The woman didn’t answer. She clutched a battered candlestick to her chest like it was the last plank on a sinking ship.

  At the far end of the room, Old Man Gheorghe was arguing with Stefan the Blacksmith over the last handful of iron nails. Children whimpered against their mothers’ skirts. A farmer dropped a sack of flour, spilling pale dust across the floor like a ghost had passed through.

  Ishtak wiped his hands on his apron and bent to refill the garlic baskets, not because he thought it would help, but because people believed it would, and tonight, belief was the only weapon they had left. Behind him, the cracked glass window caught the rising moon, fat , cold and low.

  He felt the old shudder deep in his bones, not from the old stories his grandmother once told but from memories carved into his flesh.

  Memories of nights when the screams had split the village in two.

  Of blood staining the snow outside his door.

  Of doors ripped from their hinges, of neighbors he had drunk with or bargained with lying torn open by something no blade could stop.

  Gheorghe’s eldest son, gone in a single night. The baker’s wife, dragged into the woods, never found.

  Ishtak had set fire to more lost friends than he could name, had struck the torch to the pyres with hands that still shook on nights like this.

  Tonight would be no different.

  The priest had blessed the crossroads. The hunters had set traps beyond the fields. Every home was nailed shut and hung with iron and garlic.

  All these preparations would not be enough.

  The last of the silver was gone.

  The last of the garlic was bundled away.

  The villagers fled back into the night, clutching their pitiful charms, leaving Ishtak alone in the little shop with the creaking of the wind and the thick, suffocating silence that always came before the first scream.

  He crossed himself, a habit borrowed from a dozen ancestors who had lived and died under these mountains, but as his hand dropped away, the true prayers rose to his lips.

  “Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad. Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is One.” The familiar words steadied him, but not enough. Fear still gnawed at the edges of his soul, sharp and persistent.

  He bowed his head lower and whispered another, one his grandmother had clutched to in the darkest of nights:

  “Hashiveinu Adonai eilecha venashuvah; chadesh yameinu kekedem. Turn us, Lord, and we shall be turned; renew to us our days as of old.”

  The prayers tangled with the sound of the rising wind, a thin shield against the darkness outside. Then he reached to bolt the door, the iron latch slamming home with a hollow finality.

  He wondered, as he doused the last lamp, if there would be any days left to renew.

  ***

  The night pressed down over Bran, thick with the restless whispers of the Carpathians. The castle loomed in the dark like a rotting carcass of stone and memory. Inside, the great hall lay as cold as the world beyond its walls, the fire a faint bed of embers pulsing like a dying heart. Shadows stretched across the stone.

  Caliban sat in a large chair in front of the fire, his heavy frame slouched back, a goblet hanging loosely from his fingers. He wasn’t drunk enough. The goblet rose to his lips, and he took a long drink of the wine, letting its bitter warmth sear his throat. His eyes drifted to the window, where the full moon had begun its slow ascent over the mountains. Silver light crept through the iron-barred glass, washing the stone floor in a cold, ethereal glow.

  A shudder ran through him. He had tried not to look at it, but it called to him. Every time. He exhaled shakily, pressing his fingers into his temples as a slow, dull ache pulsed behind his eyes. His muscles were already tightening, coiling, like an unseen force was gripping them from the inside, twisting, reshaping, and it would begin soon. Like it always did. A curse that he could never outrun. A debt that could never be paid.

  Caliban turned toward the window, his dark eyes locking onto the moon. The ancient eye that sees what no one dares speak stared back at him, cold and merciless. Waiting.

  ***

  The sun had barely risen when the screams shattered the silence of the valley.

  By the time the first villagers arrived, Elena Popescu was on her knees in the frost-covered grass, wailing over the mangled remains of her husband, Radu. His body lay sprawled just outside the barn, limbs twisted, flesh torn in gaping wounds. Blood darkened the earth, soaking into the soil. The scent of iron and death was thick in the morning air.

