Episode 41

The ink still shimmered, a testament to the recent exertion of writing, yet Mihnea’s hand trembled as he pushed the parchment aside. Page two. It felt impossibly small, a mere sliver of parchment in a vast, unfolding narrative. His uncle, Prince Radu, a man whose smiles were as thin and sharp as a sliver of ice, had just delivered his latest pronouncements. The words themselves were honeyed, filled with hollow platitudes of peace and alliance, but the undertones, the subtle shifts in Radu’s gaze, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, spoke of a far more venomous intent.

Mihnea reread the lines, his lips moving silently, tracing the elegant script that belied the venom it carried. Radu spoke of strengthening ties with the Sublime Porte, of shared prosperity, of a united front against any who would sow discord. But Mihnea knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that these were not words of genuine alliance. They were the whispers of a viper, coiling around Wallachia, tightening its grip with every carefully chosen phrase. He remembered the stories, the hushed tales of Radu’s own ambition, his desperate craving for the throne, his willingness to bend knee to the Ottoman Sultan if it meant supplanting his own blood.

He glanced at the faint charcoal sketch on the opposing page, a hurried attempt to capture his uncle’s likeness. Radu’s smile, impossibly serene, was marred by the shadow of his eyes, eyes that held no warmth, no genuine affection for his nephew, for his homeland. Mihnea saw in that sketch the reflection of a man consumed by a hunger that could never be sated, a hunger that would undoubtedly consume Wallachia if left unchecked.