Vlad stood alone in the clearing.
His stick held firmly in two fists. The blunt tip vibrated as the blood energy he'd finished releasing sang through the wood. For a brief moment, he thought he might summon the Shadow of the Dragon.
But he wasn't strong enough for that yet.
Soon, though.
His body felt more fluid now. He'd spent the previous night further refining his own heart, expanding it and directing blood energy into the small speck of crimson inside which was the beginning of his core.
He'd need to push more energy into it and compress it if he wanted greater power. But, for now, it was as much as this body could handle.
Already he could do the first five steps of the Black Dragon Great Sword Art without too much effort.
Step six and seven pressed him, though.
"Ugh," he groaned as a wave of exhaustion swept through him.
His bottleneck right now was blood.
More accurately, it was the Court's bottleneck.
The fledglings had all refined their hearts. They no longer huffed and puffed as they ran up the mountain, and the nightly bouts of exercise wasn't as challenging as before. Even piling large stones on their backs as they did their exercises was getting troublesome to achieve as the weight needed was too much to balance.
"We need more blood," he muttered. "Better blood. And the Renfields need a break. They'll die soon."
He'd noticed them looking more pale than usual lately.
Two were old. Too old to be feeding vampires.
Even though the amount of blood everyone received was only small, it was a lot for the three mortals to give.
Yet, what disturbed Vlad was no one seemed to notice.
The Renfields crept through the ruined castle without complaint.
And the fledglings took their offerings without protest or respect.
Even Ist would quaff his portion without care for where it had come from.
Had they grown so used to this weak blood that they no longer cared for its source?
But even if he was to find some more Renfields somewhere, how would they be paid? By all accounts, the Renfields left were paid very little and stayed only out of loyalty.
Bren had no wife, so would have no children.
When he passed, who would take his place?
So much bullshit, Vlad thought sourly. So many troublesome problems.
And who would fix them if not him?
To release his frustration, Vlad moved into the first form of the Great Sword Art. A flow where he lunged forward with lightning speed to plunge the blade into the chest of an imaginary opponent.
How many times had he completed this form in his life?
Enough to feel where the weak muscle of his new body were failing him. Enough to correct his posture and adjust his weight without needing input from another.
When he'd died, there was no other better with the sword than Vlad.
He'd lived with the sword. Breathed it.
Bled for it.
Now he would do so again.
He also needed to find a way to return the Art to the Court where it belonged.
But how to do this, too? If he just started teaching it to the fledglings, it would raise questions he couldn't answer.
It might even cause suspicion. The elders might suspect him of being a spy for Radu. They might attack him for it.
It wasn't hard for him to beat his fellow fledglings, but he doubted he could beat the elders.
Even if they did seem very weak.
And what if he went to them with the truth? Why would they believe him? They'd call him deluded. Insane.
Then throw him out of the Court.
Every option seemed doomed to cause more problems.
"More troubles!" He spat the words as he repeated the first form.
Again.
And again.
Over and over until he was sheathed in sweat and his mind was calm.
Finally, he lowered his arms and nodded. A decision had been made.
He wasn't a strategist like Ferenc. So, like the sword, he should plunge forward without hesitation.
Treat his problems as he would his enemies and cut them down.
One at a time.
Vlad rested the long stick across his shoulders and muttered to himself as he headed back towards the castle.
Behind him, a cloaked figure watched him leave without moving.
Then it, too, disappeared from the clearing to leave only silence and shadows without answers or questions of their own.
Tibor and Ist stood in the middle of the common room.
Around them, the other fledglings huddled together. Keeping their voices low just in case Vlad was somewhere close. They didn't think he was, but it was always difficult to tell.
"He's going to kill us," Hans said. "Sooner or later."
"Sooner, I think," Bally said, rubbing his skinny arms. "He expects too much!"
"Someone should tell the elders," Metto put in.
"Do you want to do it?" Tibor asked. "You know Vlad will thrash whoever does."
Metto looked down at his feet.
"I don't think we need to," Ist said calmly. "If they're not aware of what Vlad's doing, then they're blind. Does anyone think the elders are blind? Or deaf?"
