The fire burned low in the hearth, its light flickering against the cold stone walls of his chambers. The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the flames and the faint whistle of wind through the narrow windows. Nauthiz Tepes Drăculea sat in a carved wooden chair near the fire, his form draped in a fur-lined cloak. His face was shadowed, the glow of his eyes muted as he stared into the embers.
The weight of the day pressed heavily upon him—another night spent maintaining the illusion of control, another day spent tightening the leash on his soldiers, ensuring no one questioned their commander. Yet, beneath the mask of Nauthiz, there lingered something rawer, more fragile. For as much as Nauthiz was a mask, it had also become a reality—one that carried its own burdens.
From the shadows near the far wall, a figure began to form. At first, it was no more than a faint shimmer, like moonlight on water, but it grew sharper with each passing moment. Constantine’s ghost stepped forward, his translucent form catching the flickering light. His presence filled the room with a coldness that wasn’t entirely unwelcome.
“You wear him well,” Constantine said, his voice low and edged with something unreadable.
Nauthiz stiffened, his gaze snapping to the figure in the shadows. He rose slowly, his movements measured and deliberate, like a predator assessing a threat. “Constantine,” he said, the name escaping his lips with an edge of disbelief. “You’re—”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Dead,” Constantine finished, stepping closer. His form was sharper now, the details of his armor and the faint lines of his face illuminated by the firelight. “And yet, I’m still here.”
Nauthiz’s glowing eyes narrowed. “Why?” The word was flat, almost accusatory. “Why now?”
Constantine tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering on Nauthiz’s form. “Because you’ve become him,” he said softly. “The man you pretended to be is no longer a mask, is he? You are Nauthiz now.”
Nauthiz tensed, his jaw tightening. “Nauthiz was a fabrication. A necessity.” He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over the spectral figure. “He was never meant to be real.”
“And yet, here you stand,” Constantine said, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I knew Nauthiz when I was alive. I knew him as more than a mask. And now, I see him for what he truly is.”
Nauthiz’s eyes flashed, his voice dropping into a low growl. “What are you saying, Constantine?”
Constantine stepped closer, his ghostly form almost brushing against Nauthiz’s chest. “I knew you, Nauthiz,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I knew your strength. Your fire. You were more than a creation. You were more than Nauthizia’s trickery. You were... real to me.”
The words struck like a blow, silencing whatever protest Nauthiz had been ready to make. For a long moment, the room was filled only with the sound of the fire, its faint crackling a counterpoint to the tension thrumming in the air.
Constantine’s hand rose, ghostly and translucent, brushing against the line of Nauthiz’s jaw. The touch was cold, like frost on bare skin, but it lingered, leaving a shiver in its wake. “You weren’t just a mask, Nauthiz,” he said softly. “You were something more. You are something more.”
Nauthiz’s glowing eyes narrowed, his voice sharp. “You never said anything in life.”
“Because I didn’t know how,” Constantine admitted, his gaze steady. “You were Nauthizia’s creation, her illusion, but you were also... mine.” His hand moved down, ghosting over the line of Nauthiz’s chest, the coldness seeping through the layers of fabric. “You were the part of her that I couldn’t have, and now you are the only part left.”