The beast was too close. Divan couldn’t move his arm with the dagger trapped beneath the crushing weight of the creature’s body. It wanted his blood, and it was going to take it. Its jaws opened, teeth bared, inches from his throat.

  Then, without warning, the monster jerked back just enough for Divan to wrench his arm free.

  He heard a scream. It was Lila. “Get off him! Get off him now!”

  She was striking the beast, over and over, shouting with each blow. For a heartbeat, Divan didn’t understand until he saw the glint of metal in her hands.

  The iron rod.

  Divan didn’t hesitate. With all the strength he had left, he thrust the dagger into the beast’s belly. The blade sank in effortlessly, cutting through muscle and flesh as if slicing through air. The monster let out a choked snarl, its body jerking in response.

  Divan gritted his teeth, hands tightening around the hilt. He didn’t stop there. With a roar, he ripped the blade upward, tearing through the beast’s entrails, cutting deep, as deep as he could. Blood, hot, thick, and dark gushed over him, drenching his hands, his arms, soaking into his clothes.

  He didn’t stop, he couldn’t stop, driving the dagger higher, pushing past the ribs, past the thick flesh, until he reached the heart.

  The beast screamed, a massive, ear-piercing wail, so high-pitched and unnatural that Divan’s ears rang violently, the world around him turning muffled and distorted. The Umbrawolf’s body convulsed, its limbs seizing, its massive form shaking violently, its golden eyes wide and wild with horror.

  The magic in the dagger ignited. The energy inside it surged into the beast’s heart, turning its blood against it. Divan felt the moment the monster began to die. The creature’s breath came in ragged gasps, its claws twitching weakly. Then, with one final shuddering breath, its entire body collapsed.

  Divan had no time to react before the sheer weight of it pinned him to the ground. The stench was unbearable, thick, and rotting, as his stomach churned violently. He fought against the nausea, willing himself not to vomit. His body was trapped beneath the beast’s massive, lifeless form, his limbs burning with exhaustion.

  He tried to call out, but his stomach heaved, bile rising in his throat. All he could do was choke it back, tasting bile and blood. There was a movement he felt something shift. The creature wasn’t moving on its own. Divan realized it was being pushed. Through his blurred vision, Divan saw two figures, Costea and Gregor, both men straining, shoving against the massive corpse, their faces tight with effort.

  Gregor grunted. “By God, what does this thing eat?”

  Costea groaned, adjusting his grip. “People, apparently.”

  The two men pushed against the beast’s massive body, their muscles straining as they struggled to free Divan from beneath it. Yet, it seemed, the werewolf was still alive, barely. The beast let out weak, shuddering growls, its body convulsing in spasms, the last remnants of life clinging to it in vain.

  With one final push, the weight lifted enough for Divan to drag himself free. He gasped as he rolled onto his side, his body slick with blood, his hands trembling.

  “Lila!” She was there in an instant, kneeling beside him, her hands running over his arms, his chest, searching for wounds. “Your grandmother,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “How hurt is she?”

  Lila’s eyes were still wide with panic, but she swallowed hard and steadied herself. “Badly.”

  Divan exhaled sharply, pushing himself up. “Get her inside, see to her wounds. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Lila hesitated, looking at him, seeing how pale he was, how his limbs shook, how drenched in blood he was. With a tight nod, she rose and ran toward her grandmother, helping her back toward the cottage, disappearing inside.

  Divan turned onto his hands and knees, his stomach twisting violently. The smell of blood, death, and the overwhelming stench of the beast was even now too much. His body convulsed, and he vomited repeatedly, until there was nothing left but dry heaves and shaking limbs. His breath came in ragged gasps, his forehead damp with sweat.

  “Divan!” Costea’s voice, urgent and sharp, cut through the night.

  Divan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, forcing himself up onto unsteady feet. “What is it?”

  “Come here. Quickly.”

