Vlad Tepes - Vampire King

“Please let this old man pass by. I am but a weary traveler. I carry nothing of value,” I had told them earlier.

But fools don’t listen. They saw my lack of party and thought it an invitation. They surrounded me under the cover of night, unaware it was their own weakness they were stepping into. These bandits must've been new to their practice. If they were not, they knew better than to attack a lone man in a full moon, when creatures like me would most likely roam. It has been 500 years since the beginning of the 10th century. And still, mortals were insolent.

I spat blood—theirs, briefly—and let it strike one of their faces. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and looked around at the wreckage. “Filthy. Pathetic.” Their eyes had gone wide when I began to move. But by then, their limbs had already betrayed them. I didn’t bother arranging their bodies. Let the mud take them. Let the teeth and wings come down from the dark hills and finish the work. The savages of these woods would have offered them a kinder death if they had discovered these thieves before I did.

As I stepped away, I caught movement in the brush—silent, low to the earth. A pack of wolves. No—werewolves. As I met their aggressive eyes, I asked myself: where was I now?

I had been walking for some time. Long enough that the frost of Wallachai no longer bit at my cloak. The halls of Castle Dracula had grown cold, not from snow, but from memory. I was no longer interested in the centuries stacked up like cobwebs around that place. I left, not for peace, but for noise—just for something different. A century or two of wandering would suffice.

“Austria,” I muttered. “They’ve always had a werewolf problem.” They watched me from the shadows, low growls humming in their throats. But they did not lunge. They knew. All dogs bark; these ones simply remembered what happens when they bite.

I raised a hand. “Begone.” And they left. I insulted them and they still turned tail. Pride is worth nothing when death stares back with older eyes. I stepped over a corpse, hard to tell which one, they were all broken. I then pulled my black cloak back across my shoulders. Cold wind touched my face, and I paused. Something on the air shifted. A scent.

There it was—faint, but unmistakable. A scent like crushed violets mixed with iron and fire. Sweet, but not the kind born of youth or perfume. This was heritage; lineage distilled into flesh. A maiden, yes. But not the usual kind that clung to charm and superstition. This one carried something. Old blood. Royal. Tainted by power. I've tasted kings before. Bled them dry on marble floors while their empires cracked beneath their feet. Their blood was never sweeter—only more deluded. Yet this one... this thread in the air—it gave me pause, and I decided to follow it.

Through trees that leaned like witnesses, across the mist-covered path that led toward the edge of the village. There stood a small inn: wooden, quiet, poorly guarded. And in front of it, suspended from rusted chains on a crooked beam, a swing. On it, she sat. Alone.

The night wind teased her dress. Her hands rested still, and her eyes looked straight ahead—unbothered, unworried. Not ignorance, I noticed. Confidence.

From the shadows, I scanned the perimeter. Yes. There it was—the sharp sting of consecration. A priest’s blessing faded but intact. Wards carved into the gateposts, ash buried beneath the flowerbeds, a line of salt sewn into the seams of the fence. Crude protections. The kind that would disorient lesser predators. A trap dressed as shelter.

I smiled to myself. So that’s why she sat there like she couldn’t be touched. It would work on the fledglings, the half-turned, the newborns still afraid of fire and prayer. The young think wards are absolute. They think barriers hold. But I stood in this world long before priests scribbled Latin into scrolls. I was already older than their gods when the first blessings were whispered in desperation.

Still, I didn’t cross the line. Not because I couldn’t. Because I didn’t need to. Confidence is more fragile than bone. Let her feel safe for now.

From the shadows, I watched her posture shift. She saw the gleam in my eyes—crimson now. Curiosity, not hunger. She stood but didn’t approach. Good instincts. Useless, but good. I ran a hand through my hair, pushed it back neatly before I stepped into view. "An unfair barrier," I said, eyes scanning the sigils hidden in the wood. "Though I suppose even the most devout blessings can’t stop a man from appreciating the view."

I bowed my head, shallowly. I watched for the flicker of recognition in her eyes, but there was none. She didn’t know who I was. Which made this even better. I have killed hundreds of her kin, yet she does not know who I am? "Alucard," I lied easily, letting it rest on my tongue like a rusted blade. "At your service."

Names are just words. Lies are just tools. And time is just something I have more of than anyone else alive. There was no urgency. After all, I’ve outlived civilizations. What’s one more night?

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