Chapter 12: At the Break of Dawn

"You shine into my soul
Like the sun against gold."

-Mechtild von Magdeburg

Sultan Mehmed's envoy, Bekir bin Hassan, pressed his heels hard into his horse's flank, leaning forward and urging the animal to race faster over the dirt road. He rode with a small detail—four soldiers in full battle armor—in what was a final attempt at diplomacy.

This entire endeavor has been a wretched one from the beginning, Bekir thought glumly.

Nothing had gone as expected: that boyar they had allied with had assured them there would be no resistance, no interference whatsoever once their army marched north. Instead, the Ottomans soon understood that the boyar wielded far less power and influence than he had led them to believe. His own nobles mounted a resistance against his orders.

The Sultan will not be pleased with this.

The borders between Ottoman and Vlach lands had been clearly drawn before that, but the promises made by the scheming boyar had tempted the Ottomans with an opportunity to expand that northern border and to stage a greater incursion into that much-contested land.

Instead, we must now resolve this blunder.

A general unease had settled in Bekir's gut the moment he'd been called upon to act as the envoy for their forces. The Ottomans had staved off the Wallachian and Transylvanian forces thus far and expected much-needed reinforcements pouring in from Tarnovo. Rumor had it, however, that Hunyadi had mobilized an army in Bucharest. Another rumor—more concerning, too— had King Corvinius, who was always vying for more land himself in the guise of strengthening his offensive against the Ottomans, instructing his Black Army to engage in an offensive against them.

That's too many fronts. Such a scenario, alas, we had not anticipated.

It would be a miracle if they were able to negotiate with the rebellious lords.

His military escort was a subtle reminder that the might of the Ottoman empire lay only a few miles south, waiting for a command to engage. He was certain they would look intimidating enough. He refused to consider the alternative: that they would be held captive for ransom…Or executed.

"Hızlan!" he shouted, snapping his reins, prompting his horse to gallop even faster.

"Hassan Agha," one of the men called out, trying to keep up with his frantic pace, "we'll reach the town once we crest the hill."

Bekir reined in his horse and raised an arm to his companions until they had all slowed down to a canter. It would not do to be shot down by jumpy watchmen before delivering their message. Instead, he collected himself by uttering a soft münācāt under his breath—a heartfelt prayer, hoping that he would live another day to declaim the glory of the Sultan and the Empire.

Once they reached the hilltop, the horsemen halted, yanking their horses' reins so violently, a couple of the animals reared up in protest. Bekir's eyes widened at first in confusion and then in horror as he scanned the dismal landscape. He checked his companions and found in their expressions a grim confirmation of his.

Before them, stretched across the fields and surrounding the fortress were hundreds of fully armored soldiers impaled on pikes.

The Ottomans dared not venture further before the grisly scene. As the sun rose, the carnage came into full focus.

The eerie silence that had gripped them was interrupted only by the caw of carrion birds and the buzz of flies.

They remained frozen, in stupefaction, before the nightmarish scene, their eyes unable to see past all the mayhem: the rows of pikes were long. Too long. They greeted them ominously. One, in particular, stood out as the first pike rising from the beginning of the path to the town. It stood as a fiendish road marker guiding them to the gates of hell. Two black-robed carcasses, mangled beyond recognition, the flesh tacky with coagulated blood, kept their garrish watch over those fields of death. They had been impaled one over the other, the sharp pike springing forth from grotesquely parted jaws. Bekir thought he could almost hear their anguished screams as he stared at their clouded eyes, gaze fixed toward the sky, their faces contorted in supplication and pain.

Still smoldering at the end of that particular pike were the remains of a heavy leather-bound tome, its pages turned to ash so crisp that soot flaked off into the breeze.

Nausea took a hold of him once the wind shifted and bore the cloying scent of death's decay to them.

"Turn back," he ordered.

Bekir shook his head, shivering, guiding his horse around, eager to put that entire scene behind him even though it would haunt his memory for as long as he lived.

"We go no further. This is the domain of the Kaziklu Bey."

