Chapter 1
Episode 1
Prince Vlad Protects Amys Life and Her Honour (1960 -2026)
The first time I saw him, I was three. The world, to my young eyes, was a kaleidoscope of primary colors and the comforting scent of my grandmother’s lavender soap. Then, the colors fractured. A shadow, impossibly tall and cloaked in the deepest velvet, fell over my crib. My heart, a tiny bird trapped in my chest, fluttered wildly. But there was no fear, only a profound stillness that seeped into my very bones. He was a silhouette against the moonlit nursery, a presence that hummed with an ancient power. I remember the glint of his eyes, like captured stars, and the strange, almost musical cadence of his voice as he whispered words I couldn't understand, yet somehow knew. He smelled of damp earth and something wild, like the forest after a storm. He reached out a hand, long fingers tipped with nails that seemed to gleam, and gently, impossibly gently, brushed a stray curl from my forehead. It was a touch that promised safety, a silent vow.
Years passed, and he was always there, a silent guardian in the periphery of my childhood. While other children navigated scraped knees and playground bullies, I had a different kind of protector. He was the unseen force that steered me away from the edge of the precipice, the phantom presence that whispered warnings in my dreams, saving me from dangers I never even perceived. My grandmother, bless her superstitious heart, would often scold me for talking to myself, for the wide-eyed stares I’d cast at empty corners. She saw a child with an overactive imagination, a lonely little girl conjuring friends. She couldn’t see the towering figure in the shadows, the one who ensured I never truly walked alone.
There was the incident at the market when I was seven. A rough-looking man, his eyes hard and predatory, had cornered me, his intentions as clear as the glint of his knife. I remember the sudden chill that permeated the air, the way the man’s face contorted in confusion, then terror, as if he’d seen a ghost. He stumbled back, mumbling incoherently, and fled into the bustling crowd. I’d looked around, my small hands trembling, and saw nothing but the usual throng of shoppers. But I felt it – a surge of protective energy, a silent roar that had driven the danger away. It was him. He was always there, a silent sentinel, ensuring that no harm, no matter how small, would befall me. He guarded my innocence, my burgeoning spirit, with a ferocity that was both terrifying and deeply comforting.
As I grew, his presence became less of a spectral whisper and more of a tangible reassurance. He was the unseen hand that guided my studies, the quiet observer in the back of the classroom, ensuring I grasped complex concepts. He was the calm in the storm of teenage anxieties, the silent presence that sat with me through heartbreak and disappointment. My parents worried about my solitary nature, my tendency to retreat into books and my own thoughts. They couldn't understand the deep well of strength I drew from, the quiet confidence that seemed to emanate from within. They saw a shy, sensitive girl. They didn't see the ancient prince who stood guard, his crimson gaze unwavering, his silent vow etched in the very fabric of my existence. He protected my honor, not with a sword, but with an invisible shield, a silent promise that my spirit would remain untainted by the harshness of the world. He was my constant, my protector, my Vlad. And I, a small girl with a grandfather’s fondness for nicknames, called him simply, “Vlad.”