The smell of blood.
It should have excited him. It should have put a grin to his lips and a chuckle to his throat.
But it didn't.
Because the blood was the blood of his brothers and brides.
Their bodies, strewn and scattered. Slowly turning to ash which was swept up by the breeze.
All around him.
His brothers.
His brides.
They'd sworn to carry the banner of the Black Dragon to the peak of the world together. And now?
Now their names were fading to dust in front of his eyes.
"This…" He felt dark fluid flow across tongue and drool from the corners of his mouth. "Such meaninglessness."
His hand trembled as he lifted his arm despite the pain which filled his body. To claw at the hilt of the burning sword still buried in his chest. The blade glowed with hot white fire, the power of the Pope who'd wielded it.
There was already too much of the Pope's poison in his veins. More even than his own dark blood. And it was eating at his flesh. Disintegrating him from within.
After centuries of pain and battle to reach this far, it was a miserable end for Vlad Dracula, third Count of the Black Dragon Court.
His fist tightened around the hilt.
Then, achingly slow, he dragged the blade from his body.
The Pope, his shining armour battered and broken. Stained with filth.
He slumped only a few steps away. His once proud head hanging low. And, though his eyes were glassy and distant, there was a hint of the arrogance and hatred which had brought him here.
To this place.
To Transylvania.
Dracula's home.
"It… was… worth it…" The Pope slurred through bloodied lips. "To see your Court… Fall."
Vlad clenched his teeth.
His whole body shook with effort as he used the sword to pull himself to his feet.
"Shut… your… stinking… mouth…"
"Gone…" The Pope's lips pulled back into a smug smile. "All your people… Ashes… Never… to rise… again."
Vlad reeled as he took a step.
Then another.
The cursed man was right. How could the Court hope to rise after this? All who could fight had come here. All had died.
Even those Renfields capable of holding a weapon had fought.
Fought proudly.
Vlad's eyes blurred as he felt pride in their determination.
They'd struggled to their dying breaths.
All to kill this man.
The Pope.
The remnants of the Court would not be powerful enough to guard it from the others who would come. This field. This long dark patch of earth which was stained with so much blood and death.
This field.
It would be the Black Dragon Court's final grave.
Another step.
The Pope's head lolled back as he tried to peer up at Vlad.
"I won…" The smile burned Vlad's heart as the Pope's words cut deeper than his sword.
"Your victory," Vlad acknowledged. "Now choke on it."
The Pope's head sailed through the air, a shocked expression frozen on his dead face as Vlad's final swing sliced neatly through his neck.
After all this.
How easy was that final cut?
Vlad staggered on his feet, his body on fire as the poison continued its relentless attack. There was nothing he could do now.
Nothing but lay down.
In the mud with his brothers. With his brides.
Lay down and die his miserable death.
He flung the Pope's sword to the ground with the last of his strength.
Took one last agonising step, then fell onto his back and stared up at the dark grey clouds. He took small comfort that he would die on Transylvanian soil.
At least he would die with his Court.
Better that than to live alone with the guilt of having survived where everyone else had fallen.
Their names glittered in his memory.
As did their final deaths.
The poison finally entered his heart. He could feel it boil its path into the muscle. Feel it erode his defences. His once proud achievements being so easily destroyed by simple poison.
All because, like the Pope, he'd been drained by the long battle.
He had no energy left.
Nothing to hold back the tide of poison.
It melted his core so easily.
If only he'd worked harder. If only he'd been less amused by his brides. If only he'd spent more time building his strength.
Would it have made a difference?
Ah.
It was too late to entertain regrets.
Vlad Dracula closed his eyes as the poison flooded his heart.
And, without even a final curse or whispered wisdom, the great Vampire Count slid into the dark slumber of death.
Never to wake again.
At least, that's the expectation.
In reality, anything can happen. Given time…