The wind whispered secrets through the trees as Oleksandr rode in silence, the steady rhythm of his horse’s hooves marking time against the earth. The vast expanse of the Balkan Peninsula unfolded before him, its rugged beauty a tapestry of wild forests and shadowed valleys. Above, the Carpathian Mountains stood over him, their peaks ablaze with the dying light of the setting sun. The sky, awash in shades of crimson and gold, cast a warm glow over the landscape, but Oleksandr felt no comfort in its beauty. He had seen too much blood, too much loss, for such things to stir his heart. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, searching for something beyond the reach of sight, perhaps a path that would lead him away from the shadows that followed him. A distant howl rose on the wind, the call of wolves echoing through the darkening woods. Oleksandr listened, his grip tightening on the reins. The loneliness of the road was a familiar companion, but tonight, it felt especially heavy. The wolves were not the only hunters in these lands.

He pressed on, the trees swayed with the breeze, their leaves rustling like whispered warnings. Oleksandr welcomed the isolation, the quiet that allowed him to think, to remember. He had come so far, crossed so many lands, yet the journey was far from over. Ahead lay a destiny he could not yet see, but one he would face as he always had, with steel in his hand and a warrior’s resolve in his heart. As the sun dipped below the mountains, the world fell into twilight, a moment suspended between day and night. Oleksandr urged his horse forward, deeper into the unknown, knowing that wherever the path led, it would be marked by blood, brutality, and battle.

His steed finds a trail in the forest, a rough dirt road worn smooth by the passage of countless travelers. The path is narrow and winding, leading deeper into the forest. The trees grow denser here, their branches arching overhead and creating a thick, dark canopy that blocks out the moonlight, leaving the path in near darkness. Oleksandr reins in his horse, his eyes narrowing as he stares at a grotesque sight ahead. A body hangs impaled on a spear, suspended like some macabre decoration, a grim warning to passing travelers. The forest is deathly still, the only movement the slow sway of the corpse in the wind, its lifeless eyes fixed on the path. This was no random cruelty; it was a message, one meant to chill the heart and turn back the bold. But Oleksandr, hardened by unimaginable amounts of deaths witnessed, approaches it with curiosity.

He can see that the decaying corpse belongs to an Ottoman soldier. The tattered remains of their clothes and armor cling to the frame, though the decay has rendered them nearly beyond recognition. Some of the flesh has been picked away by scavenging animals, and a sickly-sweet smell of rot hangs in the air, even up here at a distance. Oleksandr continues on the trail, and as he rounds the bend, he spots another body, suspended in the same manner as the first. This one, too, appears to be an Ottoman soldier, though the state of decay is even more advanced than the previous one. Scraps of clothing and armor hang from the skeleton, and the smell of death grows stronger.

“Hm. Kebabs. How appetizing ” He mutters to himself dryly.

Oleksandr continues down the trail, and as he goes, the number of impaled bodies increases rapidly. Before long, the trail is completely lined with them, hundreds of decaying bodies suspended on spears, their tattered clothes fluttering slightly in the wind. The sight is gruesome, some of the corpses impaled upside down, some through the stomach, and some from their backs out through their mouths. The sight seems to stretch on without end, like a macabre forest of fallen soldiers, some being picked at by birds. The sheer number of bodies is staggering, and the bloody display serves as a stark reminder of the brutalities of war.

After riding for hours, the trail exits the forest and opens up to a shallow pass through the mountains. The change in scenery is stark and immediate, the dense trees replaced by a rocky, rugged terrain. However, the skewered corpses remain, littered across the landscape. He even passes one spear, with nearly ten skulls through it. The moon hangs high overhead, casting a silvery light over the rock formations and peaks. Oleksandr rides on, the quiet of the night broken only by the hoofbeats of his horse and the endless caw of crows, no doubt drawn by the generous feast left for them.

He eventually sees a castle in the distance, one that looms atop a jagged cliff, surrounded by a moat, its dark stone walls blending seamlessly with the rugged landscape of the mountains. Towering spires pierce the sky, shrouded in mist that clings to the ancient battlements. Narrow windows glare like the eyes of a predator, and the fortress exudes an ominous presence, as if the very stones are steeped in blood and history. Below, the steep, winding path leading to the entrance is treacherous, guarded by the unforgiving terrain and familiar macabre trophies. After a long while of riding, he approaches the moat and gazes up at the guards standing on the wall.

"State your business!" One calls out in Romanian. He reins in his horse before calling out in response, his Romanian steady and clear.

"I'm a friend. I come to speak with the Voivode." The guards exchange a glance amongst themselves, clearly surprised to see a stranger approaching the castle. After a moment, one of them calls back down to him.

"Identify yourself, stranger. Who are you, and what business do you have with the Voivode?”

