The fire in the great hall burned low, its embers glowing faintly in the oppressive silence. Dracula sat at the head of a long table, his focus fixed on a map spread before him. Letters and reports were scattered across the surface, their ink blotted and hurried, detailing Ottoman movements and the vulnerabilities of the outer villages.

His hands rested on the table’s edge, his fingers tapping absently against the wood as his gaze darted between the markers. He was still, but his mind worked furiously, calculating the risks and rewards of his next move.

“You work too hard,” Constantine whispered, his spectral form materializing near the hearth. His voice was soft, more a memory than a sound.

Dracula tensed, his head tilting slightly as though listening to something distant. His sharp eyes scanned the shadows, lingering on the flickering darkness near the edges of the hall. But the moment passed, and he turned back to the map.

“No distractions,” Dracula muttered to himself, his voice low. “Focus.”

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Constantine stepped closer, his form shimmering faintly in the firelight. He studied the man before him—or rather, the woman behind the mask—with a mix of sorrow and pride. The fierce determination in her gaze was unchanged, but the weight she carried now was heavier than it had ever been.

“You’re not alone,” Constantine said quietly, though he knew the words would not reach her. “I won’t let you fall.”

For a long moment, he stood there, watching as Dracula traced a finger along the map, his lips pressed into a hard line. Then, as silently as he had come, Constantine faded back into the shadows.

Dracula rose from the table, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the heavy doors of the hall. The fire’s glow caught on the edge of the chair beside him, a reminder of the man who had once occupied it.

He paused briefly, his gaze flickering to the empty seat before shaking his head and continuing forward. The castle felt heavier these days, the shadows darker and the silence deeper. But for all the weight he bore, he remained steadfast. Wallachia would not fall.

From the darkness of the great hall, Constantine watched him go, his ghostly form blending seamlessly with the void. His presence remained unseen, his influence unfelt—but his resolve was unwavering.

“You don’t need me,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “But I’ll stay.”

The faint sound of the heavy doors closing echoed through the empty hall, and Constantine stood alone with the fading embers of the fire.