Episode 90

The air in the ancient castle, usually heavy with the scent of damp stone and the faint, metallic tang of old blood, was now tinged with something softer, something almost floral. Amalie, her small frame nestled against the worn velvet cushions Vlad had procured for her, watched as he meticulously arranged a small bouquet of wildflowers in a chipped earthenware jug. These were not the grand, imposing blooms one might expect in a prince’s chambers, but humble, wind-swept blossoms gathered from the castle’s secluded courtyards, places only she and Vlad ever ventured.

“They are… pretty, my Lord,” she murmured, her voice a fragile thread in the vastness of the room. Her legs, twisted and useless, lay still beneath the thin wool blanket.

Vlad grunted, a sound that was less a word and more a physical manifestation of his gruff affection. He didn't meet her gaze directly, his eyes, usually sharp and piercing, softened as they scanned the delicate petals. “They remind me of the meadows beyond the forest,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “Where the wind whispers secrets.”