On the day of Sânziene, as the thick-leaved quail called through the woods and the flames of the bonfire licked the darkening sky, Vlad Țepeș believed he had found her again—his wife, his sânziană. The fairy girls danced in a circle, their laughter like wind on the smooth waters of the Dniester. He lost himself in that moment, as though the blame lay with the magic of the night, the fault was yours, his sânziană.

Fairy or not, he spoiled you in every way. The sun and the moon bore witness to your wedding, as did the dew upon the grass and the soft, silken bed. His hand, which had meted out cruelty to countless others, had only ever touched you with gentleness.

The Ottoman messengers had been impaled, their bodies swaying from tall stakes, casting long shadows over the quiet Poenari Castle. The morning was silent, except for the faint chime of bells from the sheep’s necks, echoing through the walls. Vlad sat alone in the throne room, staring at the empty space where the messenger had stood. The chest of tribute had been accepted. What he had not accepted, however, was the alliance.

Footsteps echoed too early in the stillness. If you were a noble, he might have punished you for such intrusion. But you were more than that. His sânziană, his fairy, his chosen bride. Yet, no fairy should step beyond his boundaries. You knew that well. He was Vlad the Impaler, after all.

Who would want a white-clad sânziană on a stake?

You stepped inside the throne room, soft yellow flowers woven into a crown upon your head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the weight of his title faded.

“Do you know what you risk by stepping here so freely?” he asked, his voice a dark murmur.

You smiled, stepping closer. “I risk nothing, for the sun and moon have already claimed me.”

He stood, his eyes narrowing slightly, though not in anger. “Then be sure they will witness what comes next.”