  There was something in his tone, something that made the last remnants of nausea vanish in an instant. Divan turned toward where Costea and Gregor were standing, and he froze. The werewolf was gone. His chest seized. “No!” His feet moved before he could think. He ran. Gregor and Costea stood over a body in the dirt. A man’s body. Divan’s heart slammed against his ribs. He knew, before he even saw the face, he knew, but he hadn’t expected this. He fell to his knees beside the still figure, his hands pressing into the bloodied earth.

  “Caliban!”

  His brother’s eyelids fluttered, then opened weakly. They were pale, tired, and distant. A smile ghosted across Caliban’s face, no more than the faintest twitch of his lips, but it was real. His bloodied hand reached out, weak and trembling. Divan grasped it tightly, his fingers curling around his brother’s like he had once done when he was a child, small and frightened in the shadows of Castle Bran.

  Caliban’s lips moved, a whisper so faint it barely reached Divan’s ears. “Thank you, brother.” His head lolled to the side, his fingers went slack, and the last breath left his body.

  Silence.

  Divan didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just held his brother’s lifeless hand, his own shoulders rising and falling with the weight of everything that had just happened. For the first time in twenty-five years, the monster was gone.

  Gregor shifted, his voice quiet. “Divan—“

  “Take his body,” Divan interrupted, his voice raw, strained. He didn’t look up. “Burn it, then bury his ashes in the cemetery up by the castle, bury him next to our parents.”

  Costea inhaled, glancing at Gregor, but said nothing.

  Divan’s fingers tightened once more around Caliban’s hand. “Do it now, before the village comes out and sees him. I don’t want them to know he was the monster. We can tell them that he died from excessive drinking, they’ll believe that.”

  A long silence stretched between them before Gregor finally nodded. “All right.”

  Costea wiped a hand down his face, looking pale and shaken but determined. “We’ll take care of him.”

  Divan released Caliban’s hand, rising to his feet. His body felt heavy, every inch of him aching, but there was still one more thing he had to do. Without another word, he turned and walked back toward the cottage. To her, to what was left, to whatever future was waiting beyond this bloody, haunted night.

  Chapter 25

  Sometimes I dream of a world where the curse is lifted, and I wake up whole. I’m barefoot in the orchard again, the sun just rising over the eastern hills. The dew clings to the grass. My mother is there, humming to herself as she picks fruit from the lower branches. She doesn’t look afraid. She doesn’t look disappointed. My father is carving something at the table—always carving, always whittling wood into birds and saints. He glances up and gives me that rare smile of his, the one he saved for quiet mornings. And Divan, he’s still small. He runs to me with a crooked grin and throws his arms around my legs like he used to. I lift him into the air, and he laughs, not the nervous laugh he’s learned to wear like armor, but the real one. The boy I once knew, untouched by blood or death or the sound of screams in the night. In the dream, I’m not a monster. I’m just me. I don’t wake hungry. I don’t wake guilty. There is no weight in my chest, no ache behind my eyes. Only peace. If such a place exists on the other side, maybe I’ll find it. And if I do, the gods willing—I hope they let me stay. -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  Divan stepped through the doorway of Maria’s cottage. He had returned to his cottage, thrown his blood-soaked clothes into the fire, and cleaned himself up as best he could. His clothes were fresh, but his mind was still stained by the night’s violence. The air in the cottage was thick with the scent of herbs, candle wax, and the tang of blood. The fire in the hearth had burned low.

  Lila knelt beside Maria, pressing a cloth against her grandmother’s wounds, her hands steady despite the paleness of her face. Maria looked fragile, her usually sharp eyes dull with pain and exhaustion.

  As Divan approached, Maria’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “You look like you need some help, too.”

  “I’m fine,” he replied automatically.

  Then he saw Lila. Her dress was bloodied, the fabric torn in jagged lines along her sides and back. Dark streaks of dried blood marked her skin, and beneath them, what looked like deep claw marks marred her flesh.

  His breath caught.

  “Lila,” he said, his voice sharp with concern, “you need to be tended to.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “The medallion protected me. The Umbrawolf couldn’t dig deep like it did with Grandmother.”

