The moon cast a pale glow over Târgoviște Castle, its light fractured by the jagged silhouettes of the battlements. The air was still and biting, the frost settling on the stone like the memory of battles fought and lost. On the highest tower, Dracula—cloaked in the guise of Nauthiz—paced with measured steps, his sharp eyes scanning the darkness beyond the walls. Below, the courtyard hummed with muted activity as soldiers drilled in tight formations, their weapons glinting dully in the faint moonlight.

Unseen, another figure stood in the shadows of the tower. Constantine’s ghost, half-formed and shimmering, watched silently. His spectral form was a blend of substance and void, his presence a whisper against the stone. His gaze never left the figure pacing before him, a mixture of sorrow and admiration etched into his translucent features.

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He stood vigilant. Constantine had lingered after death, his spirit bound by an oath unspoken but unbreakable. He had watched her transformation from afar, felt the surge of power that had both remade and unmade her. She was his queen still, though she now bore a name and face that were not entirely her own.

Dracula paused, his boots scraping against the frostbitten stone. His expression was unreadable, but there was tension in the way his hands curled at his sides, leather gloves creaking under the strain.

“They’re growing bolder,” he muttered, his voice low, almost lost to the wind. “Each raid is closer than the last.”

“They won’t break you,” Constantine whispered, though his words reached no ears but his own.

Dracula stiffened slightly, his gaze darting to the shadows as though sensing something just out of reach. After a moment, he shook his head and turned his attention back to the forest beyond the walls.