voievod

[voievod]

from @richard_der_schlesier on ig .

[voievod]

for old times sake is actually such a heartbreaking and beautiful sentiment. let’s do it for the love that used to be here!! it is reason enough!!

[voievod]

— in which Vlad Dracula unleashes hell upon the villages of Transylvania and establishes himself as The Impaler.

word count: 2,985 words

warnings: extreme violence and gore; physical and psychological torture; execution; graphic descriptions of violence, torture, and execution; graphic descriptions of impalement; blood; bodily harm; death; dying; physical restraint; forced submission; non-consensual nudity; mass execution [18+; MDNI]

a/n: Guys, I just really don’t know if this turns out to be any good (or, well… bad since this is supposed to be a really cruel moment). Like, I tried. I will let you be the judge now. (But maybe do not read this on a full stomach.) — An endless thank you goes to @loreofyore and @spadesofgrass for being the beta-readers on the first half of this work! Their input helped me immensely while writing this little macabre child of mine and pushed me forward in the right direction. ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

May 1457, Holzmengen, Transylvania

The scent of wood cleaved open always brings more than comfort. It is his summoning.

It is a call back to something older, something rooted deep. It stirs his lungs with its resinous life, rich and unrestrained, as if the tree’s breath lingered even in its death. It must be a living and breathing entity, just like a person is, for no two trees ever yield the same fragrance. He knows this as fact, as surely as he knows his own flesh. The cherry wood of his homeland is sweet yet gentle. It smells nothing like the sandalwood that perfumed his nights in that faraway land, nor the cedar’s bold exhalations that seeped into his bones like smoke.

He inhales deeply. The breeze holds a profound, fresh-cut scent around him. Shavings of wood blanket the grass wherever he looks, curling like pale ribbons against the greenery. Handsaws’ teeth bite into the wood and move in a syncopated rasp that vibrates in his chest. Chhk. Chhk. Chhk. Each pull of the blade scatters motes into the sun-dappled air like specks of life suspended and refusing to fall.

No wonder Jesus was a carpenter. How could he not? The Son of God knew this intimacy, this communion with living things that yielded to his hands. There is a sacredness in it — not a holiness of altars, but of the eternal earth itself.

The stillness ruptures. Someone chokes and heaves, and the sound of splashing on dirt that follows is as sharp as a crack in the glass. He turns his head towards the sound, the movement unnervingly slow, gaze locking on the body crumpling at his feet. A twitch seizes his lips, the faintest ghost of a smile. The eyes streaked with red below him flit, wide and restless, before sealing themselves shut. Hands rise to the ashen face and tremble. A word spills loose, soft at first, then relentless, a single crack widening into a chasm.

“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy mercy mercy—”

Vlad’s eyes trace the trickle of blood threading through the torn cloth that binds the man’s arms. He holds his hands pressed together in prayer now, and the thin lines of crimson pool at his elbows, dripping onto the earth below. Vlad watches its journey, slow and steady. The rosary wrapped in shaking fingers glints dully in the light as the cross pierces the palms.

He crouches, so close the trembling prisoner might feel his breath. “Plead again. Perhaps the crows will listen.”

Above, black wings churn the air, lazy spirals marking the space between earth and sky. One drops lower with a sharp and piercing cry. Vlad tilts his head, his gaze following its descent.

“Efficient creatures. They know when a meal is near.”

“Please!” he wails, his voice hoarse with desperation. “I have children!”

Two pairs of arms grip the trembling body. The rosary falls to the dirt with a muffled clink as the soldiers pull his arms away by force. The man thrashes as they haul him backwards and away from the voivode, feet scraping against the earth. His body arches in unnatural shapes, his hands clawing at nothing, seeking salvation that is not there.

Vlad rises, brushing dust from the metal plates of his armour and turns his back to the pleading man. The scream unravels behind him, swallowed by the crows. He does not look back. His eyes fall on the soldiers bending under the weight of the wood, their shoulders taut with purpose.

The moment of peace is gone; the world spills out its blood instead.

The air swells with the sounds of pleading, hundreds of them — not voices anymore but raw, animal sounds. They are clawing out of cracked and dry throats. Other voices fold inward, mouthing prayers that carry no secrets, only despair. All kneel, rows and rows of them, like broken stalks in a trampled field. Their heads are bowed, spines curved under an invisible lash, yet the trembling is all too visible. A few are bound together, their wrists gnawed by the ropes. The skin around their wrists bruises where the fibres bite deep, flesh swollen and purple. These are the ones who tried to fight against him, who thought they could stand when the storm came for them. He can readily acknowledge their bravery.

It was reckless, too. After all, what is recklessness but the last screams of the powerless?

They will all die the same way. Mercy has no place here. Mercy is a lie told to the dying. He has no lies left to give. What does mercy build? Nothing. Walls are built by fear. He builds his wall today.

Its foundation rises like a forest, birthed from the sweat of the living and the blood of the dying. Trunks are planted deep in the earth, their shadows stretching long over the plains, the fields, the mountains beyond. The first rows are prepared and lined up along the road like a grim procession for a weary traveller. This is a message carved in wood and flesh and sinew. It is hardly a masterful work. There is no time for mastery, no time for perfection. Speed is the currency of power today, and this is a slow process, painfully so.

Only hefting the wood has taken days, and the handsaws do not cease even now. His men drag the trunks down from the hills, hacking and sawing, hands raw and splintered, cursing under their breath as the sun brands their necks, but the work does not pause. There is no room for fatigue here. His eyes skim over his surroundings. Twenty groups of five men, each more skilled than the last, each one working faster than the next. There is no hesitation, no slowness, no doubt. Each group plants several stakes into the ground every hour.

He attends every execution. Eyes fixed. He does not flinch. If there is cruelty to be done in his name, he will not hide from the sight of it like a coward, will not pretend that his hands are not smeared with blood. The weight is his; the carnage his burden. His presence makes it so. Who else should oversee it but himself?

He walks towards the finished works, the squelch of his boots loud against the quiet groans of suffering. Some of the limbs do not hang quite right. The bodies slump or twist in ways that spoil the symmetry. Such things happen. It must do. Some still cling to life, impaled but not yet released from their misery, their bodies jerking weakly as if to unseat the wooden invader splitting them from the inside. Their faces are masks of agony, their mouths stretched wide as if to swallow the sky. He looks up at their faces. Faces matter the most.

Each stake is measured. The angle, the height, the depth. Precision, always precision, even in haste. A weak base can topple the message. He cannot afford such flaws. Great flaws breed great doubts, and doubt is the first step toward defiance. This message must be understandable even to the biggest fool. This is the only language they understand, after all. Not words. Not treaties. Not threats whispered behind veils of civility. Only this. He has learned their language well — better, perhaps, than they know it themselves.

He pauses, watching the forest grow. The earth drinks deep from the roots of this new empire. The air reeks of sap and sweat and copper. If mercy lives, it must live elsewhere. Here, there is only a warning. What they have built, he will raze. What they have taken, he will reclaim. And if they fail to understand the words, the forest will teach them.

The last defiant ones watch him with eyes that boil with hatred. Their worlds begin to fade, the edges of everything softening into black. He turns towards the road and traces its curvature with his finger. It is the moment they understand. They are already dead.

“These will face the road,” he orders. “Let them see what defiance breeds.”

One of them — his face so youthful, barely finished with his first beard — looks up. His body trembles, but the anger inside him does not. He acts without thinking, his mouth dry but still capable of summoning the last remnants of rebellion. He spits, and it is nothing but a thread of water, a final indignity upon a man who wears boots polished by rivers of blood. It strikes leather, glistening there for a moment before sliding down, dragging dust in its wake. He cannot look away from the boots. Not yet. Not until the eyes find him. And when they do, green and sharp and unforgiving, they do not blaze as he expected. No fire, no storm, just the still, cold clarity of a hunter’s gaze before the arrow flies.

Is this how death looks, then? Not monstrous, not grotesque, but composed. The face before him, smooth despite its shadows, bears no trace of frenzy. The boy sees him now, truly sees him — the sharp cheekbones, the black moustache, the eyes that seem too alive for someone who kills so easily. He is young, this voivode. Younger than the boy thought. The moustache curves upward in a thin line of smile. He sees teeth — too white, too clean, as though they have never tasted their own blood, only the blood of others.

“Ah. I see we have found a volunteer.”

There is no hatred in those green eyes, only something worse. Interest. Vlad’s hand moves like a serpent, fast and sure. He grabs the rope around the boy’s wrists, yanking him upright with a single pull. The boy stumbles, choking on air, but Vlad steadies him without kindness. The pain rushes in, an old enemy, and he realises — this is the last time his legs will know the ground.

He is taken away, the soldiers dragging him forward as his eyes, dry now, scrape the landscape. Their hands feel like iron clamps on his shoulders. He sees the road, winding like a vein toward the horizon. He sees the stakes waiting, sharpened, upright, like teeth set to devour. And above it all, the green eyes still burn into his mind, haunting in their quiet calculation. A god, a devil — he can no longer tell the difference.

There will be no more rebellion. No more spitting. Only the road. Only the stakes. Only the sky, watching in silent complacency.

Words are unnecessary. Vlad’s hands speak instead. The thumb and forefinger form a circle. Two fingers of the other hand breach its boundary, pushing through with a cruel slowness, the gesture obscene in its simplicity.

