“Your brother was never a good man,” Cel said at last. His tone carefully measured, emotionless, as if he were recounting the misdeeds of a stranger. “Caliban was arrogant, reckless, among other undesirable and dangerous characteristics. He played with people’s lives as though they were nothing.” He turned the object in his fingers. “And one day, he played with the wrong life.”

  Divan’s stomach tightened. “A woman?”

  Cel nodded. “A wife.”

  Something in the way he said it made Divan’s spine straighten. He didn’t miss the slight flicker in Cel’s eyes, the tension in his hands, but before he could place it, Cel continued.

  “She was married to a man who loved her deeply. But Caliban—“ Cel’s jaw tensed. “He seduced her. Used her, and then left her as though she was only a passing amusement.” His voice dropped lower. “But some wounds don’t heal, and some men don’t forgive.”

  Divan’s stomach churned. He had known his brother was reckless with women, but he had never considered how far those actions could lead. “What did this man do?”

  Cel exhaled, finally setting the metal trinket back down. “He cursed him.”

  Divan stilled.

  Cel met his gaze, his face blank. “Not just with suffering, but with hunger, a hunger that was unnatural.” He gestured vaguely toward the cast on the table. “And now you’ve seen the result.”

  Divan swallowed, trying to process the revelation. “You knew this and yet you didn’t tell me before I went to Bran?”

  Cel’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I gave you the dagger, didn’t I?”

  Divan scoffed, shaking his head. “And what was I supposed to do with that? Stab my brother without knowing why?”

  Cel held his gaze. “Would you have come if you had known?”

  Divan hesitated.

  Cel continued. “Would you have believed me if I told you your brother is cursed? That he wasn’t just a man with bad habits, but something worse? Something unnatural?”

  Divan’s hands clenched at his sides. “You should have told me.”

  Cel tilted his head, his gaze unreadable. “Perhaps.” Then, after a pause, he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small pouch. From within, he withdrew a medallion, intricately forged, its metal catching the candlelight with an almost unnatural glow.

  He placed it in Divan’s palm.

  “What is this?” Divan asked, feeling the faint warmth of the metal against his skin.

  “A talisman,” Cel said. “Not strong enough to break the curse, but it may protect you from him, if it comes to that.”

  Divan stared at the medallion, then back at Cel, suspicion flickering in his mind. There was something unsaid here, something lurking beneath the surface of the old man’s words.

  But for the moment, he let it go.

  Instead, Divan turned the medallion over in his fingers, the metal warm against his palm. Before he could speak, Cel continued.

  “Maria Unger knows the details.”

  Divan’s head snapped up. “Maria?”

  Cel nodded. “She was there when Caliban changed, when he lost control for the first time.” His fingers traced absent patterns on the wooden counter. “She knows, but no one would believe her if she told them.” His voice darkened. “If Caliban was aware she knew, he might try to silence her.”

  Divan felt a cold weight settle in his chest. “Then I need to speak with her.”

  Cel shook his head. “Not yet. If you go to her directly, he might take notice. Maria has survived this long by being careful. Don’t undo that for her.”

  “I’ve been around her, taking my meals with her and her granddaughter, helping them in their booth at the market.” Divan ran a hand over his face. “Do you know Lila Unger, Maria’s granddaughter?”

  “No, she wasn’t born when I left Bran. I heard of her birth later, and then of her parents dying when the plague came through. Maria raised her.” Cel watched him carefully, then smirked. “Let me guess, you’ve been in Bran for two days and already find her delightfully special.”

  Divan tried to suppress a smile, but the corner of his lips betrayed him. “Something like that.”

  Cel chuckled, shaking his head as he turned away, moving toward a small wooden box on a shelf behind the counter. He lifted the lid, sifting through its contents with deft fingers.

  Divan watched as Cel pulled out another medallion, this one different from the first. The metal was darker, aged, but set in its center was a deep black stone, smooth and polished, gleaming like captured fire in the dim candlelight.

