Page 136 of Dragon Slayer

Across from him, Fenrir sat as a shadow of his former self, thin in a way he’d never been, the knobs of elbows and knees visible beneath threadbare clothes, his massive shoulders too spare, squared off like a picture frame. His beard lay in tangles on his chest, his hair knotted on his shoulders.

Helga sat beside him, working at the snarls with a comb and a little pot of oil, clucking her tongue and muttering, brows drawn together, hiding her relief and fear and grief behind mothering, the way she always had. Fenrir was weak, and furious, and he mourned the loss of Father and Mircea, doubtless, but he was not broken.

No, that was Cicero.

The wolf nibbled at his food, dunking bits of fresh bread into the broth and studying them for long moments before finally taking a bite. He was a man lost. Completely defeated.

Vlad wanted to get him alone, to ask him about Father. But Malik arrived, suddenly, with a scribe in tow, one of the Turkish ones brought from Edirne. He came armed with quill and parchment.

“A scribe, as requested, your grace,” Malik said, falling into parade rest at the door. Clearly, he didn’t intend to excuse himself. And he looked at the wolves with undisguised curiosity.

Vlad took a measured breath. “Yes, thank you.” To the scribe, who’d settled at the end of the table farthest from the smelly former prisoners: “I wish to send a letter to Vladislav. Prepare to take dictation.”

“Yes, your grace.” The man settled, arranged his things, dipped the quill into ink.

Vlad could have written his own letter, but that wasn’t done. Princes didn’t sully their hands with scribe business, and he meant to be a prince. So.

“Dearest Father-Killer and Traitor,” he began.

Fenrir paused in his eating, brows lifted. Malik resettled his feet at the door. But the scribe wrote immediately, in flawless, elegant Slavic.

“I reach out to you now,” Vlad continued, “not as your countryman, but as the future deliverer of your death.”

“Ooh, that’s good,” Fenrir said.

“I write to you from your own stronghold in Tîrgoviste,” Vlad continued, “which is in factmypalace. Just as it was my father’s, before you murdered him. Know that you will answer for that. You and every turncoat boyar who helped with the execution.”

The scribe paused, quill hovering above the parchment.

Around him, silence. Helga had stopped combing; Fenrir had stopped eating; he was aware of Cicero’s one-eyed gaze against the side of his head.

“Was that unclear?” Vlad asked.

“No, your grace.” The scribe resumed writing.

“By order of His Imperial Majesty, the Sultan of the Ottomans, I, Prince Vlad Dracula, do hereby assert my claim over Wallachia as its rightful leader. From this point forward, you, Vladislav II, are a murderer and war criminal, sentenced to death. Should you choose to return to Tîrgoviste, know that your life is forfeit. You may prepare now for your public execution.”

The scribe finished off the letter with a few last scratches of his quill, and then silence reigned.

“Will that be all?” the scribe finally asked, hesitant.

“Yes. Have it sent to him. I’m sure he can be found beneath the same rock under which John Hunyadi is currently hiding.” He went to lend his signature, and his ring for the wax seal. After, the scribe secured the missive and left to see about sending it, bobbing a quick, but deep bow on his way.

When he was gone, Vlad turned back to his people, all too aware of Malik’s presence, still lingering silent by the door.

Fenrir and Cicero had left off eating, and stared at him. Helga paused in her combing, frazzled lock of her husband’s red hair held in one hand.

“You’re gaping,” he informed them.

Fenrir blinked, and then laughed, low and hearty, if a little rusty from disuse.

Helga gave a wobbly smile. “It’s so good to have you home, your grace. A proper prince and head of the household pack.”

Is that what he was now? The head of his household?

He let out a deep breath, and hoped it sounded steady to the keen ears around him. Turned to Cicero. “When you’re finished eating, I’d like an audience with you in Father’s old study.”

The wolf nodded, resolve setting his features in a way that improved his look of exhaustion. He’d always been someone who needed a task, a purpose. “I’m ready now, your grace.”

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