Vlad lets his hands fall. The sentence has been spoken. His men know what to do.

“Have the carpenters blunt the tip a little. This isn’t the time for mistakes.”

Vlad stands a few paces away, his expression unreadable, arms crossed over his chest. His shadow stretches long as he watches the soldiers bring the prisoner forward. The cries rise first — sharp, then guttural — tearing apart the stillness. The boy’s frame is lean, the sinew stretched taut over bone — his ribs jut like the keel of a ship about to be wrecked. They throw him onto the plank face-first. Rough-hewn wood wobbles under his weight, its surface pitted with old stains. His face strikes the wood with a dull crack.

“Hold him.”

The soldiers move quickly. Practised hands pull at the youth’s limbs, splaying him out like an animal on the butcher’s block. Arms stretched forward, knees forced apart. His wrists are thin, fragile beneath the rough fists that pin them. A knife slashes through the boy’s clothes. Fabric rips in uneven lines, thin threads trailing where the blade bites. His tunic falls away in strips and exposes the pale and quivering flesh. The soldiers do not bother with precision. They yank where the knife does not go. A small nick of a knife draws blood, a bright rivulet spilling over pale skin. No one flinches at the sound he makes — a strangled hiss, caught between pain and panic.

Another man approaches, carrying a clay jar in one hand and a rag in the other. The jar opens with a soft pop when he removes the lid, then drops it into the dirt. The smell of the oil — thick, golden, almost sweet — spreads for a moment before the cloth dips in, soaking it up. It glistens as it soaks into the fibres, dripping as he wipes it along the stake’s tip. The pole is long and pale, its surface shaved smooth but not enough to hide the knots and grain of the wood. It darkens under his touch, the blunt tip taking on a slick sheen.

The boy whimpers, his face turned sideways against the plank. Tears and snot smear across his cheeks. No one pays him any mind. The scream erupts again, raw and high-pitched now, the kind of sound that claws at the ears and refuses to let go. The knife works quickly, carving a shallow cut where the flesh parts easily between his thighs. Blood wells up. A thin line of red pools and drips between his legs. The soldier steps back, wiping the blade clean on his tunic before taking hold of the stake.

“Now.”

One soldier presses a hand to the boy’s back, fingers spread wide. They feel the tremors beneath the skin. Another grabs the stake, lifts it, positions it carefully. The mallet rises, heavy and solid, its head darkened with use. It falls with a crack. The stake moves — just a little at first. It disappears inside the boy, vanishing inch by inch, the wood sinking into flesh with a resistance that is almost palpable. He can see it in the soldier’s hands — the way his grip tightens, his knuckles whitening as he steadies it.

Another strike. Crack. The wood pushes deeper.

The boy’s screams twist inside his throat, his body jerking with each blow of the mallet. The soldier’s hand on his back presses harder. It feels for the stake as it climbs upward, following the path of his spine with precision. Another strike, and the mallet’s rhythm becomes a heartbeat — steady, inevitable, pounding life away with each ascent.

“Careful,” he says, stepping closer, the dirt crunching under his boots. His voice is low, almost soft, but it carries. “Too fast, and he’ll die. Too slow, and he might pass out. Neither serves our purpose.”

When the wood finally emerges from his mouth and opens his jaws wide, the soldiers let go. One of them wipes his brow. His hand trembles.

“Lift him.”

There is a pause, a collective holding of breath, and then the soldiers pull. Slowly. Deliberately. Four men move under their commander’s watch. They avoid his eyes as they hoist the boy’s slack body up to the skies. They drive the stake into the earth, its base sunk deep to hold firm. Blood smears the men’s hands as they work. Their grunts mingle with the ragged sound of the youth’s breathing.

“Make sure it’s straight. We wouldn’t want him to feel crooked in his final moments.”

The boy’s head lolls to the side. A stream of blood trickles from down his chin. His eyes, wide and glassy, remain fixed on nothing. His body jerks once, twice, as if some part of him still fought, still clung to life despite the splintered wood that now holds him aloft. The body stops at the crossbar that prevents it from sliding down. A gurgle rise from his throat, wet and thick. He tries to speak — words, perhaps, or a prayer — but they are swallowed by the crimson pool that fills his mouth.

“Now,” Vlad says, “bring me the next.”

A pair of boots swishes against the dirt before halting just behind him. He knows their rhythm — heavy and unhurried, long legs making long strides. Vlad does not turn. He does not need to need to. He could pick the sound of that movement out of a thousand — the way the steps drag slightly, the sigh pulled ragged and deep from the chest. He would know it blinded, bound, buried.

The pause stretches out, but the words are already forming in the air between them. They hang there, palpable, even before they are spoken.

He will not hold his tongue for long. And he does not.

“It’s a harsh lesson you’re teaching here. All this cruelty.”

Vlad turns his head just enough to catch the flicker of blue above him. It is the briefest glimpse — a flash of sky in a storm — but enough to recognise the question not just in the words, but in the eyes, too. He recognises something else in them, too. Not condemnation, not entirely, but something close to it. He lets the weight of it settle like ash before he turns fully, meeting that gaze without flinching. The man’s hands are drenched in blood.

“The world is cruel, old friend. We’re only its reflection.”

There’s a rustle behind them, boots again, but hurried this time, scuffing against the ground. A soldier steps forward, his head bowed, his voice careful.

“What now, măria-ta?”

He grits his teeth, their edges catching the sunlight like a warning. “We burn this place to the ground.”

The soldier bows again and turns, but Vlad stays rooted, his eyes scanning the ruins around him. The carcass of a village. Its life drained. Its spirit broken. And yet the earth still smells of spring, of turned soil and fresh grass, in a mockery of the blackened smoke soon to rise.

Behind him, Dracea shifts but does not speak. No words are needed. With a grin, he pats the tall man on the shoulder and strides away. The work is not done yet.

Let them try to push him further if they so wish to. There are still plenty of trees around.

Hello and welcome to the grimmest (and most difficult) piece I have ever written for Voievod. I hope you have survived until the end. As always, let me provide you with a bit of historical background on this work!

This work forms a small part of what came to be known as the military conflict between Wallachia and Transylvanian cities between 1457-1460. (Many more works about these in the future!) While history predominantly remembers Vlad as the Turkslayer, his contentious relationship with Transylvania proved far more enduring and bitter. The first signs of impending disagreements are already noticeable essentially at the onset of his reign, starting in December 1456. Several factors played into these disagreements, but two of them were most prominent — Vlad’s protectionist policies for local trade (the Transylvanians had a monopoly on trade in Wallachia which was disastrous for local Wallachian commerce), and the refusal to expel Vlad’s political rivals. We may argue about Vlad’s forms of punishment, but the indisputable fact is that Vlad’s five invasions into the Transylvanian territory were in defence of Wallachia’s interests and as a response to the provocations caused by the Transylvanians.

The events depicted here unfold during Vlad’s first invasion in the spring of 1457. This particular expedition was launched as a punishment of the Saxon members who gave asylum to two Wallachian pretenders (Dan and Vlad’s half-brother, Vlad Călugărul). Contemporary correspondence reveals Vlad’s diplomatic attempts to resolve this matter before resorting to military action — it explicitly states his disagreement with this support, as well as a warning that he will be left with no other choice but retaliation if Sibiu in particular does not cease its interference in Wallachian affairs. For that reason, he mainly targeted the city of Sibiu, as well as surrounding villages. Particularly those of Cașolț, Hosman (mentioned in this work), and Satul Nou were attacked and burned to the ground, with the local population impaled in warning.

Contrary to popular belief, Vlad did not pioneer the practice of impalement. This method of execution traces its origins to ancient civilisations, with documented evidence from 18th-century-BC Babylonia and the Neo-Assyrian Empire. The practice was widely adopted across cultures, from Phoenicians to Greeks and Romans. During Vlad’s era, it was a conventional form of execution throughout the region — impalement was used by the Ottomans, Transylvanian Saxons, as well as Hungarians, and it was even used by his cousin, the Voivode of Moldavia Ștefan III (who allegedly impaled even more people than Vlad the Impaler himself). Vlad therefore did not invent anything, although he is the first Wallachian voivode to ever use this form of execution. The novelty of it on the Wallachian territory was what helped him instil great discipline in his country so quickly — his people were not used to such sights. (Also, this form of execution could never be used with Wallachian nobility who were granted the privilege of being executed by beheading, which is something Vlad respected greatly — here is another myth debunked.)

You may have heard about thousands of people being impaled en masse by Vlad. These often-cited claims of mass impalements are logistically improbable given the complex and time-intensive nature of this execution method, something I have tried to capture in this work. It was primarily used as a part of psychological warfare. This form of execution was mainly used as a warning or a message — either to discourage people from disobeying or to instil fear in his political opponents — and was not executed on a daily basis.

There were several methods of impalement in use, and Vlad used two of them: the swift execution through torso penetration, and the more elaborate “trusus in anum” technique. The latter consisted of inserting the stake through the anus (reserved only for special moments since it was time-consuming and logistically difficult). In this case, the executioner’s aim was to avoid piercing the vital organs to prolong the suffering on the stake. It was used on prisoners who were reserved to send a message. Both methods are portrayed in this work, with careful attention to their strategic application.

Despite having been destroyed completely by Vlad, the village of Holzmengen survives to this day. It is called Hosman in Romanian. (Check out Tender Bonds for information on referencing place names.)

