The circle of warriors parted, forming an impromptu battlefield. Bharo unsheathed his arakh, the curved blade glinting in the firelight. Vlad took the weapon from the warrior he'd killed earlier, moving with unsettling calm.
A moment of stillness.
Then Bharo struck. His blow would have split a common man in two, but Vlad sidestepped at the last instant. He countered immediately, his blade hissing through the air.
Steel met steel. Bharo's eyes widened. Vlad retreated gracefully, as if in a dance, but the khal didn't relent. He attacked again, this time aiming for Vlad's neck. Vlad blocked. Bharo's strength was immense—yet it didn't force the vampire back a single step.
Vlad deflected the arakh and struck. His blade carved a deep gash across Bharo's ribs before the khal could react.
The Dothraki held their breath.
Now it was Vlad who advanced. His sword fell like lightning, but Bharo dodged and slashed at his gut. Vlad parried, driving his arakh into the earth. Seizing the opening, he pivoted and cut with lethal speed. Bharo lost his balance, dropped his weapon, and rolled to avoid being cleaved in half.
When he rose, the difference was clear: Vlad stood untouched; Bharo, bloodied and panting. Vlad picked up the arakh and tossed it at his feet.
—Pick it up. Let's finish this.
Bharo glared, clenched his teeth, and charged again. His strikes were faster now, more desperate—but to Vlad, they were slow. Predictable. He evaded every cut and countered with precision. Within seconds, Bharo was on his knees, trembling, his braid drenched in blood.
Vlad gazed down without pity.
—You fought well.
A swift motion—and the khal's head tumbled free.
Silence.
Then the Dothraki roared.
Vlad raised the severed braid.
—Bharo has fallen! I am your khal now!
The horde's cry shook the night.
Vlad stood over Bharo's corpse, his weapon still dripping. The air thrummed with tension. Though the two thousand warriors seemed ready to follow, he knew what came next.
The first rebels were already stepping forward.
Bharo's three bloodriders approached, fingers white on their arakhs, eyes burning with hate. Harrok, the eldest—a cruel warrior whose body bore scars from a hundred battles and whose blade had reaped dozens of heads—spoke first.
—You are not our khal—he snarled. Beside him, Rokarro and Horqo barely contained their fury.
With a sneer, he spat at Vlad's feet.
—You are nothing. Killing Bharo doesn't make you khal. You are no lord of horses. No brother to the stallion.
Vlad regarded him impassively, his voice cold as steel:
—If you wish to join him in the grave, take one step forward.
The three attacked without hesitation.
Harrok struck first, his arakh gleaming as it arced toward Vlad's skull—but the vampire ducked and retaliated with brutal efficiency, driving his blade into Harrok's side. Blood sprayed. Yet the other two were already upon him: Rokarro slashed from the left, his edge tracing a fatal crescent, while Horqo lunged from the right, dagger aimed at Vlad's ribs.
With lethal precision, Vlad spun. His blade flashed twice.
The first strike severed Rokarro's hand at the wrist. The warrior howled as blood fountained from the stump.
The second halted Horqo's attack mid-motion—Vlad caught his wrist in an iron grip, bones crunching. Before the Dothraki could react, Vlad smashed an elbow into his face, shattering his nose with a wet crack.
Harrok, despite his wound, roared and charged again, blind with rage. But fury made him clumsy. Vlad sidestepped effortlessly, and his weapon carved a perfect arc, cleaving Harrok's head from his shoulders in one stroke.
The bloodrider's body crumpled.
In the silence that followed, Vlad ended Horqo—driving his sword through the warrior's chest before the dazed, bleeding man could even look up.
Rokarro, still clutching his mutilated wrist, tried to crawl away. Vlad reached him in two strides and opened his throat with a clean slash.
The three bloodriders lay dead, their corpses staining the earth crimson. Vlad stood unmoved, his breath steady, not a drop of sweat on his brow. His gaze swept the crowd, daring anyone else to oppose him.
None did.
The Dothraki revered strength above all. Killing a khal was noteworthy—but slaughtering his three finest warriors in single combat? That was the stuff of legends.
One by one, they began to chant:
—Khal Vlad.
The cry spread like wildfire, swelling through the camp until it became a thunderous roar:
—KHAL VLAD!
They beat their chests, their voices shaking the night. They accepted him—for now.
Vlad watched them, face unreadable. This was only the beginning. They followed, yes, but they didn't believe. Not truly. To win their souls, he needed more than a midnight brawl—he needed a war, a conquest they'd sing of for centuries.
And he was determined to give it to them.
Stepping forward, his voice cut through the cheers like a blade:
—Tomorrow, we ride.
The horde's cry shook the night once more.