Episode 32

Mihnea watched the boy, a mere child really, with his earnest face and the earnest set of his small shoulders, as he recounted the tale. The boy, Ionel, was the son of a farmer whose fields had been spared the wrath of the invading Turks by a swift, decisive action of Vlad’s men. He spoke of the Voivode not as a monster, but as a savior, a stern father who had protected his flock. His words, simple and unvarnished, carried a weight that no learned scholar or carefully crafted decree could replicate. They were the words of the people, the bedrock upon which any true history must be built.

Later that evening, under the soft glow of oil lamps, Mihnea sat with Elder Iancu. The old man’s eyes, usually sharp and discerning, held a hint of melancholy as he looked at the collection of documents spread between them. "You have done well, Mihnea," Iancu said, his voice raspy with age. "You have brought forth the truth, like a miner unearthing precious ore from the earth. But the ore is still rough, still needs shaping."

Mihnea nodded, his gaze fixed on a faded chronicle. "I understand. The legend of the Impaler is deeply etched into the minds of men. It is a story of terror, of a devil in human form. And such stories, Elder, are hard to dislodge." He traced a line of text with his finger, a description of Vlad’s unwavering resolve in the face of overwhelming odds. "They prefer the simple villain to the complex protector. It requires less thought, less discomfort."