[voievod]

german keys from the 15th century

[voievod]

What I love the most about Vlad is this lust for life he carries within himself almost his entire life. Interestingly, this is also one of the few things he has in common with his father — this absolute ravenous hunger for life and all the pleasures it has to offer, this ache to breathe it in whenever there is a chance, gulp on it like a man dying of thirst would on any drop of water left. Also, these moments of happiness are so scarce in his life, he cannot help but live a little for himself when all he has to do most of his life is live for something else, a higher purpose, a duty still to fulfill.

He does that as a child already, but then the dark times of being a hostage come and, living each day not knowing whether or not he will have his throat slit in his sleep, he learns never to refuse these delights when they offer themselves to him. He learns to cherish the way wind brushes against his skin when he rides a horse, to savour a particularly delicious meal when the taste drips on his tongue. The way fresh water soothes his limbs and freshens his dirty skin.

The same applies to his relationship with Cătălina, really. Here she stands, someone who stirs something inside him. And he does not stop himself, he immerses himself into it fully, he lives through those moments with pleasure. And it might work out for them, or it might not — something might happen, or life might part their ways, or he might not live another day to return to her — but here he is, and so is she, and so is the moment, and nothing else matters, for he might hold himself back, but then he would never forgive himself if he let the chance escape.

And with each new period of pain and survival and sheer suffering, he jumps back into it when life becomes better again — sometimes with more ease, sometimes with greater difficulty, but there is always something for him to grasp. Because he knows it might be the last moment he ever gets to savour such a thing. Because he knows he might step outside the door the next morning, and an arrow might strike him down. Dead.

But he would die knowing his life never went to waste.

[voievod]

— not a woman made to wither on scraps. (CĂTĂLINA | VOIEVOD)

Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body || Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal || Boris Slutsky, With That Old Woman I Was Cold-Polite (trans. by G. S. Smith) || Ansel Elkins, Autobiography of Eve

[voievod]

characters who are so inauthentic. characters who only show what they want other people to see of them. characters who simply must have control over every part of themselves. do you even get it

[voievod]

Dear followers,

a new year is just around the corner, and this time of year always provides us with a space to look back and reflect. As I am looking back on mine, I cannot help but address a few words to all of you who have made this year so enriching and beautiful.

Even though my first works from Voievod were published in 2023 already, it was not until 2024 that the fictional rendition of Vlad's life gained more recognition among you. I vividly remember receiving @moonstone-vibe's kindest comments around this time last year, and her endless and generous support pushed me forward to dedicate myself fully to this project. Since then, many of you have shown me endless support, ten more works have been finished and published, the fictional world of Vlad Voievod has grown exponentially, and so many more exciting things are coming next year.

With this, I want to thank you all for joining me on this adventure, for bestowing all your generosity and time upon me, and for supporting my medieval shenanigans. This year was very special thanks to you.

Wishing you all the best in the new year -- many happy moments, a lot of health, success and prosperity, and days filled with serenity.

Thank you so much for this year, and see you the next one! ❤️️

Lin.

[voievod]

— in which Vlad Dracula grapples with a variety of feelings as he holds his newborn son for the first time.

word count: 1,227 words

warnings: non-graphic references to blood and violence; themes of mortality and death; themes of sacrifice and loss (but none of it is depressive, I promise!)

a/n: The draft for this work was sitting in my folder for such a long time — I only wrote down a few ideas here and there but never had enough inspiration or felt enough direction to carry this out. This week, something finally clicked and so, here it is, a significant work born (together with the baby boy). Just like fatherhood is a crucial aspect of Vlad Dracul’s personality (I have an entire lore about what fatherhood means to him both as a man and as a ruler that I will introduce in due time), the same eventually applies to his sons. In my fictional world, being a father is definitely a driving force in Vlad’s life — this work establishes that significance. As always, thank you for following this journey, and I hope you enjoy this piece! ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

December 29, 1455, Hermannstadt, Transylvania

Outside, the snow is a silent and relentless thief, stealing the world he once knew. It smothers the streets in white like a shroud, an unending nothingness, the earth buried and forgotten beneath the crystalline sky. Cobblestones drown beneath it, and skeletal trees drip with ice, their boughs bent like penitents under the weight of winter’s reign. A void. A silence so complete, it threatens to consume.

But here, inside, the world is chaos, riotous, wild with colours — colours he did not know could exist, colours that claw at his chest, burst behind his eyes. Red like blood, blood always, because he has lived his whole life in its shadow, but never like this. This blood is not spilt, is not lost, is not of grief or vengeance. It is fire, molten gold, the sun devouring him from within.

He stares at the tiny form in his arms, so small, so impossibly fragile, yet heavy. How can something this small weigh more than the world itself? He thought he knew weight — of swords, of crowns, of bodies — but this is different. He does not dare move, does not dare speak, as though the spell might break. The boy’s breath is a whisper against his chest, and suddenly, he understands what it is to be humbled. Not by men or power or death, but by life, by this life, by the way it roots itself inside him and demands everything. His hands — those hands that have killed, that have built and destroyed and overpowered — feel clumsy, unworthy of this weight. Yet the boy sleeps, serene, unknowing, trusting, as if he belongs there, as if this was always meant to be. And maybe it was. Maybe this is destiny, or grace, or simply the beautiful miracle of life. Whatever it is, it burns, and he knows it will burn forever.

A boy. His boy. My son. The thought erupts, echoing like a battle cry, like a prayer, and shatters him. Tiny fingers curl, so impossibly small, impossibly perfect, and with each movement, a law is written into his blood, a command that says: Protect. Provide. Burn for him if you must.

Less than an hour — how is it only an hour? — and his world is unmade. Every moment before this, every choice, every scar, has been a prelude, a stumbling preface to this. The light through the window is a pale, indifferent thing, trying in vain to intrude, but it has no place here, no power. What is the sun compared to this child, his son, to the pulse of his heartbeat against his own? He is no longer singular — he is plural. We. A father, a son. Blood calls to blood, and suddenly all the rivers of his life converge, rushing, flooding, drowning him in feelings he cannot yet name.

This is my son. The words rise and fall in his mind, crashing like waves. Our son. He sees his reflection in the baby’s face. The downy hair, his own midnight black, still damp and curling slightly at the edges. He sees Cătălina too, in the child’s darkest eyes, her eyes, revealed for a moment before he shut them close again. The line of her brow. She gave him this. He and Cătălina — Cătălina, whose laughter carries him through his darkest nights, whose quiet strength is his fortress — together they have created this. They have conjured life where there was none, a third born of their two, as though God owed them this act of creation after all He had taken.

His love for her has been his constant, his solace, his battle cry. It is the calm of still waters, the salve for old wounds, the strength that steadies him when the earth trembles beneath his feet. With her, love has been a choice — a deliberate, defiant act against fate’s capricious cruelty. Together, they have endured, their scars exposed, their hearts laid bare, and in that sharing, they have built something indestructible.

This love is nothing like that. It is not calm. It is not a choice. It is feral, raw, all-consuming. It tears through him like a storm, leaving nothing untouched. It is a blade, sharp and merciless, carving through his chest and leaving him exposed, vulnerable in a way he has never been before. It could never be shattered but has the power to shatter him. The world is not safe, not for something this small, this fragile. How can it be, when he knows what lurks beyond these walls — men with blades, beasts with teeth, a world indifferent to the sanctity of innocence? And yet, it is also power. It fills him, hardens him. He would stand alone against the fury of armies, against death itself, if it meant protecting this child from harm’s claws.

His utmost source of pride. His profoundest vulnerability.

He thinks of his father. Of Mircea. Of Radu. All names etched in his bones, faces carved into memory. He has been protector and brother and son, will become avenger one day, but never this. Never father. The title clings to him, foreign and sacred. He thought he knew it — the duty, the sacrifice. He found purpose in this devotion. He thought that all the years spent shielding his younger brother from the cold edges of the world prepared him for this moment. But how could they? Nothing could prepare him for the sight of this child, his child, breathing in his arms.

The weight of his father’s ghost presses upon him, sharp as the chill of the snow-covered street outside. He is not his father, and yet he is. The line between them blurs. Legacy threads its needle and sews father to son, one life bleeding into the next. He sees Dracul’s shadow kneeling before death, eyes blazing with a ferocity only a parent could muster. He sees the unyielding choice — sacrifice, always sacrifice, for the sake of the bloodline. Would he also bare his neck to the blade if it meant this child, this piece of him, might live? The answer is not a thought. It is a certainty, instinctual, primal, eternal.

He finds himself on the precipice of uncharted territory that he must navigate alone, led only by instinct. The tiny soul in his embrace is a unique entity, the only one of his kind in the vast expanse of the world. Despite their shared blood, they are strangers, meeting for the first time. How does he decipher the soft sounds emerging from the small body? Is his son content in his hold?

Will he navigate this journey correctly? Is it within his power? What kind of man will this frail angel bloom into as the days rush past?

His mind races through visions — the child running, the boy laughing, the man holding a sword. And then — no, he will not think it, but it comes nonetheless — visions of cold stones and red spilt over snow. He holds the child closer, as if the force of his grip can shield him from futures too dark to be borne.

The snow outside might as well be an ocean. He will wade through it, drown in it, to keep his son safe. To keep him warm. To keep him whole.

For the first time in years, Vlad Drăculea feels fear. And it feels beautiful indeed.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end! As always, now is the time to dive a little into some historical context behind the story.

