—Forward!— His voice thundered, dragging with it the fate of all who followed.
A massive dust cloud rose as hooves struck the earth with storm-like force. The war cries of the riders rose with the wind as Zharro's men prepared for the clash, forming a wall of steel and muscle. And then—impact.
Vlad and his warriors tore through enemy lines like a spear plunging into flesh, splitting their formation with the brutality of a steel tide. Arakhs rose and fell, horses screamed in panic as their riders were dragged down, and the shrieks of dying men blended with the clamor of battle. Vlad cut without pause, his sword carving arcs of death that reaped lives in the blink of an eye.
A Dothraki charged at him, arakh raised high to cleave him in two—but Vlad barely twisted his wrist, and his sword plunged through the warrior's throat, severing his spine before the corpse hit the ground. Another took his place instantly, leaping from his mount with a spear leveled. A mistake. Vlad leaned aside, the blade passing over his shoulder as his own sword rose in a clean slash, bisecting the attacker midair, splitting torso from legs in one perfect cut before both halves crashed onto blood-soaked earth.
Enemies kept coming. For every man who fell, three took his place—but Vlad didn't stop. He felt the air shift behind him and, without turning, tilted just in time to evade a blade aimed at his back. The sword grazed his shoulder, and in a flash of steel, Vlad seized the attacker's arm, snapping it with a twist before driving his blade through the man's gut, impaling him clean through.
He kept riding. Kept killing.
Five riders encircled him, trying to pin him down—one raised a mace, another lashed out with a rope, while a third aimed for his horse. Vlad destroyed them as easily as a man brushes aside undergrowth. His sword descended with fury, splitting the rope-wielder in two with such force that his organs spilled out before his corpse did. The second man barely registered his mace being deflected before Vlad's blade speared through his abdomen, lifting him off the ground from sheer impact, his scream drowning in the blood gushing from his mouth.
The third never got to strike. Vlad kicked his mount forward, and the horse trampled the man beneath its hooves with a wet crunch, his skull bursting like ripe fruit.
And then the blood—blood coating everything, drenching him, mixing with sweat, saturating the air with its intoxicating metallic tang. Every slash opened flesh, every strike shattered bone, every twist of his sword sent limbs flying as enemy cries of terror rose above the din.
—Demon!— a rider screamed before being cleft in half.
Around him, his own men fell or faltered, overwhelmed by numbers—but Vlad didn't need them. He stood unwavering atop his mount, sword slick with gore, hair plastered to his face, chest rising and falling with deep breaths as the battlefield moved in slow motion for him. He felt it all: the pulse of war in his veins, the drunken euphoria of slaughter empowering him. He wasn't human. He never had been.
Two riders attacked from opposite sides, arakhs poised to take his head. Vlad dropped his reins, leaning left to evade the first strike—and in one motion, drove his sword through one man's ribcage with such force that the blade shot out the other side to embed itself in the second's neck, shearing through halfway in a spray of hot blood.
The men surrounding him began to hesitate. This wasn't normal.
The Dothraki were fierce warriors—but this was different. This man didn't tire. Didn't falter. Didn't seem human. His face was masked in blood, his armor blackened by carnage, his sword humming with each kill as if it were an extension of his body.
And then—the tide turned.
From the flanks, his men arrived, closing the noose around Zharro's warriors. The trap was sprung. The enemies, surrounded, realized too late their fate had been sealed the moment Vlad gave the order.
But one obstacle remained.
Amid the chaos, Khal Zharro still stood, his arakh dripping blood as he dismounted another foe with a single slash. Barely scratched, his rage was palpable as he locked eyes with Vlad and spurred his horse forward.
Vlad smiled.
—Zharro!— he roared, challenging him before them all.
For an instant, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath. Then, with a cruel grin, Khal Zharro raised his arakh—and charged.