  The ewe he had been tending, helping give birth during the night, huddled behind a pile of hay, her body trembling, her new lamb tucked beneath her, safe. Elena, still in her nightclothes, clutched at what remained of her husband’s tunic, sobbing so violently that she could barely breathe.

  The townspeople gathered in quiet horror, murmuring among themselves. The man looked at Elena, broken over Radu’s mangled body, and his voice cracked in the cold air. “How many more, Lord? How many more before this hell ends?”

  “No one saw anything?” another asked.

  “Who would be fool enough to be outside on the full moon?” a third muttered, making the sign of the cross over his chest.

  The whispers thickened, fear weaving itself into their voices. This wasn’t the first time, and everyone believed it would not be the last.

  Maria Unger arrived soon after, her granddaughter Lila at her side. Maria, draped in a thick wool shawl, moved with the steady confidence of a woman who had seen much and survived worse. Her face remained calm as she approached the grieving widow. Lila followed closely, clutching a small woven basket filled with wrapped bread, dried herbs, and bottles of tinctures.

  “Come, my dear,” Maria murmured, as she knelt beside the woman, her voice gentle but firm. “You must stand, or you’ll catch a cold.” The widow barely heard her. Maria exchanged a look with Lila, then pressed a small bundle, a bit of bread and cheese wrapped in cloth, into the woman’s hands. “Eat this. It will help.”

  The widow’s fingers curled around it, though she did not lift it to her lips. Lila pulled a small, amber-colored bottle from the basket and unstopped it. The sharp scent of valerian root and chamomile filled the cold air.

  “Drink this,” she urged softly, placing the bottle to the woman’s trembling lips. The widow took a sip, choking on a sob. Lila stroked her back as she drank, whispering soothing words.

  The murmuring villagers watched as Maria and Lila worked, offering the widow warm tea, wrapping a heavy shawl around her shoulders.

  “Someone take her inside,” Maria instructed after a moment, her voice brooking no argument. “She must rest, someone else take care of the livestock. The ewe must be warmed and cared for; the poor thing is in shock.”

  Two men stepped forward, lifting the woman gently. She did not resist, her grief-drained body was too weak to protest. Daris, the blacksmith’s wife, followed them, nodding at Maria as she left. Maria watched them go, then turned her sharp eyes toward the mutilated corpse still sprawled in the dirt. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

  “We burn the dead, and still the beast returns,” a man muttered nearby.

  “How many more must die before it’s done?” another replied. “How many?”

  Lila’s stomach turned as she glanced at Radu Popescu, the deep gashes, the torn flesh, something deliberate in the way the body had been destroyed. She swallowed hard and looked away.

  Maria took her by the arm. “Come, child. We’ve done all we can here. Daria will stay with Elena as long as she needs her. We can check on her later.”

  Lila nodded quickly, grateful to leave the scene behind.

  ***

  The tavern door creaked open, the warmth inside washing over them as they stepped in from the cold. The scent of stale ale, wood smoke, and unwashed men filled the air.

  Claudiu was behind the bar, wiping down a chipped wooden tankard. He glanced up as Maria and Lila entered, letting his sharp gaze flick over them. “Here for a drink, Maria?” he teased her.

  “For tinctures,” Maria corrected, grinning.

  Claudiu grunted. “Aye, I’ve got some.” He reached under the bar, pulling out a dark bottle and setting it down with a dull thud.

  Maria picked it up, inspecting the clarity of the liquid inside. “Good.” She placed a few coins on the counter. “How are the men this morning?”

  “Talking.” Claudiu smirked wryly. “Same as always.” Indeed, the voices from the surrounding tables had thickened into tense conversation.

  “Radu’s dead,” one man muttered, shaking his head. “Ripped apart like a wild dog.”

  “We all know what did it.”

  “The lupul,” someone whispered. “The werewolf.”

  “Too many now,” another voice added. “Too many deaths, too many torn bodies. How long until it’s one of our children or one of our wives?”

