The great hall of Castle Târgoviște stood empty, its soaring ceilings echoing with the faint whispers of wind slipping through the cracks. Its edges fraying with age, a heavy black fabric shrouded the long mirror hung on the far wall.
For months, the castle’s inhabitants had grown accustomed to these veils, assuming them to be part of the mourning for their queen, Nauthizia.
But tonight, there was no mourning. Only rage.
Nauthiz stood before the covered mirror, his glowing eyes narrowing as he stared at its blank, lifeless surface. The phantom chill of Constantine’s absence prickled at his awareness, a reminder that his spectral ally was out hunting. He didn’t need Constantine here, not for this. He needed to confront what lay beneath the fabric.
With a sharp motion, he tore the veil away. The heavy cloth crumpled to the floor, revealing the mirror’s cracked surface. For a moment, he saw only his surroundings: the dark stone walls, the faint glow of the firelight. And then he saw her.
In the fractured glass, Nauthizia stared back at him. Her dark hair hung loose around her face, her eyes sunken with grief and weariness. Her lips, once full of warmth, were stained with blood. The weight of her sorrow and despair was etched into every line of her face, as though the mirror itself refused to let her forget.
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Nauthiz clenched his fists, his towering form trembling with suppressed fury. “Why do you haunt me?” he growled, his voice low and resonant. “I’ve shed your skin. I’ve become what you could not.”
The reflection didn’t respond. It simply stared, unyielding and accusatory.
“You were weak,” Nauthiz snarled, stepping closer to the mirror. His breath fogged the surface, but the image remained clear. “You let them take Vlad. You let them take everything.”
The reflection tilted its head slightly, the motion subtle but deliberate. It wasn’t just a passive image. It was something more.
The air in the room grew colder, and the faint scent of ozone prickled at Nauthiz’s senses. The mirror began to ripple, its cracks seeming to widen as though the reflection was pushing against the glass. Nauthizia’s image leaned closer, her gaze piercing through the veil of her grief.
“You let them take him too,” she whispered, her voice faint but sharp as a blade. “You wore my face, my name. But you let them take my son.”
Nauthiz recoiled slightly, the accusation striking deeper than any physical wound. “I had no choice,” he snapped. “The Ottomans—”
“Excuses,” the reflection hissed, her voice growing louder, more forceful. “You let them make you their pawn. Just as you let them steal Vlad.”
The surface of the mirror cracked further, a spiderweb of fractures spreading outward. Nauthiz’s breathing quickened, his glowing eyes flickering with rage. “I am no pawn,” he growled, his voice rising. “I am the king of Wallachia. I am the monster they fear.”
“And yet,” the reflection whispered, her voice dripping with venom, “you still see me.”