His men visibly stiffened at the unholy name.

Have mercy on us, Bekir thought fearfully, before launching into a recitation of the asmāʾu llāhi lḥusnā with an fierce desperation he, a man of faith, had seldom ever experienced in his life.

The devil himself walks among us.

Again.

Rain.

Drops drummed persistently against Lisa's dangling arm. In that strange stupor she found herself in, she believed she was floating. Her head lolled back and the cold rain pelted her cheek. Before she could truly awaken, before she could attempt to make sense of where she was and what had happened, she was jostled gently. Her arm was folded gingerly across her torso and she was enveloped in the thick folds of a heavy cloak. Powerful hands clasped her firmly so that she was effortlessly hoisted back up into the lull of weightlessness in strong arms.

Pain radiated from her entire body. She struggled slightly against those arms, seeking to find relief from her discomfort. It was only when she rested her head against a robust shoulder that she finally settled and surrendered to exhaustion.

Marcu Livádi's family's history and legends did not factor in his thoughts when the fateful knock reverberated throughout the old fortress' courtyard.

"Only bad news makes itself at home at such an hour," he surmised, eyeing the gate suspiciously from the main house's doorway, surrounded by some of his men.

The watchmen on duty that evening had not signaled that there was any trouble, but who could he really trust those days? The Livádis have seen better days and counted on better friends, he thought sullenly. Now, he was less than a cneaz; he was merely a strongman, a steward of contested dwindling ancestral land holdings. He was not sure which would drive him to an early grave first: the relentless battlefield or his shallow coffers.

He noticed a small commotion as one of the soldiers tried to catch his attention from the gate.

"What is it?" he shouted back, his wariness making his tone harsher than intended. One of the lads jogged spryly back to him.

"Two envoys," he explained. "But we're not sure what they want."

"Finding out whose envoys they are might be a good start." Marcu's eyes narrowed.

"Oh, for sure they are not from around here! Never seen the likes of them before. They claim to be the envoys of the Dragon."

"What Dragon? Is this a joke?" Marcu snapped, his eyes darting about the torch-lit courtyard.

"They keep asking for an audience with the Spătar. We told him there is no one here by that title."

Marcu might as well have been lanced through the gut. Color drained from his stern features.

The stories had been told so many years ago, he had rarely thought of them. The topic of the fabled Dragon had been a preoccupation of his grandfather and then his father's, but he'd relegated the content of such tales to the haunted ramblings of old, dying men.

"If someday you are ever summoned by the Dragon, you must heed his call," the stories invariable concluded. "It is our duty—your duty someday, as head of the Livádi. We are the descendants of Orlok, who first pledged undying fealty to the great Dragon. And we remember: we are his loyal vassals even in absentia."

"This again! What vassals? Orlok died…What?…Centuries ago? And there is no Dragon anymore. Not here. Not in Wallachia. Hasn't been. In ages. If ever!" He'd tutted his father once he'd grown into a sullen man rattled by his first battles.

"The Dragon's realm is not of this world," his father had muttered feebly. "I hope you never find out for yourself. But heed his call, if it comes: for your fortune, your life—, your very soul, will depend on it."

If he is not of this world, I do not think I need to worry about him…It is the reign of men that concerns me most, Marcu had decided.

But Spătar! How strange! He hadn't heard his family name tied to the dusty Byzantine title beyond the annals the family had zealously kept over the centuries. Sometimes, the realization that the Livádi had been fighting as warriors for so many centuries gave him some consolation. Other times, it filled him with deep hopelessness.

This endless misery over and over again: every generation.

But now, two men stood before his dilapidated fortress, summoning him with a long lapsed title.

Is this a prank? Or a trap?

He took a deep breath and with broad strides made his way to the gates to see what that matter was all about.

His men cleared a path for him to walk through, torches flickering in the soft mist. When he reached the gates, he was met with the spooked expression of his Portar. The man stepped aside, letting his liege come face-to-face with the two intriguing envoys.