  Divan frowned, his eyes scanning the wounds. They were shallow but raw, angry red lines running across her skin. The medallion had shielded her, but she was still injured.

  Turning his attention to Maria, he carefully peeled back the bloodied cloth Lila had been holding against her side. His stomach tightened. The claw marks were deep, cutting into the muscle. Blood had slowed, but it still seeped from the wounds. He could see no major arteries or veins had been cut, but the edges were ragged and torn. If not properly treated, she would develop a fever or worse.

  Divan clenched his jaw. She would need to be cauterized. He hated the thought of it, the idea of causing her more pain after what she had already endured made his gut churn, but there was no choice. If they didn’t seal the wounds properly, infection would set in.

  “Lila,” he said, keeping his voice calm and level, “do you have any yarrow?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, standing. “We have some drying in the back room.”

  He exhaled, relieved. “Good. What about hot peppers? The little red ones?”

  “Yes, we have those too.”

  Divan hesitated. There was one more thing that could help, something stronger, something that would protect against infection and help the blood clot faster. “What about Dragon’s Blood resin?”

  Lila frowned. “No, I don’t have any of that, but Ishtak might.”

  Divan nodded. “Can you wake him and ask? Tell him what happened. If he doesn’t have it, bring Shepherd’s Purse instead.”

  Without hesitation, Lila grabbed her shawl and ran out the door, disappearing into the night toward Ishtak’s house.

  Divan turned back to Maria, rolling up his sleeves. He had work to do. He got to his feet and moved quickly, gathering the yarrow and red pepper from where they hung drying. His hands were steady as he brought them to the small, low table in front of the sofa, setting them into the stone mortar. He took the pestle and began grinding them into a fine powder, working methodically, his focus razor-sharp.

  This will be better than a hot iron. The thought of burning Maria’s wounds made his stomach turn, and he shuddered at the idea. No, this is the best alternative. The herbs will stop the bleeding, disinfect, and heal.

  As he ground the mixture, a light but firm touch landed on his shoulder. Maria reached for him, her fingers were weak, but her presence was strong.

  “Divan,” she murmured. “I am too old. You should just let me die.”

  “No, Maria,” he said firmly, turning slightly to look at her. “You are not going to die.”

  Her tired eyes met his.

  “You saved us out there,” he continued. “You found the dagger. We are going to save you.”

  Maria closed her eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily on her frame.

  Divan’s heart clenched. “Keep talking to me, Maria.” His voice was softer now, but urgent.

  Her eyes fluttered open. “I told Lila,” she murmured, “that when this is over, she must go to Brașov with you to start a new life.” Her gaze softened. “I didn’t think you would want to stay in Bran.”

  Divan swallowed, pressing his lips together. He set the pestle aside, his hands clenching briefly before he released a slow breath. “Thank you, Maria.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I was going to talk to you about it.” He hesitated. “I love Lila very deeply.”

  Maria gave him a faint smile, one of warmth and understanding. “I know you do. I’m grateful for it. You’re a good man, Divan, like your parents.”

  His breath caught. Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. He was his parents’ son, and though they had died when he was a child, their legacy lived in him.

  Maria exhaled softly. “Lila will go with you. She loves you deeply, also.”

  Before Divan could respond, the cottage door suddenly burst open, the wood slamming against the wall with force. Lila and Ishtak came rushing in, breathless and frantic.

  “We have the Dragon’s Blood!” Lila gasped, clutching a small pouch. Her voice trembled, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to catch her breath.

  Divan rose to his feet in an instant, wiping his damp eyes quickly before reaching for the pouch. “Perfect,” he said, already opening it to inspect the precious red resin inside.

  There was no time to waste. Maria’s life depended on it.

  Lila stood, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “I’m going to change,” she murmured, glancing at Divan before disappearing into her room.

