Dracula Retold

The First Day

Lupei stormed through his chambers like a caged beast, his heavy boots striking the stone floor with force. The torches on the walls flickered violently as he tore down a tapestry, sending it crumpling to the ground. His breath came in ragged, furious gasps, his body trembling with unchecked rage.

He slammed his fist onto the table, goblets rattling from the force. "This marriage is an affront! A disgrace!" he bellowed, knocking over a table, sending goblets and parchments crashing to the floor. "I should have crushed his skull the moment he set foot back in the palace!"

Petre stepped forward, his voice low and eager. "Shall we strike against them, my lord? The Danesti in the palace are vulnerable."

Lupei whirled on him, his face twisted in fury. "No! Not yet." He jabbed a finger at Petre's chest, his breath hot with anger. "If we move too soon, they will see it for what it is—vengeance. No. We must let the people see what this marriage has wrought. We make them suffer. And when their agony is unbearable, they will beg me to end it."

Petre tilted his head, considering. "How do you propose we make them suffer?"

Lupei's lips curled into a snarl. "We strike our own. Not the nobles, not the warriors. The villagers. The weak. The nameless fools who think their fates are their own. We will drench this land in blood and let them believe it is the Danesti who have cursed them."

A wicked smile spread across Petre's face. "A brilliant plan, my lord."

Lupei exhaled through his nose, his fury settling into something colder, more calculated. "Make it bloody. Make them wail so loud, the heavens themselves hear their cries."

The night was thick with the scent of blood and smoke. Somewhere beyond the castle walls, the dying screamed their last, the air punctuated by the sounds of savage slaughter. By morning, the air was filled with the sound of distant wails. The first screams echoed through the palace halls, shrill and panicked, rousing the castle from its slumber. 

Vlad's senses stirred before his mind fully awakened. He heard it—rushed, uneven breathing just beyond his chamber door, the erratic thud of a panicked heartbeat he knew all too well. Then, a furious knocking shattered the quiet.

Vlad was already moving. In a blur, he threw open the door, revealing Klaus, pale-faced, chest heaving. There was sweat at his temples, his dark curls damp with it. His hands, trembling at his sides, clenched into fists. Klaus didn't wait for permission—he seized Vlad's wrist and pulled him forward.

Vlad's sharp gaze flicked over him. "What's happened?"

Klaus swallowed, struggling for words. "There's been an attack." His voice was hoarse, as if he had been screaming. "People—" He shook his head, as though trying to force his mind to comprehend what he had seen. "They're dead, Vlad. Torn apart. Like the camp night."

Vlad reached out, steadying him with a firm grip on his forearm. "Come," he said simply.

Klaus nodded, turning on his heel, and Vlad followed without hesitation. They sprinted down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in the halls.

The moment they stepped into the courtyard, the full weight of the massacre descended upon them. The scent of blood was thick, coating the morning air in a metallic tang. The cobblestones were slick, painted red with fresh blood. The bodies of villagers and castle guards lay strewn about, mangled beyond recognition. Torches flickered wildly in the wind, casting elongated shadows over the massacre.

Surrounded by bodies living and bled, Vlad's own fangs threatened to drop. The scent of blood stirred an ancient hunger deep within him. His eyes glowed with an almost predatory light, a barely contained urge clawing at him. He took a steadying breath, but the familiar pull was impossible to ignore. Control, he thought, willing the beast within to remain silent. No one knew who he truly was, not even Klaus, but with the blood in the air, that truth became harder to keep hidden.