Page 4 of Prince with a Chance of Darkness

He would slaughter anyone who dared raise a hand to a child, be that child born of his enemy or not. He knew what it was like to be the child of the “enemy” and what happened when those who felt wronged were gifted the opportunity to exact revenge using innocent children in the process.

Vlad and his brother Radu had been taken hostage by the Ottoman Empire when Vlad had been barely eleven years old. Radu had only been seven at the time. Mircea, Vlad’s eldest legitimate brother, had been spared only because he was needed to rule Wallachia. While only a few years separated Vlad and Mircea, he and Vlad had never been close.

And Vlad had nearly no relationship with his half-brother, also named Vlad, but often called Vlad the Monk. Times were different then and coming from a royal line meant there were certain expectations and burdens placed upon them at birth. They never really had a chance to be children. Boys were expected to be men far sooner than now, but even so, eleven and seven meant he and his brother had been children.

Not men.

Yet he and Radu had become unwilling pawns in a dangerous game that they had been too young to realize they were playing. Too young at first to realize they were entering a dangerous world with an evil man at the helm of it.

Yes, the Sultan who had taken them in exchange for their father’s loyalty and obedience had seen to it the boys were educated and thought of as “guests” rather than prisoners, but there was no sugarcoating it. Vlad and Radu had not been free. And with the education they were provided came lessons Vlad dared not think upon all these years later.

To do so would ignite a rage in him the likes of which could not be tempered with any amount of blood shedding. He knew. He’d tried more than once to wash the memories from his mind by way of blood.

It never worked.

Vlad’s experience had paled in comparison to Radu’s. Vlad had been too old for the likes of the Sultan at the time—as twisted as they were. Radu had not. Had Vlad been stronger, older, and in command of his own armies at the time, he would have razed the area to the ground to protect his younger brother from what he’d been forced to endure.

Radu the Handsome.

The nickname still sickened Vlad to this day.

Vlad could still remember their journey to the Sultan’s home. He’d kept Radu close to him all the way there, trying to reassure him that all would be well. Not to be afraid.

Hai, fra?iorul meu curajos. Nu plânge—come, my brave little brother. Do not cry.

The words echoed in the nothingness that was Vlad’s current form, a harsh reminder of the past—of the lies he’d spun upon that journey, never realizing the true horrors that awaited them or that he would not be able to protect his brother.

Fratele meu, dragonul—my brother, the dragon,Radu had said, his green eyes, which matched Vlad’s, red-rimmed and filled with tears. Radu had been so young then.

So vulnerable.

So willing to believe Vlad, to trust that his big brother would protect him. That Vlad would keep him safe. And Vlad had been far too quick to promise to do as much. To promise to protect him always and that they would survive and be all the stronger for it.

But Vlad had failed on all fronts.

M-ai lasat sa cad… ?i acum tu, balaurul, nu mai varsa foc, ci doar sânge—You let me fall… and now you, the dragon, no longer spill fire—only blood.

The words echoed in his mind as fresh today as they had been when Radu had said them to Vlad nearly six hundred years ago.

The demon snarled within him.Betrayer.

While the demon was not wrong, Vlad did not blame Radu for his choices in the end, for his alliances with their enemies. For betraying Vlad and being the reason Vlad died.

Radu had been young when they’d come under the banner of the enemy. Times were harsh. One did what one must in order to survive—to cope. At some point in it all, Radu had started to believe the rhetoric he was being spoon-fed. He bought into it and saw any who stood against it as wrong.

Vlad’s hand came to his chest. To the area above his heart, where his own brother had run him through with a sword. Later, as Vlad was left to bleed out on the ground, darkness came on the wind. When it cleared, a man he did not know was there, telling him all would be well—not to fear death or his pending rebirth. The man then bit his wrist and shoved it to Vlad’s mouth, giving him no choice but to ingest the blood.

The poison, he thought, lowering his gaze momentarily as he remembered his conversion—the agonizing pain, the confusion, the bloodlust. Dragos had made himself out to be Vlad’s savior. He was anything but. He’d been as twisted as the Sultan.

Maybe more so.

And he’d wanted Vlad to never forget who had betrayed him. That was why he’d sat back and watched Vlad fighting through the conversion process, the wound in his chest healing ever so slowly.

Dragos had motioned to one of his human servants who had been a member of the opposing army. The man had come forward and poured clear liquid into the open wound, causing Vlad’s skin to sizzle. A second later, flames actually shot out of the wound.

Water that had been anointed by a servant of God, said the demon with a hiss.He wanted a scar to remain.

And one had, serving as a constant reminder of his failures. Of how if he dared to love, dared to care, he was greeted with only pain. Only sorrow.

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