As the night wore on, Dracula's path of destruction wove through the village and into the surrounding countryside. He felled a Bulgarian rebel leader meeting secretly with his comrades, their plans to resist the Ottomans cut short in a flurry of shadow and blood. He slew Ottoman messengers, their vital dispatches undelivered. No distinction was made between Bulgar or Turk, oppressed or oppressor. All were equal before his insatiable hunger.
By the time the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Tarnovo was a village in mourning. Bodies lay where they had fallen, discovered by horrified villagers and alarmed soldiers. Panic spread like wildfire, whispers of a dark creature haunting the night taking hold.
From a distant hilltop, Dracula watched as chaos engulfed the village. He felt no remorse, no pity for the suffering he had wrought. Bulgaria's fate was of no consequence to him; it was merely a hunting ground, a place to slake his thirst and hone his strength. The Bulgarians had fallen to the Ottomans, their lands consumed by the empire's relentless expansion. That was their weakness, their failing.
"Let them fear the darkness," he mused, turning away as the sun's rays threatened to breach the clouds. "Let them cower and clutch at their frail lives. Wallachia stands because I will not allow it to fall. Their fate is not mine."
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
He vanished into the forest, a shadow among shadows, leaving behind only the chilling memory of his passing. As he made his way back toward the Danube and the borders of his own land, Dracula felt a grim satisfaction. Each life he had taken, each ounce of blood consumed, was a testament to his singular purpose: the preservation of Wallachia at any cost.
Crossing the great river under the fading cover of night, he stepped onto Wallachian soil with renewed vigor. The familiar woods welcomed him, the very air seeming to pulse in recognition of its sovereign's return. Here, he was not a predator in a foreign land but a guardian—a dark sentinel watching over his people.
But even as he resumed his mantle as Wallachia's protector, there was a lingering darkness that clung to him—a reminder of the lives extinguished without distinction, the innocence cast aside in his quest for power. Yet Dracula brushed such thoughts away. Compassion was a luxury he could not afford. The world was a brutal place, and only through unwavering resolve could his homeland remain unbroken.
"Wallachia endures," he whispered to the silent trees. "And so shall I."
He disappeared into the depths of his domain, the shadows closing around him like a cloak. Behind him, the sun rose over Bulgaria, casting light upon a land still shrouded in the darkness he had left. But that was not his concern. His gaze was fixed firmly on the horizon, ever watchful for the threats that might encroach upon his own borders.