As the sun climbed higher, a dark energy stirred in the shadows of the impaled bodies. The souls of Agrippina, Sorinah, and Daciana, ripped from their mortal shells, hovered above the courtyard as pale, translucent forms. Their faces, once so composed in life, now twisted with rage and sorrow as they turned into phantoms.
“She betrayed us,” Agrippina’s phantom hissed, her telepathic voice cutting through the air like a blade.
“We gave her power, and she used it against us,” Sorinah said, her spectral hands curling into fists.
Daciana’s phantom sneered. “She will regret ever defying us. We will drag her into the Underworld ourselves.”
Unseen by the three, another presence stirred in the distance. Constantine, spectral and silent, watched from the shadows of the castle’s highest tower. His ghostly form shimmered faintly, his expression unreadable as he listened to their plotting.
The mentors’ phantoms drifted toward the castle, their anger growing with every whispered word. They spoke of vengeance, of unmaking the monster they had created, of tearing Dracula’s soul apart piece by piece.
They never saw Constantine coming.
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The air grew colder, the shadows deepening as the ghost of the fallen king regent descended upon them. His form was darker now, his presence heavier, his eyes burning with an otherworldly light.
“You dare plot against her?” Constantine’s voice rumbled, low and furious, echoing like a storm through the courtyard.
The phantoms turned, their ethereal forms recoiling in shock.
“Constantine!” Agrippina gasped.
He laughed, the sound cold and humorless. “You think I would stand idly by while you sought to destroy her?”
Without warning, Constantine lunged. His spectral form moved with terrifying speed, his hands ripping through Agrippina’s essence like claws. Her scream was a piercing wail, cut short as he consumed her ectoplasm, her energy dissolving into him.
Sorinah and Daciana tried to flee, their ghostly forms darting toward the edges of the courtyard, but Constantine was relentless. He caught Sorinah next, his grip unyielding as he pulled her essence apart piece by piece.
“You will not harm her,” he growled, his voice thick with rage. “You will not undo what she has become.”
Daciana, the last, tried to fight. Her spectral form flared with energy as she hurled herself at Constantine, but he absorbed her attack effortlessly. “You betrayed her,” he said, his tone venomous. “And now you are nothing.”
With a final, bone-chilling scream, Daciana’s phantom dissolved into him, her essence consumed like the others. The courtyard fell silent once more, the air heavy with the weight of what had transpired.
Finally, Constantine stood alone beneath the pale morning sky, his form flickering faintly. The power he had consumed coursed through him, amplifying his presence. He looked toward the castle, his gaze lingering on the chambers where Nauthiz rested.
“You are not alone,” he murmured, though the words were for himself as much as for her.
Above, the impaled bodies swayed in the wind, their lifeless faces a grim reminder of what had been sacrificed. Nauthiz would emerge as the ruler Wallachia needed, but Constantine would remain in the shadows, guarding the one who had given him purpose even in death.