Episode 25

The chill of stone seeped through Mihnea's thin robes, a familiar sensation that had clung to him since his earliest days. But this time, it was not the cold of a hidden sanctuary that bit at his skin, but the oppressive, sacred chill of the Metropolitan Cathedral. He stood before the assembled clergy, their faces a sea of solemnity, their robes a tapestry of rich embroidery that seemed to absorb the scant light filtering through the stained-glass windows. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the hushed reverence of the cathedral. He was no longer the boy piecing together fragments of a forgotten history, nor the young man strategically dismantling propaganda. He was Mihnea, son of Vlad Drăculești, and he carried the weight of his father’s final resting place upon his shoulders.

He had pleaded, of course. He had pleaded with scholars, with historians, with men of influence. But the Church, that monolithic entity that held sway over the souls of men and the memory of their deeds, remained unmoved. His father, Vlad the Impaler, the feared Voivode, the defender of Wallachia, had died in battle, a Christian warrior fighting infidels. Yet, his body, according to the whispers and the fragmented accounts that had reached Mihnea, lay unburied, or worse, buried in unconsecrated ground, a victim of the same political machinations that had sought to erase his legacy.

“Your Eminence,” Mihnea began, his voice clear and steady, though he felt the tremor deep within him, “I stand before you today not as a prince seeking earthly glory, but as a son seeking solace for his father’s soul.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. He had prepared for this moment, drawing upon the strength and conviction forged in years of clandestine struggle. He had not come with accusations or demands, but with a plea, a humble request to the custodians of faith.