The castle of Târgoviște 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 Drăculea, the Queen of Wallachia, was a broken thing pretending to rule.
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The weight of her deception as Nauthiz—the kingdom’s lieutenant—pressed 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—they 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—” 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.”