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 Drăculea, 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 Drăculea,” he said smoothly. “The Sultan sends his regards.”

Stolen novel; please report.

“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.