An unpleasant shiver coursed down Marcu's spine as he glanced upon the two. Heavily cloaked, their faces were obscured by night and black hoods. But what Marcu could glimpse of the envoys filled him with foreboding and an ever-growing impression of being in great peril. The envoys were tall. Unusually tall. And gaunt. The bit of flesh he laid eyes upon was unnaturally pale and their lips were tainted red, as if smeared with carmine. A primal panic seized him, as strong as it had once been when he'd been nothing more than a boy who fully believed in evil that lurked in the shadows rather than in the courts of men. His younger self trumped the sensible, skeptical man he'd become for a fleeting moment.

If I didn't know any better, I would swear upon everything holy that before me stand two wraiths.

"Marcu Livádi, Spătar of the Dragon: your lord calls upon your house to fulfill its duty."

The voice was practically a whisper, but the envoy might as well have shouted his summons, such was the effect of his words upon an astonished Marcu.

Now, how can this be? The Dragon is merely a tangle of old legends.

"What would the Lord Dragon ask of me?" Marcu finally replied, overwhelmed by fear and the memory of his long-buried dead.

The envoys simultaneously faced each other and between them passed a silent understanding. They both turned to him again. He could have sworn the one who addressed him suppressed a sharp, cruel grin.

"Domnica," the man whispered, exhaling his daughter's name slowly, to Marcu's complete terror.

The words Marcu uttered to help summon courage in his daughter's heart might as well have been for himself.

Come now: duty demands it.

Marcu's wife had had to be restrained by her maids. He'd been unable to face her after the announcement; he'd been pained by her shrieks lashing him with recrimination.

I must honor our vows. I am only fulfilling our duty. He was bound to an oath of fealty he had never uttered. Duty demands it, he repeated to himself. And fear, if he were honest.

The Dragon's realm is not of this world.

In his father's words, a warning. One that grew more and more shrill as the envoys awaited.

His men watched warily as he gave the order that Domnica was to be ushered to the gates, ready to depart.

"What for? Where am I going?" the young woman had insisted sleepily.

He'd retorted gruffly and tersely to mask his grief. He could offer her no further clarity, no resolution, except that she was wandering into the realm of legend with an uncertain ending to her tale.

When he'd walked his only child to the envoys, he braced himself and struggled to remain impassive at her visible reticence. She, too, had heard the echoes of the old stories.

"You are the last of the Livádi lineage. Remember our honor now rests on your shoulders," were his only words to her as she stepped out of the fortress that had been her only home and into the dark, cold night with two strangers.

Marcu hoped with all his weary warrior's heart, as his daughter and the sinister envoys were engulfed by blackness ahead, that those words would not be his last to her.

Țepeș lay Lisa down on the large canopied bed and examined her bruised face. A large contusion marred her forehead and left temple. The skin along one side of her face down to her jawline had been scraped raw. He noted that her soft golden hair had been hacked off. Still, spread over the pillow around her head, it reminded him of a gold-leaf halo. He raised his hand to caress her bruised cheek; it was a spontaneous, tender gesture. He was relieved at her return— but he quickly interrupted the motion, unsure whether it would be welcome at that point...or ever again, after all he had done.

"Domnica." The petrified lass behind him stirred.

"My lord," she barely managed to utter.

Daybreak approached; he had little time.

"Your family has served me well over the years. I expect the same of you," he stated inscrutably.

She lowered her head, hands anxiously clasping each other.

"As you wish."

"You have trained in the healing arts."

Domnica raised her eyes and nodded briefly.

"Yes. Midwifery."

"Have you trained as a lady-in-waiting?" he wondered.

"No, my lord. There haven't been any ladies to wait on back home in a very long time. Besides, my father's rank—"

"Will be justly restored," Țepeș stated quietly. The young woman's eyes widened, even as she trained her gaze back on the ground. Outside the diamond-shaped latticed windows, a grey, murky light emerged. His bones creaked, his senses ebbed. He resented that intrusion of dawn just when he wished to defy it the most.

"You are to wait upon my lady," he declared, turning his gaze to a sleeping Lisa. "You must tend to her, see to all her needs. Fulfill your duty, and house Livádi shall be richly rewarded."