  Cel held it out. “Give this to your newfound love. Not only will it protect her from the beast, but because she is a witch, her powers will enhance it and make it a powerful protector.”

  “How do you know she’s a witch?

  “I know her grandmother.”

  Divan’s grip tightened around the medallion. He thought of Lila, of her quiet strength, the way she had already stepped in to help without hesitation. The idea of Caliban setting his sights on her made something twist in his gut.

  He nodded, slipping the medallion into his coat pocket. “Thank you.”

  Cel merely shrugged. “Just make sure she wears it. As you should always wear your medallion.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Hard to say because they both will react to your magic, yours as a sorcerer, hers as a witch.”

  Divan met his gaze, searching for something, a solid answer, an unspoken truth, but Cel’s face was unreadable. With a final nod, Divan turned toward the door, the weight of the two medallions pressing against his coat.

  ***

  The streets of Brașov were quieter than usual, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and the faint aroma of fresh bread lingering from the morning market. The sky had turned the color of steel, clouds rolling over the peaks of the Carpathians like a slow-moving tide.

  Divan adjusted his coat against the cold as he crossed the square, his mind still turning over his conversation with Cel. He had gotten the answers he’d come for, or at least, enough to confirm what he had already suspected. These answers should have been enough to make him leave immediately, to set his course back to Bran without hesitation.

  Before that, he had one more stop to make. He had left his clinic in the hands of capable men, but still, a part of him needed to see it for himself, to make sure it was still running as it should.

  Pushing open the door, the sharp scent of alcohol and herbs, the familiar scent of healing, immediately greeted him. The reception area was neat, with a few chairs arranged for waiting patients, though none were present at this late hour. A stack of neatly folded linens sat on a small table by the wall, evidence that Marku had been keeping up with his duties.

  “Ah, there he is,” a voice called from the hall.

  Marku emerged, wiping his hands on a rag, his dark brows lifting in surprise at the sight of Divan. “You didn’t send word you were coming back. Had I known, I’d have prepared some brandy.”

  Divan smirked. “I didn’t think I’d be staying long enough for a drink.” His eyes drifted past Marku, toward the examination rooms. “How are things?”

  “As well as they can be without you,” Marku replied with a grin, then glanced over his shoulder. “Dr. Petrescu is handling things well, though I think he misses the quiet life.”

  “Is he in?”

  “In his office.”

  Divan nodded and made his way down the hall, passing the patient’s rooms as he did. The clinic was in good condition, clean, orderly, and efficient. The shelves looked stocked with salves and tinctures, the supply of bandages neatly arranged. Marku had done well in his absence.

  At the end of the hall, the office door was open, candlelight flickering inside.

  Dr. Petrescu sat at the desk, glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned a medical journal. He glanced up as Divan stepped inside.

  “Drakovar,” he greeted, setting the journal aside. “You should have sent word. I would have had tea ready.”

  “I won’t be here long,” Divan said, shutting the door behind him. “I just wanted to check in.”

  Petrescu leaned back in his chair, eyeing him over the rim of his glasses. “You’re returning to Bran, then?”

  “Yes.”

  The doctor studied him for a moment. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Divan tensed slightly, but said nothing.

  Petrescu sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Things have been quiet here. The usual cases, you know, fevers, broken bones, the occasional childbirth. Marku has proven to be a fine assistant, as you already know.”

  Divan nodded. “Good.”

  “And you? How are things in Bran?”

  “That’s what I’m going back to find out.”

  The older man didn’t press further. Instead, he simply nodded, as if understanding more than Divan was willing to say.

  He gestured toward the shelves behind him. “Before you go, take some of the valerian tincture. If you find yourself unable to sleep.”

  Divan let out a quiet laugh. “You think I need it?”

  “I think you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

  Divan said nothing, but when he left the office a few minutes later, a small vial of valerian tincture sat in his coat pocket.

  Marku walked him to the door. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night? The road will be dark.”