You might have noticed that the timeline does not quite align with the historical information we have about Vlad’s sons. While I try to stay as faithful as I can to all the information that we have at our disposal, every writer has certain areas in their work in which they take some creative liberties — this is mine, and so here is the space to introduce a fictional eldest son into the narrative. (I hope the dedicated Vlad researchers can forgive me for this tweak!) This choice came from nothing else but a personal desire to explore Vlad as a father much earlier in his life. While his real decisions and actions stand on their own — his life unfolded the way it did, after all — I was fascinated by the creative prospect of how fatherhood might influence his personality and decisions in other areas. That is how Mircea came to be. Nonetheless, here is a bit of factual information about Vlad’s children to clarify the decision!

The precise number of Vlad’s children remains a subject of historical uncertainty, but it is generally accepted by historians that he had three sons. The eldest, Mihnea (traditionally recorded as being born in 1462, though I have adjusted his birth year to 1460 for narrative purposes), was born out of a relationship with Vlad’s mistress. After a tumultuous life marked by persistent struggles, he ultimately ascended to his father’s throne and became the voivode of Wallachia in 1508. Vlad’s other two sons were born of his first marriage to the illegitimate daughter of John Hunyadi. One of these, Vlad (alternatively Ladislaus), became his elder half-brother’s rival, unsuccessfully laid claim to Wallachia around 1495, and subsequently relocated to Western Transylvania, where his descendants would later establish the Hungarian noble branch of the Drăculești. The other son (whose name we do not know) chose a markedly different path by renouncing political ambition entirely and becoming a priest. He passed away at a young age in 1486 in Oradea. If you want to learn more about Vlad’s family, Corpus Draculianum offers an excellent video on the topic, which I highly recommend.

Mircea (who, as you might surmise, bears the name of another significant figure in Vlad’s life — we shall get to that soon) is, just like my version of Vlad’s mistress, entirely a product of my imagination. In crafting his story, I have taken creative liberties by reordering the lineage of Vlad’s children — in my version, Vlad has two sons with Cătălina and only one son (Vlad) with his first wife. Yet, even as a fictional character, Mircea serves as a lens through which to explore some of the customs, challenges, and intricacies of life in Wallachia in those times. This is certainly not his last appearance as he will be a recurring figure, with his journey depicted from his earliest moments through to adulthood. I hold a deep love for Mircea as a character, and I hope you will come to cherish him just as much.

Between 1454 and 1456, Vlad spent two years in exile in Sibiu (Hermannstadt in German), a period marked by a very lucrative and pragmatic alliance with John Hunyadi. Through this arrangement, Vlad was granted a military appointment to safeguard the southern borders of Transylvania from potential Ottoman incursions. (This role actually mirrored his father’s earlier duties in Sighișoara, where he similarly acted as a bulwark against Ottoman threats.) As part of this agreement, Vlad established his residence in Sibiu, where the influential Saxon authorities (many of whom had previously sought his death) were ordered to tolerate his presence under Hunyadi’s directive. Sibiu was a prominent cultural and administrative hub of the Transylvanian Saxons and became the centre of Vlad’s operations during this time. His headquarters attracted other Wallachian noble exiles loyal to the Drăculești, which allowed Vlad to establish the groundwork for a strategic return to Wallachia to reclaim the throne. This period of his long exile therefore served as both a refuge and a staging ground for his ambitions. (Note: In referencing place names, I adopt the regional language(s) of the said place to reflect the sociopolitical and cultural realities of the time. During the High and Late Middle Ages, the Transylvanian Saxons were among the most influential ethnic groups in Transylvania, particularly in cities like Sibiu, which underscored their dominance in administrative and cultural affairs in the region. For that reason, I employ the German equivalents for these cities.)

You may have been taken aback by Cătălina’s appearance in Vlad’s Sibiu chapter of his exile years. I promise this will also be elaborated on in the future — while I cannot promise absolute historical plausibility, I still try to use as much historical information as I can to make the arc of their relationship as realistic as possible. Let’s just say that the events taking place in “When Paths Cross” are just the beginning of the rollercoaster that their relationship will turn out to be at times. :)

[voievod]

— in which Vlad Dracula unleashes hell upon the villages of Transylvania and establishes himself as The Impaler.

word count: 2,985 words

warnings: extreme violence and gore; physical and psychological torture; execution; graphic descriptions of violence, torture, and execution; graphic descriptions of impalement; blood; bodily harm; death; dying; physical restraint; forced submission; non-consensual nudity; mass execution [18+; MDNI]

a/n: Guys, I just really don’t know if this turns out to be any good (or, well… bad since this is supposed to be a really cruel moment). Like, I tried. I will let you be the judge now. (But maybe do not read this on a full stomach.) — An endless thank you goes to @loreofyore and @spadesofgrass for being the beta-readers on the first half of this work! Their input helped me immensely while writing this little macabre child of mine and pushed me forward in the right direction. ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

May 1457, Holzmengen, Transylvania

The scent of wood cleaved open always brings more than comfort. It is his summoning.

It is a call back to something older, something rooted deep. It stirs his lungs with its resinous life, rich and unrestrained, as if the tree’s breath lingered even in its death. It must be a living and breathing entity, just like a person is, for no two trees ever yield the same fragrance. He knows this as fact, as surely as he knows his own flesh. The cherry wood of his homeland is sweet yet gentle. It smells nothing like the sandalwood that perfumed his nights in that faraway land, nor the cedar’s bold exhalations that seeped into his bones like smoke.

He inhales deeply. The breeze holds a profound, fresh-cut scent around him. Shavings of wood blanket the grass wherever he looks, curling like pale ribbons against the greenery. Handsaws’ teeth bite into the wood and move in a syncopated rasp that vibrates in his chest. Chhk. Chhk. Chhk. Each pull of the blade scatters motes into the sun-dappled air like specks of life suspended and refusing to fall.

No wonder Jesus was a carpenter. How could he not? The Son of God knew this intimacy, this communion with living things that yielded to his hands. There is a sacredness in it — not a holiness of altars, but of the eternal earth itself.

The stillness ruptures. Someone chokes and heaves, and the sound of splashing on dirt that follows is as sharp as a crack in the glass. He turns his head towards the sound, the movement unnervingly slow, gaze locking on the body crumpling at his feet. A twitch seizes his lips, the faintest ghost of a smile. The eyes streaked with red below him flit, wide and restless, before sealing themselves shut. Hands rise to the ashen face and tremble. A word spills loose, soft at first, then relentless, a single crack widening into a chasm.

“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy mercy mercy—”

Vlad’s eyes trace the trickle of blood threading through the torn cloth that binds the man’s arms. He holds his hands pressed together in prayer now, and the thin lines of crimson pool at his elbows, dripping onto the earth below. Vlad watches its journey, slow and steady. The rosary wrapped in shaking fingers glints dully in the light as the cross pierces the palms.

He crouches, so close the trembling prisoner might feel his breath. “Plead again. Perhaps the crows will listen.”

Above, black wings churn the air, lazy spirals marking the space between earth and sky. One drops lower with a sharp and piercing cry. Vlad tilts his head, his gaze following its descent.

“Efficient creatures. They know when a meal is near.”

“Please!” he wails, his voice hoarse with desperation. “I have children!”

Two pairs of arms grip the trembling body. The rosary falls to the dirt with a muffled clink as the soldiers pull his arms away by force. The man thrashes as they haul him backwards and away from the voivode, feet scraping against the earth. His body arches in unnatural shapes, his hands clawing at nothing, seeking salvation that is not there.

Vlad rises, brushing dust from the metal plates of his armour and turns his back to the pleading man. The scream unravels behind him, swallowed by the crows. He does not look back. His eyes fall on the soldiers bending under the weight of the wood, their shoulders taut with purpose.

The moment of peace is gone; the world spills out its blood instead.

The air swells with the sounds of pleading, hundreds of them — not voices anymore but raw, animal sounds. They are clawing out of cracked and dry throats. Other voices fold inward, mouthing prayers that carry no secrets, only despair. All kneel, rows and rows of them, like broken stalks in a trampled field. Their heads are bowed, spines curved under an invisible lash, yet the trembling is all too visible. A few are bound together, their wrists gnawed by the ropes. The skin around their wrists bruises where the fibres bite deep, flesh swollen and purple. These are the ones who tried to fight against him, who thought they could stand when the storm came for them. He can readily acknowledge their bravery.

It was reckless, too. After all, what is recklessness but the last screams of the powerless?

They will all die the same way. Mercy has no place here. Mercy is a lie told to the dying. He has no lies left to give. What does mercy build? Nothing. Walls are built by fear. He builds his wall today.

Its foundation rises like a forest, birthed from the sweat of the living and the blood of the dying. Trunks are planted deep in the earth, their shadows stretching long over the plains, the fields, the mountains beyond. The first rows are prepared and lined up along the road like a grim procession for a weary traveller. This is a message carved in wood and flesh and sinew. It is hardly a masterful work. There is no time for mastery, no time for perfection. Speed is the currency of power today, and this is a slow process, painfully so.

Only hefting the wood has taken days, and the handsaws do not cease even now. His men drag the trunks down from the hills, hacking and sawing, hands raw and splintered, cursing under their breath as the sun brands their necks, but the work does not pause. There is no room for fatigue here. His eyes skim over his surroundings. Twenty groups of five men, each more skilled than the last, each one working faster than the next. There is no hesitation, no slowness, no doubt. Each group plants several stakes into the ground every hour.

