The mountains of Wallachia had always been a graveyard for armies. From the high crags of the Carpathians, the forests stretched in an endless shroud of green and shadow, concealing wolves, ghosts, and worse. Men feared the land itself, whispering that the trees remembered the blood spilled upon their roots, and that every raven in the sky was but a spy of the dead.

Vlad knew all this, for he was the land’s son. He had been born amidst war, shaped by chains, and tempered by cruelty. The world called him many names: Impaler, Voivode of Wallachia. But never had he thought to carry the name of monster. That would come later.

In those early days, there was only duty.

Years passed. Mehmed rose to the throne. Vlad returned to his homeland, carving a rule out of ashes and defiance. But the Ottomans’ shadow never lifted, and tribute was demanded once more. Soldiers at his gates, threats in every letter.

And then, the final insult: Mehmed’s command for Wallachia’s boys, a thousand sons to be taken, as once Vlad himself had been taken.

It was then that he turned to the darkness.

High in the broken peaks of the mountains lay a cave whispered of in dread. There, the villagers said, dwelled an ancient thing, a creature that had drunk the blood of men until the sun itself fled his name. Vlad sought him, armed with only steel and desperation. And the creature came forth: pale, withered, but strong as death itself, with eyes like the embers of a dying fire.

A choice was given. To wield power beyond men, to stand against the might of an empire. But with it, a curse, the hunger for blood, the shadow of eternal night.

Vlad accepted.

When he rose from that cave, the wind bent before him. His strength was tenfold, his senses sharpened beyond belief. The bats in the night answered his call as if he were their king. He could crush steel in his hands as easily as bread.

But the worst thing that could have happened at that moment was that Vlad hungrily smelled the faint scent of human blood nearby.