  The murmuring grew louder.

  “We should set a watch,” someone suggested.

  “And who among you will stand guard when the full moon rises, eh?” Claudiu snorted. “You’d rather wet yourselves and hide in your homes.”

  A few of the men grumbled, but none argued.

  Lila’s grip tightened on the basket she held, her heart pounding. She had heard stories of the beast since she was a child, of the monster that lurked in the valley’s shadows. She had seen how he struck when the moon was high, but this felt different, this felt closer.

  Maria took the bottle of alcohol, nodded to Claudiu, and turned toward the door. “Come, Lila.”

  As they stepped back out into the cold, Lila couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, or something, was watching them. Waiting. She sensed that the beast of Bran had not yet had its fill, and may never be satisfied.

  ***

  Maria Unger walked in silence, her thick woolen shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, the basket of tinctures and bread tucked securely under her arm. Lila walked beside her, matching her stride, though she was quiet, too quiet.

  The frosty morning air was sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth, the frost still clinging to the wild grasses lining the dirt road. Their cottage sat at the very edge of Bran, where the village met the looming woods, nestled among twisted trees that groaned in the wind. Smoke curled from the chimney.

  Maria pushed open the wooden gate, its hinges creaking softly, and stepped inside. The familiar scent of dried herbs, candle wax, and old wood filled the small home, instantly welcoming. A fire still smoldered in the hearth, and the dried lavender hanging from the rafters swayed gently in the draft.

  Lila set down the basket on the wooden table, sighing as she unwrapped her scarf. “I still can’t believe it,” she murmured. “Radu, he was just a farmer. He harmed no one.”

  Maria didn’t answer right away. She walked to the hearth, using the iron poker to stir the embers back to life, coaxing the flames higher. She worked slowly, methodically, her back to her granddaughter.

  She had seen this too many times. Too many bodies, torn and discarded like scraps of meat, too many grieving widows left to pick up the pieces of a life shattered overnight. Always the same, always at the full moon, always the beast.

  Lila’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Grandmother?”

  Maria took a slow breath, gathering herself, then turned. “Sit, child.”

  Lila hesitated but obeyed, pulling out a chair at the small wooden table. Maria followed, lowering herself into the seat across from her. She reached for the bottle of alcohol they had retrieved from the tavern, uncorked it, and poured a small measure into a clay cup.

  She swirled the liquid absently, watching it catch the firelight.

  “This will not be the last,” she said finally.

  Lila’s brow furrowed. “I know, the monster comes every full moon.”

  Maria’s eyes lifted to meet hers, steady and knowing. “The beast has haunted this valley for twenty-five years.”

  Lila swallowed. She was aware of this; as far as she knew, it had been happening her entire life. She knew the stories passed down by the elders, the warnings never spoken too loudly in the dark.

  Maria continued, her voice quiet but firm. “There was a time when these things did not happen. When men, not shadows, ruled the land. On one fateful night, someone or something killed the Drakovars, and something else was born alongside them, conceived before their deaths.”

  Lila shifted uneasily. “If you know about it, why not tell them? Why let the villagers live in fear?”

  Maria’s eyes darkened. “Because knowing will not save them, and speaking the truth will only bring death to our doorstep.”

  Lila frowned. “You mean—”

  “I mean, it will know.”

  Maria leaned forward, lowering her voice as if the very walls of the cottage had ears. “Have you ever wondered why I have lived so long? Why our family has never suffered his wrath?”

  Lila shivered, but nodded.

  Maria let the weight of the words settle before she continued. “Because I remain silent, I do not interfere with the irreversible, and because the beast remembers those who cross him.” Her gaze flickered toward the window, toward the morning sky.

  Lila’s fingers curled around the edge of the table.

  Maria reached across and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “You must understand, my love. We are healers, not hunters. We heal what is healable and comfort the bereaved. But this, this curse is not ours to break.”

  Lila looked down at their joined hands, her face troubled. “But what if it doesn’t stop? What if more die?”

