Chapter Text
Cold moonlight poured through the tall stained-glass windows into Vlad's study, illuminating the swirling dust above a desk cluttered with maps and ancient tomes. The night was quiet — perfect for reflection. A dark silhouette leaned back in a chair of black wood, long fingers steepled beneath the chin. His gaze, sharp and assessing, drifted in thought to the training yard.
His son was no longer a child — that stage had passed — but he was still far from a strong, confident young man. The transition. A difficult time. Magic came surprisingly easily — his hungry mind grasped complex runes and theories with ease. And that spark of intellect, that thirst for knowledge, pleased the father.
But the world outside was not kind, even to those who could ignite light in midair or send messages without words. Magic alone was not enough. He needed a steel backbone, discipline of body and spirit — things only combat could provide.
“It’s time,” he decided, without hesitation. But the question of where to begin remained open.
His gaze, scanning the armory, caught on a spear. A graceful shaft with a sharpened head — a symbol of speed and precision. Vlad imagined experienced hands making it fly, like an extension of thought. But again, that shorter silhouette came to mind. Not ready. Not the coordination. Not the endurance. He pictured him awkwardly grabbing the long weapon, tripping over his own steps, the spearhead constantly catching on the ground. The image was too clear, and unpleasant: Drac, in his inexperience, impaling himself on his own weapon. “Disaster,” he concluded with cutting clarity, casting the spear aside like a physically useless object.
A sword? The hired fencing master had already introduced the boy to the basic stances, but... “And me? Am I a master of the blade? No.” He could destroy a target with skill, yes — but teaching the subtleties of daggers and rapiers wasn’t his domain. Besides, the sword demanded strength, speed, close contact — all things still to be built.
He needed something simple, accessible, but not primitive. Something that would lay a foundation, develop discipline, and unlock a new level of combat mastery — not magic, not brute force, but a controlled, cold mind.
And then the thought struck like lightning: a crossbow.
Modern weaponry. Relatively. In their world — absolutely. It didn’t demand brute strength: clever gears and levers drew the string for you. But beneath the seeming simplicity lay depth. Precision. Cold, measured to the millimeter. Composure. The ability to freeze, merge with silence, to control every muscle, every fraction of breath. Patience — to wait for the perfect moment instead of charging into battle. Strategy — to judge distance, wind, to calculate the trajectory. This was calculation, not instinct. A science of killing from afar — calmly and methodically.
The image formed: Drac’s focused eyes, a steel grip, complete harmony with the stillness. Not boyish excitement, but adult, cautious confidence.That was exactly what he needed now.
The corners of his lips twitched upward in a rare, almost imperceptible smile of self-satisfaction. The brilliance of the decision warmed him from within, like a sip of aged blood.
“Perfect,” he thought. “We’ll start with that.”