The Eastern Orthodox chapel was suffused with silence, the heavy stillness of prayer and penance weighing down the air. Candles flickered weakly, their light casting shadows that seemed to twist and shift against the frescoed walls of saints and martyrs. At the center of the nave, the clerics gathered, their whispers growing softer as the heavy wooden doors creaked open.
Nauthiz Tepes Drăculea, the self-proclaimed king of Wallachia, entered with a presence that seemed to draw the air from the room. His black cloak swirled behind him like the shadow of death itself, his sharp features illuminated briefly by the wavering candlelight. The glowing embers of his eyes dimmed just enough to pass for mortal, though the faint glint of his fangs betrayed the monster beneath the kingly mask.
The Metropolitan, Gherasim, stepped forward, his lined face pale but resolute. He clutched a gilded cross tightly, the trembling of his hands betraying his composure. “Your Majesty,” he said, the title laden with hesitation. “To what do we owe this... visit?”
Nauthiz smiled faintly, his fangs glinting in the low light. “Come now, Metropolitan. Is that how you greet your King? Or do you reserve a warmer welcome for those who hide behind pulpits and prayers?”
The clerics exchanged uneasy glances, their murmurs growing louder. Nauthiz raised a gloved hand, and the room fell silent.
“Let us dispense with formalities,” he said, his voice carrying easily in the still air. “You all know why I am here. And you know what I am.”
Gherasim stepped forward cautiously, his gaze steady despite the slight tremor in his voice. “We know what you claim to be, Majesty. A protector of Wallachia, a ruler in place of Queen Nauthizia.” He hesitated, then added, “May God have mercy on her soul.”
Nauthiz’s smile widened, though it did not reach his eyes. “Ah, yes. My dear sister.” His tone was laced with mockery, the lie dripping from his lips with practiced ease. “A tragedy, is it not? Nauthizia, so overcome by grief, taking her own life.” He gestured to himself with a faint flourish. “And now, the burden of the throne falls to me.”
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The tension in the room thickened, the clerics shifting uneasily. Gherasim’s eyes narrowed. “And yet her suicide leaves questions, Majesty. Questions we cannot ignore.”
“Questions,” Nauthiz echoed, stepping forward. His boots struck the stone with a deliberate, measured rhythm. “What questions could possibly matter now, Metropolitan? Wallachia has its King. The Ottoman wolves linger at our gates. And you, with all your divine wisdom, still call upon me to protect you.”
Gherasim’s face hardened, but he said nothing. Nauthiz smirked, his fangs just barely visible. “You should thank me, Metropolitan. For my strength, my sacrifice, my... monstrousness.” He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping over the assembled clerics. “Without it, your beloved Wallachia would already be ash.”
One of the younger clerics stepped forward, clutching a silver censer. His hands shook as he raised it, the smoke curling toward Nauthiz. “Your Majesty,” the young man began, his voice cracking slightly, “we cannot ignore what you are. The Church—”
“The Church,” Nauthiz interrupted, his voice low and cold, “allowed this transformation to take place. Your chapel became the altar of my rebirth. Your prayers consecrated my rise. Do not preach to me about your Church’s morality.”
The young cleric faltered, his censer lowering slightly. Gherasim stepped in, his voice firm but cautious. “Whatever past sins have been committed, they do not justify your monstrosity, Majesty. You have become something unholy, something that threatens the very faith you claim to protect.”
“Unholy?” Nauthiz’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper as he stepped closer to Gherasim. “Is it unholy to defend our people? To strike fear into the hearts of our enemies? Or is it unholy because it exposes your weakness?”
Gherasim held his ground, though his grip on the cross tightened. “Your existence defies the will of God.”
“And yet,” Nauthiz said, leaning in slightly, “I stand here. Your protector. Your King.”
Gherasim’s composure wavered for the first time, his voice faltering. “The Church does not condone your actions. Nor does it recognize your... claims.”
Nauthiz laughed, a low, cold sound that echoed through the chapel. “Then why do you rely on me?” He gestured toward the clerics, his movements sharp and deliberate. “You send your prayers heavenward, yet it is my hands that keep the Ottomans from your gates. My strength that preserves your precious Church.”
Gherasim’s shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of his position pressing down on him. “We do what we must to protect our faith.”
“And I do what I must to protect Wallachia,” Nauthiz countered, his voice icy. “But don’t think for a moment that I serve you. Your prayers are hollow. Your rituals meaningless. I am the shield between this land and ruin.”
Gherasim said nothing, his face a mask of resignation. Nauthiz smirked, turning toward the doors. “Pray for Wallachia, Metropolitan. Pray for your flock. And pray that I never lose my patience.”