He attends every execution. Eyes fixed. He does not flinch. If there is cruelty to be done in his name, he will not hide from the sight of it like a coward, will not pretend that his hands are not smeared with blood. The weight is his; the carnage his burden. His presence makes it so. Who else should oversee it but himself?

He walks towards the finished works, the squelch of his boots loud against the quiet groans of suffering. Some of the limbs do not hang quite right. The bodies slump or twist in ways that spoil the symmetry. Such things happen. It must do. Some still cling to life, impaled but not yet released from their misery, their bodies jerking weakly as if to unseat the wooden invader splitting them from the inside. Their faces are masks of agony, their mouths stretched wide as if to swallow the sky. He looks up at their faces. Faces matter the most.

Each stake is measured. The angle, the height, the depth. Precision, always precision, even in haste. A weak base can topple the message. He cannot afford such flaws. Great flaws breed great doubts, and doubt is the first step toward defiance. This message must be understandable even to the biggest fool. This is the only language they understand, after all. Not words. Not treaties. Not threats whispered behind veils of civility. Only this. He has learned their language well — better, perhaps, than they know it themselves.

He pauses, watching the forest grow. The earth drinks deep from the roots of this new empire. The air reeks of sap and sweat and copper. If mercy lives, it must live elsewhere. Here, there is only a warning. What they have built, he will raze. What they have taken, he will reclaim. And if they fail to understand the words, the forest will teach them.

The last defiant ones watch him with eyes that boil with hatred. Their worlds begin to fade, the edges of everything softening into black. He turns towards the road and traces its curvature with his finger. It is the moment they understand. They are already dead.

“These will face the road,” he orders. “Let them see what defiance breeds.”

One of them — his face so youthful, barely finished with his first beard — looks up. His body trembles, but the anger inside him does not. He acts without thinking, his mouth dry but still capable of summoning the last remnants of rebellion. He spits, and it is nothing but a thread of water, a final indignity upon a man who wears boots polished by rivers of blood. It strikes leather, glistening there for a moment before sliding down, dragging dust in its wake. He cannot look away from the boots. Not yet. Not until the eyes find him. And when they do, green and sharp and unforgiving, they do not blaze as he expected. No fire, no storm, just the still, cold clarity of a hunter’s gaze before the arrow flies.

Is this how death looks, then? Not monstrous, not grotesque, but composed. The face before him, smooth despite its shadows, bears no trace of frenzy. The boy sees him now, truly sees him — the sharp cheekbones, the black moustache, the eyes that seem too alive for someone who kills so easily. He is young, this voivode. Younger than the boy thought. The moustache curves upward in a thin line of smile. He sees teeth — too white, too clean, as though they have never tasted their own blood, only the blood of others.

“Ah. I see we have found a volunteer.”

There is no hatred in those green eyes, only something worse. Interest. Vlad’s hand moves like a serpent, fast and sure. He grabs the rope around the boy’s wrists, yanking him upright with a single pull. The boy stumbles, choking on air, but Vlad steadies him without kindness. The pain rushes in, an old enemy, and he realises — this is the last time his legs will know the ground.

He is taken away, the soldiers dragging him forward as his eyes, dry now, scrape the landscape. Their hands feel like iron clamps on his shoulders. He sees the road, winding like a vein toward the horizon. He sees the stakes waiting, sharpened, upright, like teeth set to devour. And above it all, the green eyes still burn into his mind, haunting in their quiet calculation. A god, a devil — he can no longer tell the difference.

There will be no more rebellion. No more spitting. Only the road. Only the stakes. Only the sky, watching in silent complacency.

Words are unnecessary. Vlad’s hands speak instead. The thumb and forefinger form a circle. Two fingers of the other hand breach its boundary, pushing through with a cruel slowness, the gesture obscene in its simplicity.

Vlad lets his hands fall. The sentence has been spoken. His men know what to do.

“Have the carpenters blunt the tip a little. This isn’t the time for mistakes.”

Vlad stands a few paces away, his expression unreadable, arms crossed over his chest. His shadow stretches long as he watches the soldiers bring the prisoner forward. The cries rise first — sharp, then guttural — tearing apart the stillness. The boy’s frame is lean, the sinew stretched taut over bone — his ribs jut like the keel of a ship about to be wrecked. They throw him onto the plank face-first. Rough-hewn wood wobbles under his weight, its surface pitted with old stains. His face strikes the wood with a dull crack.

“Hold him.”

The soldiers move quickly. Practised hands pull at the youth’s limbs, splaying him out like an animal on the butcher’s block. Arms stretched forward, knees forced apart. His wrists are thin, fragile beneath the rough fists that pin them. A knife slashes through the boy’s clothes. Fabric rips in uneven lines, thin threads trailing where the blade bites. His tunic falls away in strips and exposes the pale and quivering flesh. The soldiers do not bother with precision. They yank where the knife does not go. A small nick of a knife draws blood, a bright rivulet spilling over pale skin. No one flinches at the sound he makes — a strangled hiss, caught between pain and panic.

Another man approaches, carrying a clay jar in one hand and a rag in the other. The jar opens with a soft pop when he removes the lid, then drops it into the dirt. The smell of the oil — thick, golden, almost sweet — spreads for a moment before the cloth dips in, soaking it up. It glistens as it soaks into the fibres, dripping as he wipes it along the stake’s tip. The pole is long and pale, its surface shaved smooth but not enough to hide the knots and grain of the wood. It darkens under his touch, the blunt tip taking on a slick sheen.

The boy whimpers, his face turned sideways against the plank. Tears and snot smear across his cheeks. No one pays him any mind. The scream erupts again, raw and high-pitched now, the kind of sound that claws at the ears and refuses to let go. The knife works quickly, carving a shallow cut where the flesh parts easily between his thighs. Blood wells up. A thin line of red pools and drips between his legs. The soldier steps back, wiping the blade clean on his tunic before taking hold of the stake.

“Now.”

One soldier presses a hand to the boy’s back, fingers spread wide. They feel the tremors beneath the skin. Another grabs the stake, lifts it, positions it carefully. The mallet rises, heavy and solid, its head darkened with use. It falls with a crack. The stake moves — just a little at first. It disappears inside the boy, vanishing inch by inch, the wood sinking into flesh with a resistance that is almost palpable. He can see it in the soldier’s hands — the way his grip tightens, his knuckles whitening as he steadies it.

Another strike. Crack. The wood pushes deeper.

The boy’s screams twist inside his throat, his body jerking with each blow of the mallet. The soldier’s hand on his back presses harder. It feels for the stake as it climbs upward, following the path of his spine with precision. Another strike, and the mallet’s rhythm becomes a heartbeat — steady, inevitable, pounding life away with each ascent.

“Careful,” he says, stepping closer, the dirt crunching under his boots. His voice is low, almost soft, but it carries. “Too fast, and he’ll die. Too slow, and he might pass out. Neither serves our purpose.”

When the wood finally emerges from his mouth and opens his jaws wide, the soldiers let go. One of them wipes his brow. His hand trembles.

“Lift him.”

There is a pause, a collective holding of breath, and then the soldiers pull. Slowly. Deliberately. Four men move under their commander’s watch. They avoid his eyes as they hoist the boy’s slack body up to the skies. They drive the stake into the earth, its base sunk deep to hold firm. Blood smears the men’s hands as they work. Their grunts mingle with the ragged sound of the youth’s breathing.

“Make sure it’s straight. We wouldn’t want him to feel crooked in his final moments.”

The boy’s head lolls to the side. A stream of blood trickles from down his chin. His eyes, wide and glassy, remain fixed on nothing. His body jerks once, twice, as if some part of him still fought, still clung to life despite the splintered wood that now holds him aloft. The body stops at the crossbar that prevents it from sliding down. A gurgle rise from his throat, wet and thick. He tries to speak — words, perhaps, or a prayer — but they are swallowed by the crimson pool that fills his mouth.

“Now,” Vlad says, “bring me the next.”

A pair of boots swishes against the dirt before halting just behind him. He knows their rhythm — heavy and unhurried, long legs making long strides. Vlad does not turn. He does not need to need to. He could pick the sound of that movement out of a thousand — the way the steps drag slightly, the sigh pulled ragged and deep from the chest. He would know it blinded, bound, buried.

The pause stretches out, but the words are already forming in the air between them. They hang there, palpable, even before they are spoken.

He will not hold his tongue for long. And he does not.

“It’s a harsh lesson you’re teaching here. All this cruelty.”

Vlad turns his head just enough to catch the flicker of blue above him. It is the briefest glimpse — a flash of sky in a storm — but enough to recognise the question not just in the words, but in the eyes, too. He recognises something else in them, too. Not condemnation, not entirely, but something close to it. He lets the weight of it settle like ash before he turns fully, meeting that gaze without flinching. The man’s hands are drenched in blood.

“The world is cruel, old friend. We’re only its reflection.”

There’s a rustle behind them, boots again, but hurried this time, scuffing against the ground. A soldier steps forward, his head bowed, his voice careful.

“What now, măria-ta?”

He grits his teeth, their edges catching the sunlight like a warning. “We burn this place to the ground.”

The soldier bows again and turns, but Vlad stays rooted, his eyes scanning the ruins around him. The carcass of a village. Its life drained. Its spirit broken. And yet the earth still smells of spring, of turned soil and fresh grass, in a mockery of the blackened smoke soon to rise.

