They lay side by side, the weight of the night finally lifting. Together, they slept.

  Chapter 26

  They say not every story ends in fire and ruin. I didn’t believe that. I thought this place was doomed to rot and drag everything down with me. Once the curse is broken, I know what comes next. They’ll tear down these stone walls. They’ll say it’s for the best, and they’ll be right. Let it fall. Let the wind sweep away the last of the blood. But before that happens, I hope someone reads this. I hope it’s him. Divan, if you find this, thank you. You gave me peace when I couldn’t ask for it. You became the man I never managed to be. There’s laughter waiting for you now. Love. A home where no one watches the door at night. I thought I would be the end of the Drakovar name, but you’ve made it a beginning. Some stories do end with monsters. But yours, yours gets to end in sunlight. -From the Journal of Caliban Drakovar (found by Costea Stinga while getting Castle Bran ready to demolish)

  The wedding was a celebration unlike any the village had seen in years.

  All of Bran gathered for the festival, the square alive with music, laughter, and the scent of feasting. Tables overflowed with roasted meats, fresh bread, and spiced wine, while children ran between the dancers, their giggles carrying into the night.

  Divan had thought it would never end, but in truth, he wouldn’t have wanted it to. His happiness mirrored the festival itself, full of bright, overwhelming joy, a sensation so vast and consuming that he could hardly contain it.

  Lila looked radiant in her traditional Romanian dress, the richly embroidered fabric draping over her delicate frame, the intricate patterns woven in red and gold standing out against the deep black of the material. Her hair was braided, laced with tiny beads, and when she smiled at him, he thought he might lose his breath entirely.

  As for him, he had been dressed in a nobleman’s outfit, a gift from Maria and Ishtak. A black woolen coat, finely stitched with silver thread, draped over his broad shoulders, its high collar giving him an air of command. The white tunic beneath was crisp and laced at the throat, tucked into dark trousers, and polished leather boots. The sash tied at his waist bore the colors of his family, Drakovar red, and for the first time, he felt like a man who had found his place again.

  There was singing and dancing long into the night, and even after he and Lila had slipped away, the revelry continued, carrying on beneath the stars.

  When they reached his cottage, the moon bathed the small home in silver light, and the distant sound of music still faintly drifted through the trees. Divan turned to Lila, his heart pounding harder than it had all day.

  She stood before him, her eyes bright, her cheeks still flushed from the celebration. He reached for her, his fingers brushing over her waist as he drew her closer. “Wife,” he murmured, the word foreign yet perfect on his lips.

  She smiled, her hands coming to rest on his chest. “Husband.”

  He laughed quietly before tilting her chin up, capturing her lips with his own. The kiss was slow at first, tender and reverent, as though he were memorizing the taste of her, the softness of her lips beneath his. He had waited for this moment, dreamed of it, and he wanted to savor every second of it. But soon, the restraint unraveled, and what began as tenderness became something deeper, something raw and uncontainable.

  His hands slid to the ties of her dress, fingers deftly loosening the embroidered fabric. The silk slipped from her shoulders in a whisper, pooling at her feet, leaving her bare before him. He drew back just enough to take her in, the glow of firelight painting golden trails along her skin. She was exquisite, breathtaking, and entirely his.

  He traced his fingers along her arms, down the delicate curve of her waist, his touch feather-light yet searing. She shivered beneath his hands, her breath catching as he followed each reaction, each unspoken plea in her eyes. When she whispered his name, his real name, not a title of duty or expectation, but simply, intimately, Divan, he was undone.

  He lifted her into his arms, carrying her to their bed, laying her down as though she were something sacred, something meant to be worshiped.

  Their bodies met with desperate longing, yet an unspoken tenderness remained woven into every caress, every shuddering gasp. He kissed her deeply, slowly, tracing his lips down her throat, across her collarbone, learning her responses, committing them to memory. She arched beneath him, molding herself to him, matching his hunger with her own, their movements in perfect rhythm, as if they had been made to fit together. As if every moment of their lives had been leading them to this.

  Their passion built, cresting like a wave, and when they finally shattered together, it was not just release, it was the sealing of something far greater, something eternal. And as their breathing slowed, their bodies still tangled in the hush of the early morning, he pulled her tightly against his chest, his lips pressing softly against her temple.

  For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace. With her in his arms, he knew he always would.

  ***

  When the late morning sun filtered through the window, he woke first. Lila was curled against him, her body warm and soft in sleep, her breath steady against his chest. He watched her for a moment, brushing a lock of hair from her face before pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  Despite how wonderful the night had been, despite how much he wanted to stay, they had to leave Bran. He wanted to take her home, not just to Brașov, but to a place where they could build something new, something free of old ghosts and haunted memories.

