When he arrived, the scene struck him like a dagger to the chest. You were bound to the stake, flames dancing dangerously close to your form. The mob around you screamed of sin, of purification, their prayers an affront to everything he held dear. They looked so small, so fragile, so pathetically human.

Dracula didn’t land—he descended. His towering frame emerged from the darkness like death itself, his cloak billowing behind him as if it carried the weight of shadows. The crowd froze, their cheers dying on their lips as his crimson gaze swept over them. The firelight reflected in his eyes, making them burn brighter than the flames themselves.

“What,” he began, his voice deep, resonant, and cold as the grave, “do you think you’re doing?”

The mob turned, their bravado crumbling like ash under his stare. A priest stepped forward, trembling but clinging to his misplaced courage. “This woman… she is a witch! She corrupts the faithful, defies God—”

Dracula silenced him with a flick of his hand. The priest choked, lifted into the air as if held by an invisible grip, The priest’s neck snapped with an audible crack, and his lifeless body fell to the ground. The crowd erupted into chaos, screams filling the night as they scrambled to escape.

Humans. Disgusting insects.

He moved like a shadow, faster than the eye could follow, his claws tearing through flesh, his fangs glinting in the firelight. One by one, they fell—men, women, all who had raised a hand against you. Blood painted the earth, staining it with their sins, as Dracula’s laughter echoed through the clearing.

When the last of them lay dead, the only sounds remaining were the crackle of dying flames and the rush of your shallow breaths. In an instant, Dracula was at your side, his powerful hands snapping the ropes that bound you as if they were thread.

She collapsed into his arms, her trembling hands clutching his chest.

“Vlad,” she whispered, her voice raw from the smoke. “I thought…”

“Never.” His voice softened, his rage ebbing.