  Maria sighed, weariness heavy in her bones. “The creature won’t stop. Not until it is put down.”

  A long silence stretched between them.

  Outside, the wind picked up, rustling the trees, whispering against the stone walls of their little cottage.

  Lila swallowed hard. “And who will do it?”

  Maria closed her eyes. She did not have an answer.

  Chapter 3

  The night after the blood flowed, I wrapped my little brother in a cloak and carried him away from the screams. He asked me when we would go home. I could not answer. I knew there would be no home left for him. – from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The cold was the first thing he felt. Sharp and merciless, the bite of it gnawed at his flesh, biting deep into his bones, the frozen earth pressing against his bare back. The wind howled through the trees, rattling dead branches like bones in a charnel house. The scent of blood clung to the morning air, coppery, foul, mingling with the damp rot of the forest floor.

  Caliban opened his eyes. For a moment, he lay still, staring up at the gray sky, watching his breath curl in the frigid air. His body ached, every muscle wrung dry, as if he had been stretched and torn apart only to be pieced back together with shaking hands.

  He lifted them, blinking at the dried blood crusted under his fingernails, smeared across his palms. He knew it wasn’t his. His stomach churned. He turned his head and saw the dark stains in the snow, the trampled earth, the clawed-up soil where something had thrashed in the night.

  The memories were distant. Flashes of running, hunting, and tearing. A scream, then. . . nothing.

  His throat was raw, his lips cracked. He tried to swallow, but his mouth tasted of metal and filth. His hands trembled.

  Get up. The voice in his head was his own, but it felt separate from him, distant, commanding.

  Caliban rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth as pain shot through his ribs. His body was stiff, frozen, covered in dirt and blood. He staggered onto his feet, swaying like a drunkard, his vision blurring.

  The castle loomed in the distance, its dark walls jagged against the morning sky. He stumbled toward it, naked, shivering, his breath coming in ragged clouds.

  By the time he reached the gates, his feet were numb, his skin raw from the cold. He pushed through the heavy wooden doors, nearly collapsing as he crossed the threshold.

  Inside, it was not warmer.

  He moved on instinct, dragging himself toward the hearth in the great hall. His fingers fumbled with the logs, but he piled them into the fireplace, grabbing the flint with shaking hands. The process took longer than it should have, his movements sluggish, his limbs uncooperative, but finally, a spark caught. The flames flickered, then grew, crackling hungrily.

  Caliban crouched before them, arms wrapped around himself, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. The heat licked at his frozen skin, chasing the numbness away, leaving only the dull throb of exhaustion.

  He stayed there for a long time.

  Then, slowly, he pushed himself up and made his way toward the old iron kettle near the hearth. His fingers were still shaking as he filled it with water and set it over the fire. The thought of warmth, of washing away the filth, became his only focus.

  In the cabinet near the back of the hall, he found a bottle of vodka and another of tuică, a strong plum brandy. He pulled both down, pouring a heavy measure of each into a wooden cup. The liquor burned as it slid down his throat, but the fire spreading in his belly was a welcome distraction.

  By the time the water was ready, he carried it up the winding stone steps to his chamber. The large wooden tub sat in the corner, empty and unused for too long. He poured the heated water in, steam curling upward into the frigid air.

  He caught his reflection in the tarnished mirror above the washstand. Wild, ragged, eyes sunken and hollow, he looked like a monster pretending to be a man. He exhaled sharply and stepped into the tub, the warmth shocking against his frozen skin. He sank into it with a groan, letting the heat seep into his bones, his head tipping back against the rim.

  He knew he had brought this upon himself. He had been young, arrogant, and untouchable. He had thought himself clever, a lord’s son, a Drakovar, born to take what he wanted, to play his games without consequence.

  She was dancing at the festival, her hair like spun gold, her laughter bright and careless. He had pursued her, as he had pursued many before her. A few coy words, a touch of charm, and she was his.