Metto's jaw dropped open. "Then they don't care?"
"Maybe they can see better what he's doing," Tibor said. "How strong he's making us."
"Strong?" Bally blew the air between his cheeks. "Most evenings, I can't even walk when I get out of my coffin."
"How long were we training with Elder Janus and Elder Miklos before Vlad came?"
"Maybe a year?"
"And we couldn't run up the mountain."
"So?"
"So, you ran all the way yesterday, Bally," Tibor said, poking his brother in the forehead. "And didn't even complain."
"What's the use of complaining? He doesn't listen!"
"And you didn't sweat."
"Yeah… well…"
Tibor swept his gaze around the group. "We're getting stronger. Can anyone disagree?"
Hans hesitated. "But his methods…"
"Are working," Ist said quietly. "We can complain all we like. But is there any of us who can't at least use Icy Touch almost as good as Tibor did before this all began? And how many of you think we would have learnt this on our own?"
"I wouldn't have refined my heart," Tibor said bluntly. "No way. He showed us that."
Jenos sighed. "Tibor's right. We should be more grateful."
"Grateful?" Bally's eyes bulged. "But-"
"Didn't you almost Shadow Merge yesterday?"
"Yes, but-"
"Bally," Tibor sighed and poked him in the forehead again. "You're my brother. But you complain so much. Please stop before your lips fall off."
That was enough for a few of the other fledglings to chuckle.
Then Metto giggled.
Which set everyone off.
Their hysterical laughter rang loudly as the door was kicked open and Vlad stomped inside, his face black with a scowl. "What the Hell is all this? Is everyone so full of energy tonight? I've been out training so hard and you're all sitting here having fun? Well." He grinned cruelly. "Let's all continue to have fun with more training!"
A hearty shout rang back; "Yes, brother!"
And as the fledglings rushed into the courtyard, Vlad stood and scratched his head. Why were they suddenly so eager?
What was wrong with this generation of scamps?
They were so weird.
A noise caused him to turn and he grimaced as he caught sight of Martin. The old Renfield looked even more gaunt than ever. It pained Vlad just to look at him.
The old man shuffled towards a table with empty cups scattered on it. He held a small tray and slowly started piling them on while the silence stretched.
"Martin," Vlad said at last. "I have a question."
"Yes, Master. I shall answer."
"How is the castle supplied?"
"We get supplies every month from the merchant, Roland." The old man smiled wanly. "He is of the Sweet Fruit Merchant Guild. They have come here for many years. In truth, they're the only merchants who will make the journey now."
"Because it's not worth the hassle?"
"I, umm, wouldn't say that, Master."
"Sure." Vlad waved it off. "Does he have a warehouse in the village, then?"
"It's more a city than a village, Master," the old man said. "So, he has a number of small warehouses. But his office is in the Blue District."
"Blue District," Vlad repeated, pushing that into his memory.
So, the village he'd known had become a city.
How interesting.
He was eager to see how it had grown.
The old man finished piling the cups onto his tray. "Will there be anything else, Master?"
"No," Vlad said, Taking a seat on his favourite bench. "That'll do."
With a gentle bow of his head, Martin shuffled towards the door.
"Hold," Vlad called suddenly as something came to mind.
"Master?"
"Thank you, Martin," he said, standing again and bowing to the old man. "For your service. It must be troublesome for you to endure. For the Court, I thank you."
"Master!" The old man's face turned white. "Please don't… not to me…"
"I will bow to you, Martin," Vlad said firmly. "You have earned respect. You and the remaining Renfields. And this Court will repay your sacrifice soon, or I will finish burning it to the ground myself!"
"Master, I…"
"It's alright," Vlad smiled, knowing he was making the old man uncomfortable. "You may go. But some things need to be said, even if words are not enough to fix anything."
He watched the old man scuttle away.
Had he said the wrong thing? Should he have kept his thoughts to himself?
Martin had looked like he was about to keel over from a heart attack.
Ah, Ferenc. I have no skill for this sort of thing. It should be you who returned, not me.
Vlad gripped the stick tightly in his hands as the anger reminded him to head out into the courtyard.
His seniors needed him…