Behind him, Dracea shifts but does not speak. No words are needed. With a grin, he pats the tall man on the shoulder and strides away. The work is not done yet.

Let them try to push him further if they so wish to. There are still plenty of trees around.

Hello and welcome to the grimmest (and most difficult) piece I have ever written for Voievod. I hope you have survived until the end. As always, let me provide you with a bit of historical background on this work!

This work forms a small part of what came to be known as the military conflict between Wallachia and Transylvanian cities between 1457-1460. (Many more works about these in the future!) While history predominantly remembers Vlad as the Turkslayer, his contentious relationship with Transylvania proved far more enduring and bitter. The first signs of impending disagreements are already noticeable essentially at the onset of his reign, starting in December 1456. Several factors played into these disagreements, but two of them were most prominent — Vlad’s protectionist policies for local trade (the Transylvanians had a monopoly on trade in Wallachia which was disastrous for local Wallachian commerce), and the refusal to expel Vlad’s political rivals. We may argue about Vlad’s forms of punishment, but the indisputable fact is that Vlad’s five invasions into the Transylvanian territory were in defence of Wallachia’s interests and as a response to the provocations caused by the Transylvanians.

The events depicted here unfold during Vlad’s first invasion in the spring of 1457. This particular expedition was launched as a punishment of the Saxon members who gave asylum to two Wallachian pretenders (Dan and Vlad’s half-brother, Vlad Călugărul). Contemporary correspondence reveals Vlad’s diplomatic attempts to resolve this matter before resorting to military action — it explicitly states his disagreement with this support, as well as a warning that he will be left with no other choice but retaliation if Sibiu in particular does not cease its interference in Wallachian affairs. For that reason, he mainly targeted the city of Sibiu, as well as surrounding villages. Particularly those of Cașolț, Hosman (mentioned in this work), and Satul Nou were attacked and burned to the ground, with the local population impaled in warning.

Contrary to popular belief, Vlad did not pioneer the practice of impalement. This method of execution traces its origins to ancient civilisations, with documented evidence from 18th-century-BC Babylonia and the Neo-Assyrian Empire. The practice was widely adopted across cultures, from Phoenicians to Greeks and Romans. During Vlad’s era, it was a conventional form of execution throughout the region — impalement was used by the Ottomans, Transylvanian Saxons, as well as Hungarians, and it was even used by his cousin, the Voivode of Moldavia Ștefan III (who allegedly impaled even more people than Vlad the Impaler himself). Vlad therefore did not invent anything, although he is the first Wallachian voivode to ever use this form of execution. The novelty of it on the Wallachian territory was what helped him instil great discipline in his country so quickly — his people were not used to such sights. (Also, this form of execution could never be used with Wallachian nobility who were granted the privilege of being executed by beheading, which is something Vlad respected greatly — here is another myth debunked.)

You may have heard about thousands of people being impaled en masse by Vlad. These often-cited claims of mass impalements are logistically improbable given the complex and time-intensive nature of this execution method, something I have tried to capture in this work. It was primarily used as a part of psychological warfare. This form of execution was mainly used as a warning or a message — either to discourage people from disobeying or to instil fear in his political opponents — and was not executed on a daily basis.

There were several methods of impalement in use, and Vlad used two of them: the swift execution through torso penetration, and the more elaborate “trusus in anum” technique. The latter consisted of inserting the stake through the anus (reserved only for special moments since it was time-consuming and logistically difficult). In this case, the executioner’s aim was to avoid piercing the vital organs to prolong the suffering on the stake. It was used on prisoners who were reserved to send a message. Both methods are portrayed in this work, with careful attention to their strategic application.

Despite having been destroyed completely by Vlad, the village of Holzmengen survives to this day. It is called Hosman in Romanian. (Check out Tender Bonds for information on referencing place names.)

[voievod]

— in which Vlad Dracula unleashes hell upon the villages of Transylvania and establishes himself as The Impaler.

word count: 2,985 words

warnings: extreme violence and gore; physical and psychological torture; execution; graphic descriptions of violence, torture, and execution; graphic descriptions of impalement; blood; bodily harm; death; dying; physical restraint; forced submission; non-consensual nudity; mass execution [18+; MDNI]

a/n: Guys, I just really don’t know if this turns out to be any good (or, well… bad since this is supposed to be a really cruel moment). Like, I tried. I will let you be the judge now. (But maybe do not read this on a full stomach.) — An endless thank you goes to @loreofyore and @spadesofgrass for being the beta-readers on the first half of this work! Their input helped me immensely while writing this little macabre child of mine and pushed me forward in the right direction. ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

May 1457, Holzmengen, Transylvania

The scent of wood cleaved open always brings more than comfort. It is his summoning.

It is a call back to something older, something rooted deep. It stirs his lungs with its resinous life, rich and unrestrained, as if the tree’s breath lingered even in its death. It must be a living and breathing entity, just like a person is, for no two trees ever yield the same fragrance. He knows this as fact, as surely as he knows his own flesh. The cherry wood of his homeland is sweet yet gentle. It smells nothing like the sandalwood that perfumed his nights in that faraway land, nor the cedar’s bold exhalations that seeped into his bones like smoke.

He inhales deeply. The breeze holds a profound, fresh-cut scent around him. Shavings of wood blanket the grass wherever he looks, curling like pale ribbons against the greenery. Handsaws’ teeth bite into the wood and move in a syncopated rasp that vibrates in his chest. Chhk. Chhk. Chhk. Each pull of the blade scatters motes into the sun-dappled air like specks of life suspended and refusing to fall.

No wonder Jesus was a carpenter. How could he not? The Son of God knew this intimacy, this communion with living things that yielded to his hands. There is a sacredness in it — not a holiness of altars, but of the eternal earth itself.

The stillness ruptures. Someone chokes and heaves, and the sound of splashing on dirt that follows is as sharp as a crack in the glass. He turns his head towards the sound, the movement unnervingly slow, gaze locking on the body crumpling at his feet. A twitch seizes his lips, the faintest ghost of a smile. The eyes streaked with red below him flit, wide and restless, before sealing themselves shut. Hands rise to the ashen face and tremble. A word spills loose, soft at first, then relentless, a single crack widening into a chasm.

“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy mercy mercy—”

Vlad’s eyes trace the trickle of blood threading through the torn cloth that binds the man’s arms. He holds his hands pressed together in prayer now, and the thin lines of crimson pool at his elbows, dripping onto the earth below. Vlad watches its journey, slow and steady. The rosary wrapped in shaking fingers glints dully in the light as the cross pierces the palms.

He crouches, so close the trembling prisoner might feel his breath. “Plead again. Perhaps the crows will listen.”

Above, black wings churn the air, lazy spirals marking the space between earth and sky. One drops lower with a sharp and piercing cry. Vlad tilts his head, his gaze following its descent.

“Efficient creatures. They know when a meal is near.”

“Please!” he wails, his voice hoarse with desperation. “I have children!”

Two pairs of arms grip the trembling body. The rosary falls to the dirt with a muffled clink as the soldiers pull his arms away by force. The man thrashes as they haul him backwards and away from the voivode, feet scraping against the earth. His body arches in unnatural shapes, his hands clawing at nothing, seeking salvation that is not there.

Vlad rises, brushing dust from the metal plates of his armour and turns his back to the pleading man. The scream unravels behind him, swallowed by the crows. He does not look back. His eyes fall on the soldiers bending under the weight of the wood, their shoulders taut with purpose.

The moment of peace is gone; the world spills out its blood instead.

The air swells with the sounds of pleading, hundreds of them — not voices anymore but raw, animal sounds. They are clawing out of cracked and dry throats. Other voices fold inward, mouthing prayers that carry no secrets, only despair. All kneel, rows and rows of them, like broken stalks in a trampled field. Their heads are bowed, spines curved under an invisible lash, yet the trembling is all too visible. A few are bound together, their wrists gnawed by the ropes. The skin around their wrists bruises where the fibres bite deep, flesh swollen and purple. These are the ones who tried to fight against him, who thought they could stand when the storm came for them. He can readily acknowledge their bravery.

It was reckless, too. After all, what is recklessness but the last screams of the powerless?

They will all die the same way. Mercy has no place here. Mercy is a lie told to the dying. He has no lies left to give. What does mercy build? Nothing. Walls are built by fear. He builds his wall today.

Its foundation rises like a forest, birthed from the sweat of the living and the blood of the dying. Trunks are planted deep in the earth, their shadows stretching long over the plains, the fields, the mountains beyond. The first rows are prepared and lined up along the road like a grim procession for a weary traveller. This is a message carved in wood and flesh and sinew. It is hardly a masterful work. There is no time for mastery, no time for perfection. Speed is the currency of power today, and this is a slow process, painfully so.

Only hefting the wood has taken days, and the handsaws do not cease even now. His men drag the trunks down from the hills, hacking and sawing, hands raw and splintered, cursing under their breath as the sun brands their necks, but the work does not pause. There is no room for fatigue here. His eyes skim over his surroundings. Twenty groups of five men, each more skilled than the last, each one working faster than the next. There is no hesitation, no slowness, no doubt. Each group plants several stakes into the ground every hour.

He attends every execution. Eyes fixed. He does not flinch. If there is cruelty to be done in his name, he will not hide from the sight of it like a coward, will not pretend that his hands are not smeared with blood. The weight is his; the carnage his burden. His presence makes it so. Who else should oversee it but himself?

