Divan and Lila hurried, the dagger wrapped once more in its black cloth, but even through the fabric, the blade seemed to pulse with unseen energy.

  The morning air was cold and heavy, yet neither spoke until they reached the cottage. Maria was sitting by the hearth, grinding herbs into a small stone bowl, but the moment they entered, she lifted her head, her keen eyes locking onto them immediately.

  “What is it?”

  Lila unwrapped the dagger, holding it out. “Divan had this, Cel gave him.”

  For the first time in a long while, Divan saw uncertainty flicker across the old woman’s face. She took it carefully, turning it over in her hands, her fingers trailing the smooth moonstone handle, then she closed her eyes. The room went still.

  For a long moment, Maria was silent, her lips barely moving, her fingers tightening around the hilt as if she were listening to something far away. Then she opened her eyes. Her gaze met Divan’s, her expression unreadable. “This is no ordinary blade.”

  “I figured as much.”

  Maria gave him a sharp look. “You don’t understand. This is not just an enchanted weapon. This dagger is ancient Divan. Older than anything I have ever encountered.” She turned it in the firelight, the moonstone caught the glow, sending faint silver ripples across the blade. “Whoever wields this holds the power of the ancients.”

  Divan’s brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

  Maria’s fingers tightened around the handle. “The magic inside this dagger is not just its own. This dagger has absorbed the strength of those who have wielded it before, sorcerers, warriors, protectors.” She lifted her eyes to him. “And on top of that power, Cel has infused it with his own.”

  Divan’s stomach tightened. “Cel enchanted this?”

  Maria nodded. “He hasn’t just enchanted the dagger, he’s bound himself to it.”

  She handed the dagger back to him, and the moment his fingers curled around the hilt, he felt it, a surge of something immense, something almost overwhelming.

  “This blade carries the essence of the sorcerer who cursed Caliban himself.”

  Lila stared at the dagger, then at Divan. “That means. . .”

  Maria nodded grimly. “That means, my dear, that this is the one weapon that can kill him.”

  Divan tightened his grip, staring down at the moonstone, the glow pulsing beneath his touch. The answer had been with him all along.

  “We have to start preparing,” Divan said, his voice tight with urgency. “After my conversation with Caliban, I’m surprised he wasn’t out last night.”

  “Maybe he’s resting,” Lila offered, though the words felt hollow. “Surely even the monster needs a reprieve.”

  Divan shook his head. “Caliban told me the bloodlust was so strong that no one was safe. I thought. . .” He exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering toward Maria. “I thought because Lila and I chased the monster away, no one had been killed.”

  But then his voice broke, and tears burned his eyes. “And then I saw Otilla on the sofa, torn to pieces.”

  Lila and Maria gasped. Maria swayed slightly, as if the weight of his words had struck her physically, before sinking carefully into a chair by the table. Silence thickened the air, heavy and suffocating.

  Divan clenched his fists, forcing himself to push past the horror, past the grief. He could not afford to be swallowed by it. Not now. When he finally spoke again, his voice was steadier, resolved. “What can we do to prepare?”

  Maria inhaled deeply, collecting herself before answering. “If he is resting, it won’t last long. He will need to hunt again soon. And if the bloodlust is as strong as you say, he won’t be cautious this time.”

  Divan nodded grimly. “I have no doubt he’ll be out hunting tonight. And I believe he’ll be coming after me.”

  Lila stepped closer, her fingers brushing against his arm, grounding him. “Then we make sure he doesn’t get that chance. We set a trap.”

  Maria’s gaze sharpened. “A trap?”

  “Yes,” Divan said, his mind already racing. “We know he’ll come for me. We use that. We control the battlefield. We make him think he has the advantage, until he doesn’t.”

  Maria hesitated. “But how? What can stop him?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I intend to find out.” A thought struck him, and he straightened. “Costea may have some ideas. I need to talk to him.”

  Maria nodded thoughtfully. “Costea is another hidden gem. There is more to that young man than people understand.”

  Divan couldn’t help but smile faintly. “You’re right. His records, his drawings, he has documented everything. His work has been invaluable to me. If anyone might hold the missing piece to this puzzle, it’s him.”

  Maria placed a steadying hand on the table. “Then speak with him, and when you have a plan, let us know what we can do to help.”

  Divan met her gaze, then Lila’s, seeing the same determination in both their eyes. He gave a firm nod. “I will.”

  Maria reached out to him. “The beast doesn’t think like a man, Divan. Don’t assume it hunts with reason, it hunts with pain.”

  Divan wasn’t convinced. “I’m the only one strong enough to stop him. He’ll come for me. I can feel it.”

  “Then you’d better pray you’re right.”

  Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door, stepping outside with one goal in mind. Finding Costea.

  Chapter 23

  There are days when I remember the way sunlight felt. Not on my skin, on my soul. I was a boy once. Before the blood, before the curse, before the hunger that gnaws through bone and thought. I ran barefoot through the eastern orchards. The pears were in bloom, and the air smelled of earth and firewood. My mother laughed then. My father whistled when he worked. They were happy before I ruined everything. I have no right to long for those days, and yet I do. I miss who I was before I became what I am. Before I let my weakness open the door to this nightmare. -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its glow barely reaching the edges of the room. Divan sat at the worn wooden table, turning the dagger over in his hands. The weight of it was solid, reassuring, but the runes carved into the blade seemed to shift in the flickering light, as if holding secrets just beyond his grasp.