He turned around, large and imposing, passing Domnica silently.

"Fail to follow my orders and your suffering will be a curse extended beyond the realm of the living." He looked down upon her from his height, his features cold, his lips parted to reveal a sharp grimace. "I will see to it myself."

Domnica barely managed to stutter a perfunctory "Yes, my lord!" before Țepeș disappeared.

Lisa awoke only because of her broken rib. As she attempted to roll onto her side, the jolt of pain caused her to utter a small protest. With sleep gradually wearing off, she took in her familiar surroundings.

"You are awake?" a timid voice inquired. Still disoriented, Lisa sought its source and found a woman sitting stolidly in a chair at the foot of her bed.

"I am. To my surprise, as well." Lisa attempted to sit up in the bed, but winced at the discomfort of attempting such a maneuver. The woman seemed to hesitate before approaching her.

"Who are you?" Lisa wondered interestedly.

"The Lord Dragon—"

Her brow furrowed.

"—Has charged me with your care."

"Where is he?" Her eyes searched the large gloomy room.

"That, I cannot say. He last came to see you yesterday evening."

"Yesterday?" She had lost track of what 'yesterday' could even be anymore.

"You have been unconscious for almost two days."

Lisa blinked at the fire tiredly.

"I see."

"You had a high fever. The Dragon brought in an assortment of vials and powders to treat you with."

At the mention of vials and powders, Lisa glanced at the bedside table with a twinge of curiosity. Before she could say anything, Domnica reached behind a pitcher of water and pulled out a carefully folded parchment sealed with hardened, lustrous red wax.

"He instructed me to give this to you once you were awake."

With a shaky hand, Lisa grasped the note and cracked the seal. She smoothed the parchment over her lap and the edge of a white ruffle-edged sleeve caught her eye as she brushed her hand over the note. She pinched and slightly tugged at the front of her chemise for closer inspection before looking up curiously.

"It is very fine, my lady," Domnica offered, as if guessing her thoughts.

"I am no lady."

Domnica pressed her lips together and fell silent.

Lisa turned her attention back to the note and its black letters in tight but fluid script.

Lisa,

I did not know where else to take you under these circumstances, nor was I willing to trust your care to unknown and less capable hands. Domnica is the daughter of a loyal vassal family and has been trained in the healing arts.

You have suffered several injuries.

Lisa gripped the note tightly, blood roaring through her ears in a deafening surge. She read over the detailed account of her injuries, and how he proposed they be treated in that elegant, succinct style she had grown to admire.

You need not worry: I will not impose upon you. I am well aware I have returned you, perhaps against your will, to the very place you sought to flee from.

Be reassured that you are free to leave at any time: you are no prisoner, no hostage, in my home. I do not hold you to any promise or contract. I ask one thing of you, however: that you depart only once you are fully healed. In the meantime, I extend to you all my hospitality. Domnica has been instructed to see to all your needs and wishes for as long as you please.

The note ended abruptly, with no closing: only a signature. Her fingertips traced the dark swoops of his name, following where the nib had scratched the surface of the parchment with ink.

"Thank for your good care." Lisa watched Domnica pour out a goblet of water. "I am very grateful."

Domnica lowered her brown eyes.

"The Dragon has given me strict instructions to follow. I am quite glad you have awakened, as I was dreading telling him that you had been unable to eat nothing for yet another day. And there is such good food here and in such abundance!" The words were scarcely out that she quickly cupped her hand over her mouth. "Oh, my lady—pardon my indiscretion."

"I am no lady," Lisa reassured her. "You may be quite at ease with me."

Domnica nodded her head dutifully. "But the Dragon refers to you as his lady."

Lisa flushed at that revelation.

As the day progressed and Lisa slowly regained her strength, and more importantly, her wits, she sorted through the small containers and vials concluding that the concentrations of medicine Țepeș had left for her needed to be greater. Despite Domnica's protests, she sat up in the bed, swinging her legs over the edge, ready to march down to the laboratory and measure the amounts she required herself. Upon standing, though, her sight darkened and she immediately fell seated again, a dizzy weakness rushing through her limbs. Her broken rib throbbed.