"Your lord may know me as ‘Flaxen Reaper.' I bring information on our shared foe.” The guards on the wall exchange a look and signal to their comrades standing at the bridge over the moat. There's the creak of the winch as the drawbridge is lowered, and the path for Oleksandr is clear. He urges his horse forward, crossing the moat and making his way towards the sturdy stone walls of the castle. As he gets closer, the castle appears even more imposing, its walls looming high overhead. There's an eerie silence hanging in the air, broken only by the creaking of the drawbridge and the clop of his horse's hooves. As he approaches the castle's gate, he's met by a group of armed guards, spears and swords poised at the ready. A burly man in the lead steps forward, eyeing him suspiciously.

"What business do you have here, Flaxen Reaper?" He growls, his voice gruff and commanding.

“Lower your weapons, I am no enemy. I seek an audience with The Voivode. Tell him I must speak with him urgently.” Oleksandr responds, his voice calm and confident as he stares down at them. The guards exchange a glance, clearly wary of him, but the burly man motions for them to lower their weapons. He eyes Oleksandr for a moment before replying.

"Fine. Follow me," he grumbles. "But you'll be searched first. Leave your weapons here, and no sudden moves.” Oleksandr dismounts his horse and hands the reins over to a young stable boy who steps forward. The burly man motions for him to follow, and the guards fall in line behind them. "Keep your hands where we can see them," the man mutters, his eyes on Oleksandr. They proceed through the narrow cobblestone streets of the castle, the stones worn smooth by countless booted feet over the years. The place is strangely deserted, only the occasional guard stationed at each corner. The only sound in the air is the echoing clatter of their footsteps across the stones. They pass by a long series of stone doorways, each leading to various chambers and rooms used by the castle's inhabitants. The guards stationed there glance up as Oleksandr passes, their eyes studying him closely, but none of them move to obstruct his path. As they stop at a set of grand oak doors, the burly man motions for Oleksandr to hold out his arms, and he begins patting him down. The search is thorough, his rough hands checking every fold of his clothing for any hidden weapons. After a moment, he finds his sword and dagger and passes them to a nearby guard.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“You're clean,” he says. “The Voivode will see you now.” Oleksandr pushes the large wooden doors open and steps into a cavernous, shadowed hall, its walls lined with faded tapestries depicting scenes of battle and conquest. Iron sconces cast flickering light that barely reaches the vaulted ceiling, leaving the corners in near darkness. At the far end, atop a dais of cold stone, sits a massive, ornately carved throne, its high back adorned with spikes. The air is thick with the scent of burning torches and incense, and there are armed knights and a priest present.

The man sitting upon the throne watches as Oleksandr approaches. He has a gaunt, angular face marked by sharp cheekbones and an aquiline nose, with a thick mustache that curls above his lips. His deep-set, piercing eyes gleam with a ruthless intensity, and his black hair, falling over his shoulders, is crowned by a jeweled cap. Clad with rich velvet robes and furs, he exudes an aura of both nobility and menace.

“Vladimir,” Oleksandr regards the man with a light bow of his head, his voice clear, his face stoic and respectful.

"Ah. The wandering Siberian." He replies, a slight smirk playing on his lips, "it has been a while, my friend. What brings you to my castle after all this time?”

“I bring bad tidings.” Vladimir leans back on his throne, his expression growing serious.

"Bad tidings, you say? What news do you have to share that warrants such a visit?”

"Turks are on your doorstep, Voivode. About three nights away. They are around two-thousand strong. At least, they were.”

Vlad's eyebrows furrow as he absorbs this information. "Two thousand strong," he repeats, "and yet you speak as though some of them are now gone. Did you encounter them?”

"I removed a couple hundred the previous night, but they still make their approach. How strong is your army?"

"My army is strong," Vlad replies, a hint of pride in his voice. "We number around a thousand men, hardened and ready for battle. But against two-thousand Turks..." His voice trails off, his face growing thoughtful. "How is it that our scouts have not alerted us?"

Oleksandr keeps his gaze steady, replying with a stoic expression. “They approach from the east. They may have circumvented your scouts in order to take you by surprise.” Vlad's eyes narrow, a subtle anger beginning to simmer beneath the surface.

"So they think they can take me by surprise, like some foolish prey." He drums his fingers on the arm of his throne, contemplating the situation. "You fought them in the night and removed a couple hundred. How did you manage such a feat, alone and outnumbered?

"Let's just say, there was an avalanche in the night." Vlad's lips twitch in the hint of a smile.

"An avalanche? A rather convenient and fortuitous event for us, it would seem." He regards Oleksandr with new respect, his eyes sizing him up once more. "You are a cunning warrior, my friend. I am fortunate to have you on my side.”