  As she left, Ishtak knelt beside Maria’s sofa, taking her frail hand in his own. “Come on now, you crotchety old woman,” he murmured. “You know you’re too mean to die.” There were tears in his eyes, glistening in the low candlelight.

  Maria turned her head slightly, offering him a weak but knowing smile. “Ishtak, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “What can I do?” Ishtak asked, his voice trembling.

  “Just keep her talking,” Divan said, not looking up from his work. He was carefully mixing the Dragon’s Blood resin with the powdered yarrow and red pepper, forming the treatment he had prepared. “Don’t let her fall asleep, not yet.”

  “I won’t leave her,” Ishtak said, his voice raw with emotion.

  Divan stole a glance at him and saw something unexpected but deeply moving, the heartfelt affection of a man who had been in love for many years. A small smile tugged at Divan’s lips as he continued grinding the herbs. He would have never thought that Ishtak and Maria had a special bond, but now that he saw it, it made perfect sense.

  They had always been there, the two people he remembered most fondly from his childhood. They had watched over him, over Lila, and the village, and now, they would care for each other in their old age.

  Something about it warmed him.

  Lila returned, now dressed in fresh, clean clothes, her eyes steady as she moved toward Divan. She helped him like a practiced nurse, following his orders flawlessly, her hands sure and quick, and trusting. If she didn’t understand something, she asked, and then she listened.

  She was his partner, his best friend. The love of his life, and soon, she would be his wife. The realization struck him with an unexpected depth of gratitude, filling his heart in a way nothing ever had.

  Once Maria’s wounds were cleaned, treated, and carefully wrapped, Divan and Ishtak stepped outside, letting Lila dress her grandmother in privacy. The night air was cool and crisp, the scent of damp earth and lingering smoke from distant hearths filling the quiet.

  Divan stretched his arms, rolling his sore shoulders. “You and Maria are close.”

  Ishtak let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Close? I love that woman.” He didn’t hesitate, nor hide it. “I’ve loved her for years, possibly even before Ivan, her husband, died.”

  Divan turned to look at him. “Does she love you?”

  “I think so,” he admitted, rubbing his calloused hands together. “But she would never say for sure, she wouldn’t commit, because of Lila.”

  Divan frowned.

  “She’s never thought about herself, her happiness,” Ishtak continued. “She has only ever cared about Lila, about her safety, her future. All the more reason I’ve loved her for it.”

  Divan felt a lump in his throat.

  He understood now why Maria had sacrificed so much, why she had held back her desires, and why she had told him to take Lila away to start a new life. Because she had never let herself start her own.

  Tears welled in Ishtak’s eyes, but he blinked them away. “I wish I had known she was out there fighting that monster. I would’ve come with my firebombs and my rod.”

  Divan laughed, the sound unexpected but genuine. “We could’ve used them.”

  Ishtak grinned, wiping his face. “Damn right you could’ve.”

  Lila’s voice called softly from inside. “She’s ready.”

  Divan and Ishtak stepped back in and helped gently lift Maria into her bed. Lila tucked the blankets around her, then brought her a hot cup of broth, “Doctor’s orders,” she said as she gave it to her grandmother.

  When Maria was finished with the broth, Divan pressed his fingers lightly to Maria’s wrist, checking her pulse. Her heartbeat was steady and strong. He exhaled, relieved. “She’ll be fine now. She needs rest, but she’ll recover. Ishtak, can you stay with her? Lila needs rest, also.”

  “I won’t leave her.” Ishtak simply lay down beside Maria, his body curling slightly toward hers, like a faithful old hound beside its master.

  They left the two in the room, and Lila turned to Divan. His eyes were heavy, his body exhausted.

  “You need rest too,” she murmured.

  “I will, but—“

  “Will you rest with me?” she interrupted softly.

  Her voice was quiet, but there was a depth to it, a need for comfort, for closeness, for the reassurance that they had both made it through the night.

  Divan didn’t answer. He just took her into his arms. He kissed her, a kiss of love, of relief, of thankfulness. When their lips parted, he whispered against her hair, “Yes. I will.”