He walks towards the finished works, the squelch of his boots loud against the quiet groans of suffering. Some of the limbs do not hang quite right. The bodies slump or twist in ways that spoil the symmetry. Such things happen. It must do. Some still cling to life, impaled but not yet released from their misery, their bodies jerking weakly as if to unseat the wooden invader splitting them from the inside. Their faces are masks of agony, their mouths stretched wide as if to swallow the sky. He looks up at their faces. Faces matter the most.

Each stake is measured. The angle, the height, the depth. Precision, always precision, even in haste. A weak base can topple the message. He cannot afford such flaws. Great flaws breed great doubts, and doubt is the first step toward defiance. This message must be understandable even to the biggest fool. This is the only language they understand, after all. Not words. Not treaties. Not threats whispered behind veils of civility. Only this. He has learned their language well — better, perhaps, than they know it themselves.

He pauses, watching the forest grow. The earth drinks deep from the roots of this new empire. The air reeks of sap and sweat and copper. If mercy lives, it must live elsewhere. Here, there is only a warning. What they have built, he will raze. What they have taken, he will reclaim. And if they fail to understand the words, the forest will teach them.

The last defiant ones watch him with eyes that boil with hatred. Their worlds begin to fade, the edges of everything softening into black. He turns towards the road and traces its curvature with his finger. It is the moment they understand. They are already dead.

“These will face the road,” he orders. “Let them see what defiance breeds.”

One of them — his face so youthful, barely finished with his first beard — looks up. His body trembles, but the anger inside him does not. He acts without thinking, his mouth dry but still capable of summoning the last remnants of rebellion. He spits, and it is nothing but a thread of water, a final indignity upon a man who wears boots polished by rivers of blood. It strikes leather, glistening there for a moment before sliding down, dragging dust in its wake. He cannot look away from the boots. Not yet. Not until the eyes find him. And when they do, green and sharp and unforgiving, they do not blaze as he expected. No fire, no storm, just the still, cold clarity of a hunter’s gaze before the arrow flies.

Is this how death looks, then? Not monstrous, not grotesque, but composed. The face before him, smooth despite its shadows, bears no trace of frenzy. The boy sees him now, truly sees him — the sharp cheekbones, the black moustache, the eyes that seem too alive for someone who kills so easily. He is young, this voivode. Younger than the boy thought. The moustache curves upward in a thin line of smile. He sees teeth — too white, too clean, as though they have never tasted their own blood, only the blood of others.

“Ah. I see we have found a volunteer.”

There is no hatred in those green eyes, only something worse. Interest. Vlad’s hand moves like a serpent, fast and sure. He grabs the rope around the boy’s wrists, yanking him upright with a single pull. The boy stumbles, choking on air, but Vlad steadies him without kindness. The pain rushes in, an old enemy, and he realises — this is the last time his legs will know the ground.

He is taken away, the soldiers dragging him forward as his eyes, dry now, scrape the landscape. Their hands feel like iron clamps on his shoulders. He sees the road, winding like a vein toward the horizon. He sees the stakes waiting, sharpened, upright, like teeth set to devour. And above it all, the green eyes still burn into his mind, haunting in their quiet calculation. A god, a devil — he can no longer tell the difference.

There will be no more rebellion. No more spitting. Only the road. Only the stakes. Only the sky, watching in silent complacency.

Words are unnecessary. Vlad’s hands speak instead. The thumb and forefinger form a circle. Two fingers of the other hand breach its boundary, pushing through with a cruel slowness, the gesture obscene in its simplicity.

Vlad lets his hands fall. The sentence has been spoken. His men know what to do.

“Have the carpenters blunt the tip a little. This isn’t the time for mistakes.”

Vlad stands a few paces away, his expression unreadable, arms crossed over his chest. His shadow stretches long as he watches the soldiers bring the prisoner forward. The cries rise first — sharp, then guttural — tearing apart the stillness. The boy’s frame is lean, the sinew stretched taut over bone — his ribs jut like the keel of a ship about to be wrecked. They throw him onto the plank face-first. Rough-hewn wood wobbles under his weight, its surface pitted with old stains. His face strikes the wood with a dull crack.

“Hold him.”

The soldiers move quickly. Practised hands pull at the youth’s limbs, splaying him out like an animal on the butcher’s block. Arms stretched forward, knees forced apart. His wrists are thin, fragile beneath the rough fists that pin them. A knife slashes through the boy’s clothes. Fabric rips in uneven lines, thin threads trailing where the blade bites. His tunic falls away in strips and exposes the pale and quivering flesh. The soldiers do not bother with precision. They yank where the knife does not go. A small nick of a knife draws blood, a bright rivulet spilling over pale skin. No one flinches at the sound he makes — a strangled hiss, caught between pain and panic.

Another man approaches, carrying a clay jar in one hand and a rag in the other. The jar opens with a soft pop when he removes the lid, then drops it into the dirt. The smell of the oil — thick, golden, almost sweet — spreads for a moment before the cloth dips in, soaking it up. It glistens as it soaks into the fibres, dripping as he wipes it along the stake’s tip. The pole is long and pale, its surface shaved smooth but not enough to hide the knots and grain of the wood. It darkens under his touch, the blunt tip taking on a slick sheen.

The boy whimpers, his face turned sideways against the plank. Tears and snot smear across his cheeks. No one pays him any mind. The scream erupts again, raw and high-pitched now, the kind of sound that claws at the ears and refuses to let go. The knife works quickly, carving a shallow cut where the flesh parts easily between his thighs. Blood wells up. A thin line of red pools and drips between his legs. The soldier steps back, wiping the blade clean on his tunic before taking hold of the stake.

“Now.”

One soldier presses a hand to the boy’s back, fingers spread wide. They feel the tremors beneath the skin. Another grabs the stake, lifts it, positions it carefully. The mallet rises, heavy and solid, its head darkened with use. It falls with a crack. The stake moves — just a little at first. It disappears inside the boy, vanishing inch by inch, the wood sinking into flesh with a resistance that is almost palpable. He can see it in the soldier’s hands — the way his grip tightens, his knuckles whitening as he steadies it.

Another strike. Crack. The wood pushes deeper.

The boy’s screams twist inside his throat, his body jerking with each blow of the mallet. The soldier’s hand on his back presses harder. It feels for the stake as it climbs upward, following the path of his spine with precision. Another strike, and the mallet’s rhythm becomes a heartbeat — steady, inevitable, pounding life away with each ascent.

“Careful,” he says, stepping closer, the dirt crunching under his boots. His voice is low, almost soft, but it carries. “Too fast, and he’ll die. Too slow, and he might pass out. Neither serves our purpose.”

When the wood finally emerges from his mouth and opens his jaws wide, the soldiers let go. One of them wipes his brow. His hand trembles.

“Lift him.”

There is a pause, a collective holding of breath, and then the soldiers pull. Slowly. Deliberately. Four men move under their commander’s watch. They avoid his eyes as they hoist the boy’s slack body up to the skies. They drive the stake into the earth, its base sunk deep to hold firm. Blood smears the men’s hands as they work. Their grunts mingle with the ragged sound of the youth’s breathing.

“Make sure it’s straight. We wouldn’t want him to feel crooked in his final moments.”

The boy’s head lolls to the side. A stream of blood trickles from down his chin. His eyes, wide and glassy, remain fixed on nothing. His body jerks once, twice, as if some part of him still fought, still clung to life despite the splintered wood that now holds him aloft. The body stops at the crossbar that prevents it from sliding down. A gurgle rise from his throat, wet and thick. He tries to speak — words, perhaps, or a prayer — but they are swallowed by the crimson pool that fills his mouth.

“Now,” Vlad says, “bring me the next.”

A pair of boots swishes against the dirt before halting just behind him. He knows their rhythm — heavy and unhurried, long legs making long strides. Vlad does not turn. He does not need to need to. He could pick the sound of that movement out of a thousand — the way the steps drag slightly, the sigh pulled ragged and deep from the chest. He would know it blinded, bound, buried.

The pause stretches out, but the words are already forming in the air between them. They hang there, palpable, even before they are spoken.

He will not hold his tongue for long. And he does not.

“It’s a harsh lesson you’re teaching here. All this cruelty.”

Vlad turns his head just enough to catch the flicker of blue above him. It is the briefest glimpse — a flash of sky in a storm — but enough to recognise the question not just in the words, but in the eyes, too. He recognises something else in them, too. Not condemnation, not entirely, but something close to it. He lets the weight of it settle like ash before he turns fully, meeting that gaze without flinching. The man’s hands are drenched in blood.

“The world is cruel, old friend. We’re only its reflection.”

There’s a rustle behind them, boots again, but hurried this time, scuffing against the ground. A soldier steps forward, his head bowed, his voice careful.

“What now, măria-ta?”

He grits his teeth, their edges catching the sunlight like a warning. “We burn this place to the ground.”

The soldier bows again and turns, but Vlad stays rooted, his eyes scanning the ruins around him. The carcass of a village. Its life drained. Its spirit broken. And yet the earth still smells of spring, of turned soil and fresh grass, in a mockery of the blackened smoke soon to rise.

Behind him, Dracea shifts but does not speak. No words are needed. With a grin, he pats the tall man on the shoulder and strides away. The work is not done yet.

