The castle courtyard teemed with life—or what passed for it in Wallachia under Dracula’s reign. A chill wind swept through the gathering of townsfolk, its sharp bite silenced by the magnetic presence of their ruler. They stood in hushed awe, their breaths visible in the moonlit air, as Dracula emerged from the shadows. His crimson-lined cloak billowed like the wings of a great bird of prey, and his glowing ember eyes swept across the crowd.
"You have come willingly," Dracula said, his voice smooth and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries. "You seek power, immortality. But at what cost?"
The citizens—farmers, merchants, even a mother clutching her young daughter—shifted nervously but remained steadfast. Each had tasted the cruelty of Ottoman oppression, seen their loved ones impaled, their homes razed. They were desperate, and desperation made them bold.
One man stepped forward, his head held high despite the tremor in his voice. "We would pay any cost to see our families free from fear, to fight for Wallachia as you do."
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Dracula’s lips curved into a cold smile, revealing the glint of his fangs. "Then you shall have it. But know this: to serve me is to relinquish the mortal coil. What you gain in strength and eternity, you lose in warmth and light as my thralls. Are you prepared to cast away the sun forever?"
A murmur rippled through the crowd, but no one turned away. Instead, they dropped to their knees as one, their gazes locked on their lord.
"So be it," Dracula said, stepping forward. He raised his hands, the long, clawed fingers casting shadows like talons across the cobblestones. His voice dropped into a guttural chant, ancient and terrible, weaving a spell that chilled the very air around them.
One by one, the citizens came to him, baring their necks in submission. Dracula’s fangs pierced flesh with precision, the act almost tender, as he drank deeply and then gave back. His blood dripped into their open mouths, binding them to him in an eternal pact.
The transformation was immediate. The man who had first stepped forward let out a strangled cry as his body convulsed, his veins darkening beneath his skin. His eyes flew open, crimson and fierce, and when he looked at Dracula, it was with newfound reverence.
"You are reborn," Dracula intoned, helping the man to his feet. He turned to the others, his voice rising. "You are no longer the prey of the Sultan's wolves. You are the hunters. You are mine."
The crowd erupted into cries of triumph as more stepped forward, to join their brethren. By the time the ritual ended, the courtyard was filled with vamps, their eyes aglow with predatory light, their voices raised in a hymn of vengeance.