"I saw your... forest of corpses. I must say, I'm impressed.” Vlad's smile broadens slightly at the mention of his infamous 'forest of corpses'.

"Ah, yes," he says, a hint of pride in his voice, "my signature tactic. A gruesome sight, but effective in its own way. I take it you approve, Sasha?”

"It's certainly creative."

"Creative," Vlad muses, a slight edge to his voice. "Yes, I suppose one could call it that. But let me tell you, my friend, it is also a powerful deterrent. When word spreads of the forest of corpses, it strikes fear into the hearts of my enemies." His expression hardens, his eyes narrowing once more. "Fear is a powerful weapon, and I have learned to wield it to my advantage.”

"Their morale is low. They call your lands accursed." Vlad lets out a cold, mirthless laugh at this.

“Yes, they have been called such before. But what they fail to understand is that I am the one who curses them." He leans forward in his throne, his gaze intense. "The forest of corpses is just one of my many... 'gifts.' There are more foul things in these lands than a few impaled bodies, I assure you.”

"I take your word for it." Oleksandr crosses his arms, his face statuesque as always. "What's your move, Dracul?" Vlad leans back on his throne once more, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"My move... I have an idea. A way to use the Turks' arrogance against them. But it will require your assistance, Flaxen Reaper. Are you willing to listen?” Oleksandr nods once, his eyes fixed on the Voivode. Vlad leans forward, his gaze intense as he speaks. “The Turks may think they have the element of surprise on their side, but we will show them otherwise. I will lead my army out into the open, just in sight of their approaching forces. They will think we mean to fight them head on, but in truth, it is a trap. While they are preoccupied with us, you will lead a small, stealthy force to attack them from the rear. Catch them off guard. Can you do it?”

"Aye. I can."

"Excellent. The Turks will be caught between the anvil of my army and the hammer of your attack. With any luck, we will crush them completely." Vlad's lips curve into a cold smile as he regards Oleksandr. "But remember, this will not be an easy task. You and your men will need to be stealthy, quick, and merciless.”

"Provide me with two hundred cavalry men, and fifty archers."

"You shall have them," he says. "But know that this is all I can spare. My army must remain strong enough to hold the front line in case your attack fails.” Oleksandr nods, imagining it in his head. "Now," Vlad continues, his voice hardening, "there is one more thing I must know before we proceed. Can I trust you, Sasha? Can I trust that you will not betray me and join the Turks in the middle of the battle?” Oleksandr's face hardens, a slight scowl twisting on his lips.

"I would rather be flayed alive than join with that scum. It is almost an insult that you would ask me such a question." Vlad's expression softens slightly. He sighs, and nods.

"I meant no offense, my friend. It is not doubt in you that I have, but rather caution. I have been betrayed before. Trusted the wrong people. And it nearly cost me everything I have built here.” Oleksandr straightens up, snuffing his anger.

"I understand… You have every reason to be wary. But I am the last man to ever sympathize with the Turk, let alone assist them. I can promise you that." Vlad nods slowly, his eyes studying Oleksandr's face.

"Very well. I believe you. And I trust you. Then we are agreed. You will lead your men in a sneak attack upon the Ottomans, while I lead my army forward and hold their attention. Together, we will crush them between us.”

Oleksandr collects his horse and leaves the castle walls and rides back into the forest. He sets up a humble camp for the night, capturing a fish in a small stream with his hands and proceeding to eat it. He settles into his makeshift camp as the evening darkens, a small fire burning to ward off the chill of the night. The solitude and quiet of the forest are a familiar comfort to him, and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts and mentally prepare himself for the battle ahead. He packs his pipe with his usual blend of tobacco and hashish and rests against a tree, gazing up through the gap in the leaves to the night sky, lighting his pipe and taking a long draw of the fragrant smoke. The hashish mingles with the tobacco, and a sense of calm washes over him. For a moment, he closes his eyes and lets the quiet of the forest envelop him. He stands back up and moves towards a small pond. The water's surface is smooth and still, and his reflection gazes back at him, eerily distorted and shifting with the slightest ripple. He stares intently at his reflected face, the flickering light of the campfire casting moving shadows across his features. He gently touches his face and turns slowly from side to side, staring at his own eyes, the same face and gaze his identical twin shared. For a moment, he feels the comfort of his presence, though it is not really him.

"Thekkur..." He mutters to himself. "It never gets easier, little brother." For a moment, he pauses, the pain of loss rushing over him like a flood. The empty space alongside him, where his twin brother had always been, feels achingly desolate. He clenches his jaw, closing his eyes against the surge of grief. But then he shakes his head, as if to clear away the pain, and takes a deep breath, the moment passing like a shadow across the face of the moon.