  “I know the way and it’s only a couple of hours ride.”

  Marku studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Then may God go with you.”

  Divan stepped out into the cold, the wind biting against his face as he turned toward the road leading to Bran.

  Chapter 13

  I have made it my habit to be seen, to be known in a way that raises no questions. Far easier to bury the truth beneath a hundred small lies, a raucous laugh here, a loud insult there, than to sit in the shadows and invite their curiosity. I enjoy it, I suppose, in the way one enjoys a well-worn mask, comfortable, familiar, but never truly a part of the flesh. Yet some nights, even the laughter is too heavy to wear. Some nights I sit with the men and feel the weight of my solitude like a stone in my chest. My hatred isn’t for them, it’s for the knowledge that I do not belong, and never will. -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The tavern was alive with the usual raucous energy of Bran’s drinking men. The fire in the hearth roared, filling the room with warmth, and the scent of ale and smoke was thick in the air. Laughter and coarse jokes echoed against the wooden beams, tankards clanked together, and the sound of dice rolling across a table mingled with the murmur of conversation.

  Caliban sat in his usual corner, half-reclined in his chair, his heavy boots propped against the table’s edge. His long fingers toyed lazily with the stem of a glass, though the wine within it was long forgotten. His eyes, sharp despite the alcohol, scanned the room, lingering here and there, assessing, listening.

  Otilla, seated beside him, leaned into his shoulder, draping an arm over his chest, her lips close to his ear. She leaned into him and with a concerned look on her face, she whispered.

  Caliban smirked. And gave her a reply that Costea could not hear, but the look on his face gave him plenty to draw.

  At that same moment, a group of men at the next table burst into a round of laughter, one of them slamming his palm against the wood. “I tell you, I’ve seen nothing like it! The way he moved, the way he spoke, he’s got the mind of a scholar, that one.”

  “Yes, he thinks he’s better than us,” one scoffed, slamming his mug onto the table. “Did you see him strutting around, asking questions like some magistrate?”

  “Who?” Caliban asked, voice smooth but carrying across the space like a blade slicing through thick cloth.

  The men hesitated before one of them turned in his chair. “Your brother, my lord.”

  Caliban’s smirk didn’t falter, though something in his gaze darkened. “Divan?”

  “Yes. He’s been investigating the attacks.”

  Otilla tilted her head, looking between them with mild curiosity, but she said nothing.

  The man continued, emboldened by his own words. “The good doctor examined the body, made copies of the tracks, and followed them into the house. He says the beast didn’t just take her, it broke in.” He took a long sip from his tankard, shaking his head. “Smart man, your brother knows how to ask the right questions.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. One of them added, “He’s not just looking, he’s figuring things out.”

  Caliban’s grip on his glass tightened. His tone remained calm. “Is that so?”

  “Aye,” another man said, nodding eagerly. “He even took those copies of the tracks he found back to Brașov to seek advice. Saying he’d return soon.”

  Another snorted. “Aye. As if that’ll do him any good. He’ll find nothing. No one up there cares about what happens here.”

  Their laughter rang through the tavern, boisterous, self-assured.

  In the corner, unnoticed by all, Costea sat hunched over his worn leather notebook, fingers smudged with charcoal as he sipped his ale. The tip of his pencil danced across the page, sketching swift, precise lines. A table of men, heads thrown back in laughter, their postures strong, confident. A sharp jawline, a crooked nose, the curve of a smirk. The arrogance of men who had no reason to fear.

  The moment the words left the man’s mouth, Caliban’s entire demeanor shifted. “Took the tracks to Brașov?” His voice was a low growl, barely above a whisper.

  A moment of silence. Then someone muttered, “Aye.”

  The tavern fell silent, the scrape of spoons against bowls, the low muttering at the hearth, all stopped.

  Costea, pen poised above his notebook, caught the way Caliban’s body stiffened. A sharp stillness, like a wolf scenting danger in the wind.

