Two days later, the great hall of Castle Târgoviște was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the hearth's flames. Nauthizia stood before the assembled court, her long cloak of crimson velvet trailing behind her. The air was heavy with expectation. Her people—the living and the undead—gathered in silence, their faces a mosaic of confusion, anger, and hesitant hope.

“Mourning is all that binds us,” she began, her voice resonant, carrying both the weight of grief and the unyielding strength of resolve. “We mourn for what was taken from us—our faith, our sovereignty, and above all, our prince. But in our mourning, there is also glory. We remain. We endure. We rise.”

The crowd shifted uneasily, and Nauthizia’s sharp eyes did not miss their doubt. “I have lied to you,” she continued, her voice steady, cutting through the uncertainty. “I faked my death, forsaking the name of Nauthizia to shield myself and my kingdom. I assumed the guise of Nauthiz not out of cowardice but as a tool—a weapon against those who sought to break us.”

Murmurs rippled through the hall, but Nauthizia raised a hand, commanding silence.

“That mask is no longer needed,” she declared, her sharp eyes meeting those of her people. “I am Nauthizia Tepes Drăculea, your queen, and I will no longer hide behind a false visage. Nauthiz shall live only in whispers, called upon only when Wallachia demands a shield that a queen cannot wield.”

Her voice grew heavier. “But no truth of mine can overshadow the absence of my son, Vlad. His loss is a wound I will carry until my dying breath—a loss that was not mine alone but Wallachia's. I see it in your eyes, in the empty space where your prayers for his return once lingered. The heavens may have forsaken us, but they took him first.”

The crowd bowed their heads, and a palpable wave of sorrow swept through the hall. Mothers clutched their children tightly, their hearts breaking anew at the memory of the prince ripped from their land. Vamps, creatures often regarded as beyond the frailty of human emotion, shared solemn nods, their faces etched with grief.

Constantine’s spectral form shimmered faintly in the firelight, his presence as steady as ever. He stepped forward, his voice breaking the silence. “Vlad was not just a son. He was a future. He was the hope we all shared, the legacy we fought to preserve. And though he is gone, he is not forgotten. His name will live on in every stone of this castle, in every breath of the land he was meant to rule. Wallachia will mourn him forever, but we will not let his memory fade.”

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Nauthizia’s gaze softened as she looked to Constantine. “We will rule together, Constantine, as we once did. Not just for Wallachia but for Vlad’s memory. His absence may haunt us, but it will also fuel us. We will ensure his sacrifice is not in vain.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Tears glistened in the eyes of the human peasants and the nobility alike. Even the vamps, whose cold demeanors rarely betrayed emotion, seemed moved by the shared grief.

Nauthizia straightened her shoulders, her voice rising above the sorrow. “Yesterday, the Eastern Orthodox Church condemned Wallachia entirely. They did not simply denounce us as heretics or abandon their pastoral duties. They sent their warrior angels—beings of celestial wrath—to obliterate us. Constantine and I stood against them, not for our pride, but for you, for Wallachia, and for the son they stole from us. Together, we cast them down.”

The crowd stiffened, torn between awe and unease, but Nauthizia’s voice did not falter. “The Sultan is dead,” she continued, her voice like tempered steel. “Nauthiz and Constantine struck him down with the full weight of Wallachia’s wrath. And now, the Ottoman Empire stirs, its fury inevitable. Their armies will march. Their generals will call for vengeance. They will come for our blood.”

Gasps erupted, but Nauthizia raised a hand, commanding silence.

“Let them come,” she said, her voice growing cold and fierce. “We do not cower. We do not kneel. We are Wallachia, and we have faced greater threats than the swords of men or the wrath of angels. We will face their vengeance with the same ferocity with which we have faced every trial. And we will prevail.”

Constantine’s spectral form shimmered beside her, his presence a steadying force. “The Sultan’s death was not vengeance,” he added, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “It was justice. Justice for Vlad. Justice for the countless lives crushed under Ottoman boots. And if they seek to repay that justice with war, we will answer them—not as victims, but as warriors.”

The hall erupted into applause, slow and uncertain at first, but growing into a resounding wave of loyalty and defiance. Nauthizia lifted her chin, her voice carrying above the cheers.

“For Vlad. For Wallachia. We rise!”

The cry echoed through the hall and out into the night, a declaration of unity, of power, and of a future reclaimed. From that day forward, Nauthizia lived true to her word, donning the guise of Nauthiz only in times of dire necessity.

The people, and even the vamps of Wallachia, came to forgive the lies she had spun, seeing them as the desperate measures of a ruler who had sacrificed much to protect them.

And though Constantine’s ghostly presence remained hidden to most, his influence and loyalty were felt in every corner of the land.

Together, they forged a legacy that transcended life and death—a rule built on strength, sacrifice, and defiance against both earthly and holy powers.