Let them try to push him further if they so wish to. There are still plenty of trees around.

Hello and welcome to the grimmest (and most difficult) piece I have ever written for Voievod. I hope you have survived until the end. As always, let me provide you with a bit of historical background on this work!

This work forms a small part of what came to be known as the military conflict between Wallachia and Transylvanian cities between 1457-1460. (Many more works about these in the future!) While history predominantly remembers Vlad as the Turkslayer, his contentious relationship with Transylvania proved far more enduring and bitter. The first signs of impending disagreements are already noticeable essentially at the onset of his reign, starting in December 1456. Several factors played into these disagreements, but two of them were most prominent — Vlad’s protectionist policies for local trade (the Transylvanians had a monopoly on trade in Wallachia which was disastrous for local Wallachian commerce), and the refusal to expel Vlad’s political rivals. We may argue about Vlad’s forms of punishment, but the indisputable fact is that Vlad’s five invasions into the Transylvanian territory were in defence of Wallachia’s interests and as a response to the provocations caused by the Transylvanians.

The events depicted here unfold during Vlad’s first invasion in the spring of 1457. This particular expedition was launched as a punishment of the Saxon members who gave asylum to two Wallachian pretenders (Dan and Vlad’s half-brother, Vlad Călugărul). Contemporary correspondence reveals Vlad’s diplomatic attempts to resolve this matter before resorting to military action — it explicitly states his disagreement with this support, as well as a warning that he will be left with no other choice but retaliation if Sibiu in particular does not cease its interference in Wallachian affairs. For that reason, he mainly targeted the city of Sibiu, as well as surrounding villages. Particularly those of Cașolț, Hosman (mentioned in this work), and Satul Nou were attacked and burned to the ground, with the local population impaled in warning.

Contrary to popular belief, Vlad did not pioneer the practice of impalement. This method of execution traces its origins to ancient civilisations, with documented evidence from 18th-century-BC Babylonia and the Neo-Assyrian Empire. The practice was widely adopted across cultures, from Phoenicians to Greeks and Romans. During Vlad’s era, it was a conventional form of execution throughout the region — impalement was used by the Ottomans, Transylvanian Saxons, as well as Hungarians, and it was even used by his cousin, the Voivode of Moldavia Ștefan III (who allegedly impaled even more people than Vlad the Impaler himself). Vlad therefore did not invent anything, although he is the first Wallachian voivode to ever use this form of execution. The novelty of it on the Wallachian territory was what helped him instil great discipline in his country so quickly — his people were not used to such sights. (Also, this form of execution could never be used with Wallachian nobility who were granted the privilege of being executed by beheading, which is something Vlad respected greatly — here is another myth debunked.)

You may have heard about thousands of people being impaled en masse by Vlad. These often-cited claims of mass impalements are logistically improbable given the complex and time-intensive nature of this execution method, something I have tried to capture in this work. It was primarily used as a part of psychological warfare. This form of execution was mainly used as a warning or a message — either to discourage people from disobeying or to instil fear in his political opponents — and was not executed on a daily basis.

There were several methods of impalement in use, and Vlad used two of them: the swift execution through torso penetration, and the more elaborate “trusus in anum” technique. The latter consisted of inserting the stake through the anus (reserved only for special moments since it was time-consuming and logistically difficult). In this case, the executioner’s aim was to avoid piercing the vital organs to prolong the suffering on the stake. It was used on prisoners who were reserved to send a message. Both methods are portrayed in this work, with careful attention to their strategic application.

Despite having been destroyed completely by Vlad, the village of Holzmengen survives to this day. It is called Hosman in Romanian. (Check out Tender Bonds for information on referencing place names.)

[voievod]

He pauses, watching the forest grow. The earth drinks deep from the roots of this new empire. The air reeks of sap and sweat and copper. If mercy lives, it must live elsewhere. Here, there is only a warning. What they have built, he will raze. What they have taken, he will reclaim. And if they fail to understand the words, the forest will teach them.

— DER PFÄHLER. Coming tomorrow.

[voievod]

A wound is open, unresolved, a coming apart, a shock, its meaning indeterminate; a scar or disfigurement, on the other hand, stands at a greater temporal distance from the original inflic- tion. Wounds suffered in battle left the soldier in an abject, unresolved position in relation to the world, his body literally opened, his life and death dependent on the course of healing or decline his wounds would take; scars, on the other hand, were corporal evidence of healing as well as damage—a memorializing faultline on the body that reminded the veteran of the “before” and “after” that his life had taken upon the injury he suffered. Like settled or closed narratives, scars healed over ruptures and reintegrated the body back to its state of wholeness—but not entirely; despite traces of healing, and the myths that accrued around scars, the vestiges of an originary violence itself remained.

- Sarah Covington, Wounds Flesh And Metaphor In Seventeenth-Century England.

[voievod]

Big fan of characters who “kill” their younger selves. Characters who resent the past version of themselves for letting them get hurt, who look at that kid and feel revolted by the foreignness of it. Characters who feel they have to cut the child out of them like a tumor because it’s hurting them too much and if I don’t kill you you’ll kill me. Nearly nothing remaining of that past self but for the little connections and mannerisms they can’t kick, and when it shines through, it’s a terrible, tragic thing, because the child is still in there. It’s in there and it’s grotesque in its suffocation. But it’s there.

[voievod]

Gemma Arterton as Gretel HANSEL AND GRETEL WITCH HUNTERS, 2013

[voievod]

a description of Sultan Mehmed II by the Venetian emissary Giacomo de’ Languschi — The Grand Turk (2009), written by John Freely

[voievod]

hi!!!! very exited for your take on all the ladies but i also wonder if there are any ladies from ottoman side you’re exited to write about?? have a nice day? :D

Dear Anon, thank you for this Ask! I am happy to see such a nice surprise from you in my inbox (the Ottoman part of the story is a real brainrot these days skdjsdksks). I hope the reply finds you somewhere on your dash! ❤️️

I do have to admit that I do not know just how many ladies from the Ottoman side will make their appearance as I do not yet know how much of Mehmed's story I will get to write. But here are the ladies you can look forward to in the future!

Hüma Hatun. Obviously, Mehmed's mother plays an important role in his life and will hence make an appearance -- definitely implicitly through Mehmed's character, but I would also like to explicitly include her character. Essentially, this part of her Wikipedia entry sums up my plans for her and her lore: "Based on the fact that Mehmed II was fluent in the Serbian language, it was concluded that she may have been of south Slavic origin, most likely Serbian." Essentially, both Vlad and Mehmed grow up in environments in which the sense of self and one's identity is regarded as being inherited from the father, with little regard for the importance of the mother and her own identity or imprint on her children, so just like I want to show Vlad as a son of both his father and mother, I want to apply the same to Mehmed. Because the Ottoman sultans were often sons of slaves turned into concubines, this might be even more impactful.

Mara Branković (also known as Mara Hatun). Mara was an incredibly powerful woman, both in her native Serbia and the Ottoman Empire -- her influence was so crucial that to this day, she is regarded as one of the most powerful women in the 15th century. Mehmed considered her a mother figure in his life, and she even came to play a significant role in several diplomatic negotiations during his rule. What I find very interesting and worth exploring is that she disrupts the typical idea of medieval women being passive, submissive, and always forced into the shadows because she was an important political player during the rule of two sultans. She was also one of the most prominent leading members of the pro-Ottoman party in the Balkans which is also an interesting thing to explore -- what exactly creates one's sense of belonging? Is home necessarily the place you were born in? What makes you grow loyal to your own captors? (I might digress here a little but Mahmud Pasha is another character I want to include who will face the same decisions -- and, funny enough, he is Serbian as well.) She will also make an appearance in Vlad's story as she will try to influence his worldview a little, both during his hostage years and later on.

Gülbahar Hatun. The great importance of Gülbahar's character actually came to the surface while I was reading Mehmed's biography -- I learned so much about her thanks to that, and since then, she has been a crucial character in his story. Even though Mehmed despised their son Bayezid his whole life, Gülbahar remained very dear to him until his death. Although the importance of his lovers (both female and male) fluctuated and changed depending on life and its circumstances, he considered Gülbahar as something of a constant presence, the person to be his rock. This is quite interesting, especially because Gülbahar loved their son deeply (she had great influence over him) and went to Amasya with him when he became the governor, as per the Ottoman custom. What is even more interesting is that, despite slaves in the harem being made to convert to Islam, Gülbahar allegedly remained a Christian. Because I have established Radu as the second most important partner in Mehmed's life, it will be important to explore the differences in dynamics, as well as see one relationship built on love and another on fear.

Other important ladies from the Ottoman side might include Mehmed's sisters and daughter, I would also like to write a little something about his "love story" with Helena Palaiologina (he allegedly fell madly in love with her for her beauty and took her as a concubine but never touched her out of fear she might poison him). I also want to recreate his conversation with Sara Khatun who was a skilled diplomat and the mother of Uzun Hasan, the ruler of the Turkoman Aq Qoyunlu state, and served as her son's ambassador during Mehmed's siege of Trebizond. Fearing that Mehmed was planning an attack on the Aq Qoyunlu after being done with Trebizond, Uzun Hasan sent his mother (together with many noblemen and gifts) to negotiate. Their negotiation took place while climbing the Zigana Pass on foot. Sara Khatun was particularly successful in her endeavours, and the conversation was allegedly a very intriguing one for both parties.