  Across from him, Costea sat hunched over his notebook, his pencil scratching in quick, steady strokes. His eyes flicked up from the page to study the dagger, then back down as he captured every detail in his careful sketches. He had already drawn it three times, once as a full image, once close up on the handle, and now again in Divan’s grip.

  Costea wasn’t a man of deep philosophy, nor one for offering grand advice, but he was observant, and his practical way of thinking often cut straight to the truth of things.

  Divan sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the dagger. “Cel gave me this because it’s the only thing that can kill it. I’ve had it all this time, but never knew that.”

  “It?” Costea repeated, not looking up, his pencil still moving.

  Divan exhaled sharply. “The werewolf.”

  Costea finally stopped drawing and lifted his head, his brows furrowing. “You saw it?”

  “I saw it and I fought with it,” Divan confirmed. “And I know who it is.”

  “Your brother.”

  Divan’s fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger, his knuckles whitening. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Costea had known the truth as soon as Divan had spoken those words, or even before.

  “Tell me everything about the dagger,” Costea said after a beat.

  Divan hesitated, then set the blade down between them. “This dagger was forged long ago and has the enchantments of all the men who have ever wielded it. One strike, and the creature dies instantly.”

  Costea let out a low whistle, studying the blade. “A strike anywhere?”

  “The sorcerer who cursed Caliban to be the werewolf has also bound himself to the dagger. I suppose that’s why just the dagger inside the beast will kill it.”

  Costea looked up. “Then the strike doesn’t have to be a fatal blow?”

  “There is so much I am still assuming because everything Cel tells me is so cryptic, you almost have to be a mind reader to figure out what he’s saying.”

  Costea nodded, writing down every word. He flipped to a new page and began sketching again. “That may be one reason you didn’t understand the dagger’s purpose. How did Cel get it?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Do you think he knew you’d need it?”

  Divan rubbed his temple, frustration gnawing at him. “I think he knew what I would find when I came here.”

  Costea paused in his sketching. “And now you have a choice.”

  Divan looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Either you go to the castle and face him,” Costea said, his voice calm, matter-of-fact, “or you wait for him to come to you. If he sees you as a threat, he’ll come for you, won’t he?”

  Divan tapped his fingers against the table, thinking. “He will.”

  “Then you don’t need to go to him.”

  Divan’s lips pressed into a thin line. His instincts had been screaming at him since he returned from Brașov, telling him that things were about to spiral, that the moment Caliban learned what he had done, what he knew, it would change everything. There would be no more games, no more pretenses.

  When he had spoken to his brother last, he saw him for the first time as truly honest with him, a man in pain, a man who regretted his life and what he had become, but it didn’t change anything, nor the fact that he would come for him. He told him directly, “Even you are not safe, the monster wants you, it’s jealous of you.”

  “Only blood can satisfy the werewolf,” Divan mumbled.

  Costea leaned back in his chair, watching him carefully. “If you go to him, you fight on his ground. If you wait, you fight on yours.”

  Divan exhaled slowly, the truth of it settling into his chest. “This creature is a predator. The beast won’t let a threat live.”

  “Then it’s only a matter of time before it comes for you.”

  Divan’s grip tightened around the dagger again, his choice finally clear. “I’ll lure it away from the village. Away from innocent people.”

  Costea smirked faintly, picking up his pencil again. “Good, it makes my job easier; dead men can’t give me answers.”

  Divan let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “I suppose not.”

  Costea flipped to another page, sketching again. This time, he was drawing Divan, not in deep thought, not uncertain, but resolved, dagger in hand, ready for the fight that was coming.

  ***

  The halls of Castle Bran were dark and cold, the stone walls sweating from the damp that crept in from the mountains. The torches in their sconces flickered wildly, though there was no draft, their flames guttering as if disturbed by something unseen.

  Caliban Drakovar sat in the high-backed chair before the grand fireplace in the great hall, a goblet of wine in his hand. He had been drinking for hours, but it did nothing to dull the growing pulse inside him.

  The beast was stirring, its hunger gnawing at him like an impatient beast, growing stronger with each passing minute. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight against the pull, but it was useless. He had known it was coming again, he had felt it for hours now, coiling tighter and tighter like a rope around his throat. The moon would rise soon, it didn’t even matter that it wasn’t full. His body already ached, his blood already burned, and deep in the marrow of his bones, the thing inside him, the thing he had become, was waiting, and it wanted blood.

  Caliban lifted the goblet to his lips, but his hands were trembling. He sneered at his weakness and threw the cup into the fire. The red wine hissed as it met the flames, evaporating in an instant.

  Divan. The name clawed at the edges of his mind like a curse. I should never have sent for him.

