracula—its towers clawing upward like the bones of a dead god. Thunder rolled through the valleys, shaking even the stones of the ancient fortress.
Nnamdi ran through the corridors, breath sharp, chest burning. His feet slapped the cold flagstones, heart racing against the clash of steel and the cries of the dying. The war had breached the castle. The air smelled of iron and ash, filled with smoke and the heavy reek of blood.
He reached the grand chamber, its tall windows shattered by battle. There, at the center, stood Dracula, pale and unbending, his cloak flowing like a shadow given form. Around him, vampires loyal to Lord Vassilius poured in, their eyes burning with crimson hatred. At Vassilius's side stood his wife, her smile sharpened by cruelty.
Vassilius's voice cut through the storm of steel.
"Look at you, brother. The great Lord Dracula—reduced to a relic. You cling to restraint while the world lies ripe for us to take. Tonight, your age ends."
Dracula's gaze never faltered. "You mistake cruelty for strength, Vassilius. The world you seek will devour itself."
The clash began. Steel met steel, shadows split the air, and cries echoed as walls were painted red. In the chaos, a blade coated with rare venom—the poison of the Nightshade Serpent, said to be bought only with one's soul—slashed across Dracula's side. His strength faltered, his power dimmed.
Nnamdi burst forward, catching his master as he stumbled. "Lord Dracula!" His voice broke with desperation.
"Take me…" Dracula whispered. "Now."
With what remained of his loyalists, Nnamdi carried him from the throne room. The storm outside drowned their escape, rain drumming hard against cloaks and armor. They vanished into the forest, deeper, further, until the shouts of pursuit grew faint. Finally, they laid Dracula upon the roots of an ancient oak.
Dracula's breath came shallow. His eyes dimmed but still held fire. He pulled from his cloak a small pendant, silver wrought, inside it a delicate portrait of a young woman.
"My daughter, Isabella. She lives in the south, in a hidden village across Europe. Spain. You will find her. You will protect her." His voice weakened, but his gaze cut through the storm. "She is… my last hope."
Nnamdi trembled. "Lord Dracula, I—"
"You cannot stand against what comes as you are," Dracula said, baring his fangs. "I give you my blood. With it, my strength. Protect her… for me."
Before Nnamdi could protest, Dracula sank his fangs deep into his neck. Fire spread through Nnamdi's veins, agony twisting into power. His vision swam; shadows whispered at the edge of his mind. He gasped as strength surged in him, a curse and a gift.
"Run," Dracula whispered, voice breaking. "Live. Protect her."
The forest shook with new footsteps. Vassilius and his soldiers emerged, eyes glowing like coals. His wife stepped beside him, lips curving into a cruel smile.
Vassilius looked down upon his fallen brother. "How fitting. The king brought low by his own weakness."
Nnamdi, hidden in the brush, pressed his hand against the wound in his neck, tears burning his eyes. He wanted to move, to fight, but Dracula's final command bound him stronger than chains.
Vassilius raised his blade. "End this."
With one stroke, he severed Dracula's head. Blood poured dark upon the roots. His wife lifted the head high for all to see. "Behold!" she cried. "The king is dead!"
Their army roared. The war had been won. Dracula's body was carried back toward the castle, his head paraded before the loyalists who still resisted.
Hidden in the shadows, Nnamdi pressed the pendant to his chest. His heart raged with grief, but beneath it, a single vow was forged.
He would find Isabella.
He would protect her.
And one day, he would avenge the king.