"Perhaps we ought to double the dosage?" Domnica wondered, eyeing the medicine containers stacked on the small table.

"The problem is that I need a stronger concentration, not necessarily a greater amount: otherwise, it could trigger internal bleeding or damage my liver," Lisa explained. Domnica nodded again, troubled.

"The Dragon said he would come by to check on your progress tonight."

Lisa startled, lying back in bed.

"He is coming?"

"Oh, he said so last night. He said to say to you that he would not impose upon you during your convalescence. And if you need anything, you may do so through me." And with that, Domnica crossed her arms.

"I do not like this. If anyone is being imposed upon, it is you. Are you even here by your own volition?" Lisa cast a surreptitious glance at Domnica's neck. Her neck—and she, overall—seemed unharmed.

"You are kind for asking. But you must know: very little in my life is of my own volition. Besides, I know better than to cross my lords: my father or the Dragon. You see, there were many stories about the Dragon in Sighișoara. Sometimes they were of a great warlord. Stories about how powerful he was, how afraid men were of him. There was one story, in particular, that I always found fascinating: it was said that the Dragon kept such a firm grip on his fiefs that no one dared disobey him. It was said that visitors to a well in one of his villages could drink cool, fresh water out of a golden goblet that no one dared to steal. When one foolish thief deigned to snatch it, it was said the Dragon had him hunted down and executed for his crime."

Domnica took Lisa's silence for interest and drew her heavy chair closer to the bed.

"Other stories told of a ruthless prince who sought to become the greatest ruler. It was said that in exchange for power and wisdom, he forfeited his very soul."

Lisa shuddered slightly.

"There are other stories, too. But those aren't very nice ones, though." Domnica sniffed. "But those usually are the most interesting ones," she continued conspiratorially. "There are rumors of a dark prince—but not of any land on the earth. The prince wanders among men to prey on them, turning them into strigoi who mercilessly attack good Christians. They are devils who lure innocents to their demise," Lisa felt a twinge of anxiety at Domnica's probing gaze. "My father told me about how one of my ancestors made a pact with the Dragon. He became his man-of-arms, a loyal vassal. They fought together many times and celebrated great victories."

"And what happened to him?"

"The annals don't say. They stop abruptly. But others say that since tjose times long ago, the Livádi began their slow decline. My mother says it is as if we have been cursed: every generation is a little worse off than the next."

Lisa let her eyes wander to the fire in the hearth, searching in the wavering flames for inscrutable shapes.

"And what do you think of the Dragon, now that you have met him for yourself?"

Domnica sucked her tooth noisily. She reached for some of the bread on the tray she'd brought in for Lisa earlier.

"He's obviously not that Dragon," she finally offered with satisfaction. "You know: of the legends."

"Why not?" Lisa asked gently.

"Well, for one," Domnica began, tearing off a small hunk of bread and placing it in her mouth. "I notice the details. This Dragon? He must be a descendant. He does not look centuries old! The devil has horns like this!" She placed her hands, fingers pointing up, over her head and began to chuckle at her astute observation. Lisa couldn't help smiling as well.

"This castle, though…This castle is so very gloomy. I could believe it is older than God," she continued, buoyed by Lisa's candid reaction. "This place is very dark and sad…but I have meals aplenty, and while he is intimidating, the Dragon has been courteous enough to me these past days—or rather, nights. I never see him during the day. Oh, I must say: I am relieved that you are awake now. The days have passed so slowly here."

One of the logs in the hearth crackled, just as a solid knock reverberated throughout the room.

Domnica's eyes widened and she leapt up, frantically wiping her hands on her dress. Lisa gripped her bed covers tightly, stirred by both a desire to see Țepeș and a need to buy herself more time.

Domnica opened the door halfway, leaning her body out to address her visitor. Lisa waited, as if time had frozen and would only resume its passage once Țepeș crossed the room's threshold. At one point, Domnica peered back at her and with a reassuring gesture, stepped out of the room.

