The dawn was cold and cruel, casting the castle of Târgoviște in a harsh, unforgiving light. Outside its gates, three bodies hung impaled on iron spikes, their blood staining the frost-covered ground. Agrippina, Sorinah, and Daciana, once Nauthizia’s closest confidants, now served as a grim declaration of the kingdom’s rebirth and the pric of failure.

Nauthizia—or rather, Nauthiz—stood before the grisly display, his cloak billowing in the icy wind. The transformation had solidified overnight, and while Nauthizia still lingered within, her guise as Nauthiz now served a greater purpose. The impalements would not only warn the Ottomans but also cement the illusion that Nauthizia, the grieving queen, had succumbed to despair.

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Servants murmured in hushed tones as they moved through the courtyard, their eyes wide with fear. None dared approach the towering figure of Nauthiz, who oversaw the scene with cold detachment.

Inside the castle, Nauthizia’s chambers were staged to perfection. The bed was unmade, the floor strewn with fragments of a shattered mirror. A bloodied garment—a torn piece of her dress—was placed near the open window, its edges darkened to suggest a fall.

“The people will mourn her,” Nauthiz said aloud, his voice low and even. “But they will follow me.”