  For a long moment, Caliban stared out the narrow window beside him, his eyes fixed on the dark line of the hills beyond the village, as if watching for something racing toward them through the night.

  The tension wound tighter, tighter, and then, just as suddenly, Caliban exhaled. His shoulders dropped. The dangerous glint in his eye dulled.

  The room itself seemed to breathe again.

  He turned back to the room with a lazy, sardonic smile.

  “Well,” he said, setting his cup down with a soft thud, “let’s just hope he finds out what it is. And what to do about it.”

  A few uneasy chuckles answered him, not genuine laughter, but the sound men made when they didn’t know what else to do.

  Caliban waved a hand, dismissing the heaviness in the air.

  “Besides,” he said, voice lifting with forced cheer, “I didn’t come here to talk of beasts and curses. I came to have some fun.”

  He turned toward the far corner of the tavern.

  “Claudiu! Get that concertina out, old man. Let’s see if we can convince Otilla to dance for us!”

  A cheer rose, loud, relieved, desperate.

  Someone clapped Claudiu on the back as he fumbled for his instrument. Otilla laughed, a brittle, thin sound, and shook her head in mock protest even as she rose.

  The music began, a lively, rolling tune that filled the smoky tavern with laughter and clapping. Otilla spun among the tables, skirts flashing, her cheeks flushed with the firelight.

  Costea sketched without thinking, the arch of Otilla’s arm, the way the lamplight caught Caliban’s sharp smile, his pencil moving fast and sure, recording what his eyes saw.

  And then. . . something else.

  He didn’t notice it at first. His hand moved of its own accord, guided by some instinct he didn’t understand.

  It wasn’t until the third chorus, when Otilla whirled laughing past Caliban’s table, that Costea sat back to study his work.

  At first, he smiled faintly, the lines were clean, the faces true. Caliban, lounging back, drink in hand. Otilla, vibrant and alive in mid-step.

  And then his gaze caught on the shadows behind Caliban’s table. A shape he hadn’t meant to draw. Low to the ground, half-formed in the smudged charcoal, something crouched there, hunched and slavering, jaws stretched in a silent snarl. This was not a dog, not even a man, but a wolf’s body, twisted and wrong, with a man’s eyes, hollow and feral.

  Costea’s heart lurched in his chest. He hadn’t even realized his hand had drawn it. He snapped the notebook closed with a sharp slap, pulse hammering in his ears.

  He looked around. No one had noticed. He took a deep breath and a sip of his ale. The tavern roared with laughter and music. The air was thick with ale and smoke and willful forgetting. Costea relaxed, but his mind was spinning. Whatever his eyes had missed, his hand had seen, and it was watching from the shadows even now. As he looked around the tavern, his eyes met Caliban’s for just an instant. Caliban was not angry, but somehow he knew.

  ***

  The moment Caliban stepped into the frosty night air, the fury inside him surged, an unbearable fire clawing at his insides.

  His brother was digging, investigating, asking questions, pulling at the carefully buried past. A growl vibrated in his chest as his long strides devoured the path back to Castle Bran. The wind howled through the valley, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside him. His breath came in heavy bursts, his vision darkening at the edges, tunneling toward a single thought, a single truth. He could not let this happen. He could not let Divan uncover what he buried.

  Something deep within him twisted, a dark hunger unfurling in his chest, slithering into his veins like poison. He had kept it under control. He had always kept it under control. Until now.

  By the time he reached the castle doors, his skin burned like a furnace beneath his clothes. His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the raw, aching need tearing through his muscles. He shoved the heavy doors open, sending them crashing against the stone walls, the iron hinges groaning in protest.

  The echoes of his boots slammed through the empty corridors as he stormed inside. His breath came in ragged gasps, the walls around him seeming to pulse in time with his heartbeat. The paintings lining the hall blurred, faces twisting into grotesque shapes, their hollow eyes watching him, judging him. A snarl tore from his lips as he climbed the stairs two at a time, his body wracked with barely contained rage.