The battlefield was silent, save for the faint crackle of smoldering embers and the distant cries of the defeated. Wallachia’s forces, led by the monstrous might of Dracula and the spectral dominance of Constantine, stood triumphant. The Sultan's body lay among the ash, his once-mighty army reduced to hollow echoes of its former glory. Overhead, the crimson moon cast its unyielding gaze upon the carnage, its light illuminating the remnants of a war steeped in blood and shadow.
Nauthizia Dracula stood at the heart of the battlefield, her guise as Nauthiz dissipating into the cold air. Her fangs gleamed, her body trembling not with exhaustion but with the weight of her purpose. Around her, an army of the undead rose, their forms grotesque yet loyal, summoned by her mastery of necromancy. Phantoms bound by Constantine’s spectral will circled the battlefield, their mournful cries haunting the night.
In the distance, a small figure emerged from the haze. Vlad. He was thin, pale, his youthful frame weighed down by years of servitude to the Sultan. His dark eyes, so reminiscent of his mother’s, widened in recognition and disbelief.
“Mother?” he whispered, his voice trembling.
Dracula’s crimson eyes softened, and for a moment, the monstrous visage faded, replaced by the queen who had once cradled him in her arms. She stepped forward, her hands reaching for him, but the boy recoiled, his expression twisted in horror.
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“What have you become?” Vlad’s voice cracked, tears streaming down his cheeks. “This is not my family. This is a nightmare.”
Constantine materialized, his spectral form dim yet steady. “Vlad,” he said gently, his voice carrying the weight of years lost. “We did this for you—for Wallachia. To bring you home.”
But the boy shook his head violently. “You’ve damned yourselves! Both of you!” His gaze shifted to the phantoms and undead soldiers surrounding them, the horrors of the battlefield reflected in his tear-filled eyes. “This is not salvation. This is damnation!”
Before either parent could respond, Vlad turned and fled into the ruins of the Sultan’s camp. Nauthizia moved to follow, but Constantine’s ghostly hand rested on her shoulder.
“Give him time,” he said softly.
Time, however, was not on their side.
By the time they reached him, Vlad had already made his choice. In the shadow of the Sultan’s desecrated banner, they found his lifeless body hanging from a makeshift noose, a symbol of defiance and despair. His faith had been unshakable, his conviction resolute. To him, his parents had become abominations, their actions a betrayal of all he held sacred.
Nauthizia fell to her knees, a raw, inhuman scream tearing from her throat. The sound echoed across the battlefield, silencing the undead and phantoms alike. Constantine knelt beside her, his spectral form flickering as if the weight of their loss threatened to unmake him.
They had fought angels and men. They had sacrificed their humanity, their morality, and their souls. Yet, in the end, the one they fought for could not see past their monstrous forms.
As dawn broke over the blood-soaked fields of Wallachia, Nauthizia and Constantine stood alone amidst the ashes of their victory. They had reclaimed their son, only to lose him again.