Below, in the training yard, a soldier faltered. His spear clattered to the ground with a sharp clang, cutting through the rhythm of the drill like a discordant note. The man’s comrades turned to glare at him, their movements faltering as the formation broke.

Dracula’s gaze snapped downward. He descended from the tower with fluid grace, landing silently before striding into the yard. His steps were measured, each one carrying an unspoken weight.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dracula’s voice carried across the space, low and sharp as a blade.

The soldier stammered, his hands fumbling as he bent to retrieve the spear. “I—I don’t know, my lord. It slipped—”

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Dracula’s frown deepened, but before he could speak, the spear skittered away from the soldier’s grasp as if tugged by an invisible force. The man froze, his face pale and wide-eyed.

From the shadows, Constantine reached out, his spectral hand brushing the spear. The weapon stilled, settling perfectly in the soldier’s trembling hands.

“It won’t happen again,” Constantine murmured, his voice a soft hum carried only by the wind.

Dracula narrowed his eyes, glancing briefly at the darkened edges of the courtyard. His instincts pricked at him, but the moment passed as quickly as it had come. “Hold your weapon,” he said curtly, turning away. “If it falls again, you’ll wish it hadn’t.”

The soldier swallowed hard, clutching the spear as though it might slip from his grasp again. Constantine lingered for a moment longer, watching the man’s shaking frame before turning his gaze to Dracula.

“Not all battles are fought with spears,” he said quietly, his tone touched with something close to regret.