She emerged minutes later, carefully shutting the door behind her.

"The Dragon came to inquire about you. I told him you had awakened, but he refused to come in. He asked about your general state, if your fever had broken and if the bruises and wounds looked as if they were healing well."

Lisa raised her hand to her face, suddenly realizing that perhaps she hadn't grasped that her injuries were as Țepeș had said: plentiful.

"He refused to see me?" she asked, trying not to betray her disappointment.

"Yes," Domnica sighed with contented relief. "He said to keep him informed of your progress. He said that I should go down to his study if I need to update him."

Lisa couldn't quite explain the nature of the turmoil afflicting her at that moment. Țepeș had stated he would not disturb her and make her uncomfortable with a visit— and she appreciated the gesture, especially in light of everything she had—and was still—uncovering about him.

A small part of her, however, could not let things be.

I have questions, came the persistent thought. Questions neither one of us should run away from. I cannot accept you are made solely of darkness, she thought. I grasped it ever so briefly, that small glimmer within you. And it fills me with hope.

"Domnica, could you please tell him that I require stronger medicine?"

The young woman's relaxed countenance sobered into a troubled one.

"Oh, yes. I had forgotten."

"You would do me a great kindness if you requested this of him," Lisa insisted, sincerely.

That perhaps he would finally come minister to her care himself was simply another lingering hope.

When Domnica returned, she carried a small pot and appeared winded.

"I thought we had the most stairs ever back home." She plunked the pot down, tugging a sheet of folded parchment from her sleeve. "Now I know I was wrong." She cleared her throat. "My lord sent you this medicine and another note."

Lisa quickly eyed the pot before unfolding the note.

Lisa,

I am heartened to hear of your recovery. I am not surprised to hear of your discomfort, now that you are more conscious.

He went on to detail the concoction he had sent her, how it had properties to prevent infection and ease the pain. In his explanations and tight script, she could almost hear him speaking to her, the intensity of his gaze as he taught her so much, so dedicatedly.

If there is anything you desire, convey your wishes through Domnica.

Again, the brief ending and florid signature.

Even later, as the medicine began to take effect, Lisa was almost disappointed at the seemingly aloof cordiality of the missive. She let her mind wander. Right then, at that very moment, while she stood in a shallow basin of sudsy water as Domnica prattled animatedly, helping her wash herself, delicately dabbing the soapy washcloth over her bruises and scabbing wounds, Țepeș roamed, perhaps indifferently, in his laboratory below.

When Lisa was given a fresh nightshirt, just as fine as the first, and tucked into her bed with a goblet of water and another dose of the medication Țepeș had sent her, she was assailed by restlessness and dissatisfaction.

Memories haunted her dreams when she slipped into a slumber: Liviu's pained expression as life drained from him was perhaps the most harrowing. Bogdan and Cosmin's arrogant faces emerged unbidden. Sometimes she awoke with a start, a shout freezing over her lips. She was afraid to learn what had happened that night in the catacombs. What had they been doing? Had her words summoned Țepeș, after all? Her fingers glided across the skin of her neck seeking out the healed skin. What had it meant?

Where do I begin?

Every noise, every creak, filled her with anticipation that was quickly thwarted…leaving a frustrating, unfulfilled longing in its place.

Another night passed and he had not come.

Țepeș folded his pale hands over the desk and contemplated the blank parchment before him. Lisa's presence filled his castle, his mind, his thoughts with a bewildering array of emotions. The anger that had overcome him had not subsided completely, not even after he had cut a bloody swath through the army of insolent and weak men: if not for the urgency in tending to Lisa's wounds, his thirst for vengeance would have led him to raze that wretched Gehenna to the ground, to oblivion. Alongside his fury lay his wounded pride: he was resentful for having to emerge from his voluntary exile, reawakening dormant forces, all for the sake of a mortal woman who had willingly eluded him, fleeing from his grasp. Their bond remained powerful, but with such proximity he had difficulty discerning between her and himself. He could not trust that the sharp yearning that had lodged itself in his chest was hers as much as his.