  At the time, it made sense. He had been desperate, drowning in the fact that he needed help. He had wanted help. He had thought that his brother would be able to do something. But the monster didn’t want help, it wanted to survive. Somehow, from the beginning, the creature had sensed that Divan was a threat.

  Caliban squeezed his temples, feeling the pounding of his pulse, the way it echoed like a drumbeat in his skull. He could feel the beast inside him, restless, pacing, sensing danger before he even understood why.

  He knows. The thought slid through his mind like ice.

  The monster knows Divan knew what he was, their last conversation made it clear, but Divan didn’t do anything, he didn’t yell, he didn’t ask questions. They had just talked, and for the first time, Caliban had been honest with him. Speaking to Divan had been a relief and a pleasure he had never experienced since he had been cursed.

  Caliban’s breath came faster, his jaw tightening. Had Divan gone to find a way to kill him? The creature growled in response, a low, guttural sound that echoed through the hollow spaces of his chest.

  Divan had made a mistake if he thought knowledge would protect him. If he thought understanding the beast would give him power over it. A laugh came from deep inside Caliban. Divan was not hunting the werewolf. The werewolf was hunting him.

  Caliban’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The air around him felt thicker, charged with something unseen, as his vision darkened at the edges. He could feel the pull, his body already beginning to change, his muscles tightening, his skin crawling like something beneath it wanted out.

  He staggered to his feet, knocking over the heavy chair, sending it clattering to the stone floor. His breath came in ragged gasps as the pain gripped him, his spine burning, his jaw aching, his bones shifting. He braced himself against the table, his fingers stretching, lengthening, twisting into claws. His nails scraped against the wood, carving deep grooves into the surface. His heart pounded, his ribs cracked.

  A snarl ripped from his throat, as he fell to his knees, the transformation seizing him like fire tearing through dry leaves. His vision swam. His skin split. The last human thought that passed through his mind before the beast took over was a simple one.

  Divan should never have returned to Bran.

  Then, everything became pain and darkness.

  ***

  The wind howled through the trees outside, rattling the wooden shutters of Costea’s cottage. The scent of damp wood and burnt candle wax filled the air as he and Divan sat at the table. There was a loud pounding on the door.

  The two men looked at one another, and then they heard a voice. Gregor called, “Costea, is Divan in there?”

  Costea let him in, and Divan stood across from him, watching the man carefully.

  “You don’t have to say it,” Gregor muttered. “I know it was you who came in and attacked the beast before he killed me.”

  Divan didn’t reply immediately. He wasn’t sure how much Gregor had truly figured out, but the man wasn’t a fool. After all, he had been a hunter once. He had seen things most villagers refused to believe in.

  Gregor let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his beard. “When that thing crashed through my house, I thought I was dead.” His voice was quieter, rough with something Divan wasn’t sure he’d ever heard from him before, fear. “The thing before me defied explanation, not just a beast but something more. A presence that knew me. A creature that wanted me afraid.”

  Divan nodded slowly.

  “The creature is intelligent, and more than just an animal.” Gregor looked up at him then, his brow furrowing. “And you fought it with another – in forms that weren’t human.”

  Divan said nothing, just waited. Costea sat in his chair, writing everything Gregor was saying down.

  “Who was the other? Was it you, Costea?”

  Costea looked up from his writing and simply shook his head, grinning, and went back to his writing.

  Gregor scoffed. “You didn’t have to do anything. You could’ve let it take me.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Divan said.

  “No,” Gregor admitted. “I don’t.”

  Silence stretched between them for a moment. Gregor leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. “I don’t want this fight. Not anymore. I want to find another occupation, something simple, something safe.” He looked up at Divan, his gaze sharp. “But I also can’t just walk away, not after seeing it up close. You’ll need someone beside you. I’m not afraid. I faced that thing once, and I’m still standing, thanks to you, that is. Don’t ask me to sit by while you go alone.”

  Divan nodded.

  Gregor continued, his voice quieter. “I don’t know what I can do. I don’t have your strength. I don’t have your magic. But I can’t just sit here waiting for it to come back.”

  Divan exhaled slowly, thinking. “You can be a set of eyes where I can’t be. Like a watchdog.”

  Gregor arched a brow. “A watchdog?”

  “You know how to track, how to move unseen,” Divan said. “I don’t need you fighting. I need you watching. You and Costea. If it’s coming and I don’t see it, you can make sure I do, or if it’s attacking another home.”

  Gregor studied him for a long moment, then snorted. “That’s it? You want me to bark when I see it?”

  “If you want to put it that way. Because if you die, what then? Another bloodstain on the ground? Another name in the dark?” Divan laid a hand on Gregor’s shoulder. “I need you alive, Gregor. I need someone who can hold the line if I fail.”

  Gregor leaned back in his chair, considering. “And if it’s heading for someone else? If it’s going to tear into some poor bastard’s house like it did mine?”

  Divan hesitated. “Then you divert it.”

  Gregor frowned. “Divert it?”

  “Yes, make noise. Fire a shot with your musket. Shoot it with that silver crossbow of yours. Do something to pull its attention away until I can get there.”

  Gregor let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re asking me to bait a monster?”