(POV: Vlad)
The roar of the gigantic Ottoman cannons was the drumbeat of doomsday. Stones the size of wagons slammed into the walls of Dracula's Castle, sending tremors through his very bones. Each impact crumbled a part of the ancient fortress, a stronghold that had been home to his ancestors for centuries. For the remaining Wallachian soldiers, that sound was a death knell. For Dracula, it was accompanying music for his final dance.
He stood on the highest tower, his black cape flapping in the wind that carried dust and the smell of gunpowder. Below, an endless sea of Ottoman soldiers crept forward, siege ladders raised, and assault towers pushed closer.
"Hold your ground!" Dracula roared, his supernaturally amplified voice echoing across the castle courtyard, cutting through the din of battle. "Show them how the lions of Wallachia defend their den!"
The first wave of Janissaries reached the walls. They climbed the ladders with terrifying speed and discipline. Dracula did not wait for them to reach the top. He leaped from the tower.
He did not fall. In mid-air, his body exploded into a thousand screeching bats, forming a living cloud of darkness that instantly enveloped the attackers on the wall. The soldiers screamed as thousands of tiny bites and flapping wings blinded and panicked them. They lost their footing, tumbling from their ladders onto the rocks below.
Dracula returned to his human form on the battlements, landing silently amidst a group of soldiers who had managed to reach the top. Before they could even raise their swords, he was already moving. He was a blur, a shadow of death. One hand gripped a soldier's neck and crushed it. The other hand pierced the breastplate of a second soldier. He kicked a third, sending him flying off the wall. All happened in less than three seconds.
The battle on the castle walls was hell. His loyal soldiers, though few in number, fought with courage inspired by their monster prince. They watched Dracula move among them, a vortex of fury and power. He deflected sword slashes with bare arms, the blades breaking upon contact with his curse-enhanced skin. He lifted an Ottoman soldier with one hand and hurled him towards five others like a projectile.
Hot oil was poured, arrows were fired, but the human wave kept coming. In the midst of the carnage, Dracula felt the thirst return, now stronger than ever, fueled by the overwhelming scent of blood. He saw one of his soldiers gravely wounded, blood flowing from his wound. His instincts screamed to approach, to drink.
"No!" he thought, focusing his rage on the enemy. He lunged at another group of Janissaries, tearing and destroying, trying to drown his thirst in a sea of enemy blood.
Seeing his infantry assault fail, Mehmed ordered a new tactic. His elite archers advanced, firing thousands of arrows tipped with silver.
As the rain of silver arrows fell, Dracula felt true pain for the first time since his transformation. One arrow struck his shoulder. It didn't feel like an ordinary puncture, but like a burning ember searing his flesh from within. He roared in agony, forcefully pulling out the arrow. The wound didn't heal instantly. It took several seconds that felt like an eternity for the wound to slowly close, leaving a smoking black scar.
"Silver..." he hissed. He now knew one of his weaknesses.
Seeing the enemy prince wounded, the morale of the Ottoman soldiers reignited. They charged forward with greater ferocity. The battle reached its peak. Dracula, who now had to dodge silver arrows while continuing to fight, was forced to use his powers to their limit.
He roared, and from his mouth came a terrifying wave of sound, sending nearby soldiers tumbling with bleeding ears. He grabbed a small cannon on the wall, lifted it with superhuman strength, and hurled it down, crushing a siege tower.
The battle raged on that day without end. As dusk arrived, painting the sky with the color of blood, the Ottoman forces finally retreated to regroup, leaving thousands of corpses at the foot of the castle.
Dracula stood panting on a pile of corpses, his body riddled with dozens of silver arrows that still ached even as his wounds slowly healed. His castle courtyard was silent, filled with the groans of his wounded soldiers. They had won the day. They had held off the first assault.
But as he looked at the countless enemy bonfires still in the distance, he knew this was just the beginning. Night would soon fall. And with the night, came the unbearable thirst. Today's victory felt like a postponed defeat.
Night enveloped Dracula's Castle, but brought no peace. The grand hall, once filled with laughter and music, was now filled with the groans of wounded soldiers. Small bonfires were lit in the courtyard, their flickering light illuminating tired, desperate faces. Vlad walked among them, each step heavy. He was their prince, their savior, but their gaze upon him was now mixed with fear.
He felt the sharp pain of the silver arrow wounds that had not fully healed. But there was another pain far worse: the thirst. The scent of blood emanating from his wounded comrades called to the monster instincts within him. His throat felt dry and burned. He had to clench his hands so tightly that his sharp nails dug into his palms, using physical pain to fight the terrible urge to prey on his own soldiers.
He fled to the quietest part of the castle, to his chambers, trying to get away from the temptation. He looked at a silver mirror hanging on the wall, a wedding gift. For the first time, he saw no reflection of himself. Only the empty room behind him. The curse had stolen his reflection, stolen another piece of his humanity.
He smashed the mirror to pieces. He was doing all of this for Mirena and Ingeras. He had to remember that. He was their shield. He was their monster. This sacrifice must not be in vain.
(POV: Tom)
Above the cold sky, in the comfort of his floating velvet sofa, Tom Jacker applauded softly.
"Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent!" he said to the empty air. "A first act full of action, drama, and suspense! The introduction of the silver weakness was a brilliant narrative touch. It adds a layer of vulnerability to our tragic protagonist. The audience will love it!"
He was very impressed with Vlad's "performance." The brutality on the battlefield, the implied internal struggle, all of it was first-class entertainment. This was far better than any theatrical drama he had watched in other dimensions.
"But," he thought, tapping his finger on the armrest of the sofa. "At this rate, tomorrow's show might be too short. His forces are almost depleted. It would be a shame if my 'main actor' died too quickly before the grand finale."
He smiled. "I guess the director needs to give a little extra budget to the 'special effects' and 'supporting cast' department."
(POV: Vlad)
As Vlad struggled against his thirst in his dark chamber, he heard a commotion from the castle courtyard. Alert, he went to the window, thinking the Ottoman army was launching a night attack.
But what he saw froze him.
From the darkest shadows in the corners of the castle, several new creatures emerged. They didn't look like humans or animals. There were two figures made of rough stone, shaped like winged gargoyles with glowing red eyes. There were also three other slender creatures, resembling hellhounds made of dense darkness, growling softly.
The remaining Wallachian soldiers recoiled in fear, raising their swords at these new monsters. But the creatures did not attack them. Instead, they marched with strange discipline, taking defensive positions at the main gate, as if they were long-lost guardians.
It was then that a cold, amused laughter echoed in Vlad's mind, as if the "demon" who had cursed him was speaking directly to him.
"A magnificent show, Prince. I'm highly entertained. Consider these some 'supporting actors' to help you in the next act. Don't disappoint me."
Vlad's blood seemed to freeze. So, it was true. He was being watched. His entire struggle, his suffering, his sacrifice... it was all just a show for the entity who had cursed him. A colossal rage burned within him, hotter than any fire.
But he was also a pragmatist. He saw the stone gargoyles and hellhounds now standing ready. He looked towards the sea of enemy bonfires in the distance.
He swallowed his burning anger, replacing it with an icy resolve. He no longer cared if he was a pawn in this demon's game. He would use every piece, every cursed gift, to achieve his goal.
He walked out onto the balcony, looking at his new, monstrous army. "Alright, Demon," he whispered to the cold night. "You want a show? I'll give you a show that will make even the Gods tremble."
Dawn would soon break, and with it, the next wave of Ottoman attacks. But this time, Dracula would not fight alone.