He missed her terribly and while he knew he could easily go to her bedside to verify her state himself, he could not bear to see the reproach in her eyes. He could not accept the possibility of not slipping back into that closeness they shared, that cherished intimacy that had emerged so effortlessly between them. That sobering thought quelled his impulsive nature the most.

None of his powers, none of his riches, could assure him that she would willingly return to his side— much less to his arms.

All that he could do, in the face of that quandary, was demonstrate patience…and wait.

Have faith, the thought seized him.

He settled more comfortably into his chair and after a few moments of silence, let out a bitter, confounded laugh at the irony of such a thought.

Faith! Lisa from Lupu, what are you doing to me?

A/N: As the premiere for Season 2 of Castlevania approaches, I feel less and less motivated to write. I am so tempted to wait and see how the series portrays Dracula's family—I read in a couple places (Adi Shankar's FB page was one of them) that there would be a specific episode that would show us more of the dynamic among Lisa and Vlad and Alucard. I am excited but also a little bummed because it was fun to fill in the blanks while there were blanks to fill. So there you have it: it's been a combination of having little time and feeling conflicted when I do, so that the writing has slowed down.

I'll get over it.

In the meantime, here are your crib notes for Transylvanian Trivia Night! (Oh, one can always dream of such wondrous endeavors…)

Agha: "an honorific title for a civilian or military officer, or often part of such title, and was placed after the name of certain civilian or military functionaries in the Ottoman Empire." (Wikipedia) Cool fact: the term comes to the Turkish language via the Mongols.

asmāʾu llāhi lḥusnā: The 99 names of Allah. Saying all the names is believed to offer the faithful protection and blessings. Each name evokes a different characteristic of God's essence, such as "All Merciful" and "All Compassionate" and "Steadfast".

Cneaz: "Vlach and Romanian political organisation is based on small groups of the peasants and shepherds under the leadership of the cneaz (Romanian spelling), also referred to as knez or kenézes. The knezats would be under the regional voivode. These are known throughout Vlachs and Romanian areas in the southern Slavic lands, Ottoman times, Hungarian ruled Transylvania and the migration of Vlachs to Slovakian Carpahians." (Eliznick dot org dot uk- you can see the link on AO3 properly) In the 1400s, Transylvania was a bit of a mess. Nobles were fragmented and kind of doing their own thing.

Kaziklu Bey: Prince/Lord Impaler. The Turkish nickname the Ottomans gave the historical Vlad. Many nobles in Wallachia spoke Turkish. Some historians believe that's how Vlad got his infamous moniker.

Livádi: This was one of several "royal castle-districts at Hátszeg, Déva, and Jófő" and an area where Hungarians had appointed many Romanian nobles to various positions and offices. The region, though, was in turmoil: passing from ruler to ruler, Hungarians and Saxons, rulers who ruled by proxy, never setting foot in Transylvania... I wish I could explain it succinctly, but it's like the convoluted plot of a beloved rambling soap opera that you have kind of unraveled into a somewhat sensible story, but can't begin explaining to anyone else. Here's a great place to learn more about the political chaos in Transylvania in the late 1300s to first quarter of so of the 1400s:Eliznick dot org dot uk

Münācāt: An invocation or prayer.

Orlok: Ok, so in one (or a couple?) of the Castlevania games there is a big boss called Olrox. That is an inaccurate romanization of the name "Orlok". The character is a nod to Count Orlok, who was the protagonist in the classic vampire flick "Nosferatu" (1922).

Portar: Medieval Romanian title: it means "gatekeeper". I mean, those nobles had to employ lots of people. I bet there was the Butter Spreader, the Scratcher of Itchy Stockings, and the Swisher of Juice.

Sighișoara is an old city in the region of Transylvania. While the historical Vlad Dracula ruled in Wallachia, it is believed that he was born in this town.

Spătar: "a kind of high nobility in the feudal Romanian principalities, also the chief of the army" (Wikipedia). It's a Byzantine Greek title.