  By the time Lila stirred awake, he was already loading the wagon. She packed only a single small trunk. The village gathered to see them off, and as a parting gift, they were given a strong, sturdy horse to hitch to the wagon. Divan’s horse was tied to the back, his loyal companion ready to follow them on the journey ahead.

  As Divan and Lila prepared to leave, Jaren and Claudiu approached, their expressions serious. “What do you want us to do with Castle Bran while you’re gone?” Claudiu asked.

  Divan didn’t hesitate. “Tear it down. Use the stones for building. Plunder whatever is inside, if Caliban hasn’t already destroyed everything.”

  Claudiu raised an eyebrow. “Everything?”

  “Everything,” Divan confirmed. “Then plant an orchard, in hopes that something good should come from that place.”

  Jaren and Claudiu exchanged a look, then nodded. “And the cemetery?” Jaren asked.

  “Leave it,” Divan said without pause. “Keep someone to care for it.”

  Claudiu reached out and clasped his shoulder. “Thank you, Divan.”

  Divan met his gaze, then nodded once before climbing up onto the wagon beside Lila.

  As they rode away from Bran for the last time, he didn’t look back.

  ***

  The streets of Brașov were bustling when they arrived, the scent of freshly baked bread and roasting chestnuts lingering in the late morning air.

  Divan didn’t stop at their new home first but went straight to the clinic. The moment he and Lila stepped inside, a familiar voice called out— “Dr. Drakovar! You’ve returned!” Marku appeared from one of the back rooms, his young face breaking into a wide grin.

  The staff gathered quickly, a chorus of welcomes and handshakes, each person eager to meet the new Mrs. Doctor Drakovar. Lila, ever gracious, smiled warmly as she introduced herself, quickly winning them over.

  “I’m also bringing in someone to work as a scribe here in the clinic. He should be here in a couple of days. Marku, you can give him my old apartment.”

  “Great, we could use a scribe in here keeping track of everything that goes on with the patients,” Marku said. “What’s his name?”

  “Costea Stinga, you and he will become good friends, I’m sure of it.”

  After a few moments of chatter, Marku turned back to Divan. “I received your letter. The new apartment has been rented, just as you asked, bigger, nicer, plenty of light. You’ll like it.”

  “Good,” Divan said. “We’ll settle in today, but first, I need to see Cel Trădat.”

  A silence fell over the group. Dr. Petrescu, the older physician who had taken over for Divan in his absence, hesitated before speaking.

  “Divan,” he said slowly, his face heavy with concern, “Cel Trădat is dead.”

  Divan stiffened. “No, that’s not possible.”

  Dr. Petrescu sighed. “His death happened recently, about a couple of weeks ago. No one knows exactly how he was found one morning in his home. There were no signs of a struggle, no illness.”

  Divan’s heart pounded. “Then what killed him?”

  Dr. Petrescu shook his head. “We don’t know.”

  Divan folded his arms, his brow furrowed as he regarded Dr. Petrescu. “Did you perform an autopsy?”

  Dr. Petrescu exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “No. You know how difficult it is here in Brașov to conduct an autopsy. The church, the people, there are limits to what I can do, even as a physician.”

  Divan’s jaw tensed. “Then how can we be certain of what killed him? How can we know if—“ He cut himself off, his mind racing. “Something doesn’t make sense. He shouldn’t have died, not like that.”

  Dr. Petrescu’s gaze was steady, but something flickered beneath it, something unspoken. “I examined the body as best I could. But he was buried within a day, as is custom. There was no time for anything more.”

  Divan inhaled sharply. Buried. Of course. Orthodox tradition dictated a swift burial, especially in a town like this, where suspicion and superstition ran deep.

  “How did he look?” Divan pressed.

  Dr. Petrescu hesitated before answering. “Peaceful.”

  “Peaceful?”

  “Yes,” the doctor confirmed. “There were no signs of struggle, no pain in his expression. He looked as if he had simply let go—as if he’d been waiting for death.”

  Divan’s pulse quickened. The dagger had been more than a weapon. Bound to Cel Tradat’s life in ways they still didn’t fully understand.

  Divan could barely process it. Cel Trădat had been strong, full of life. The idea that he was simply gone made no sense.

  Dr. Petrescu reached into his desk drawer. “He left something for you.” Divan’s gaze snapped to him. The doctor pulled out a letter, the paper slightly yellowed, as if it had been handled many times. “He told me to give it to you when you returned. He was found dead the next day.”

  Divan reached for it slowly, his fingers brushing the worn edges of the envelope. Lila touched his arm gently, sensing the weight of the moment.

  Dr. Petrescu’s voice was gentle as he gestured toward the back office. “Divan, you and Lila can go into the back office where you can read the letter in privacy.”

  Divan nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  He took Lila’s hand, and together, they walked into the small office at the back of the clinic. The air was still, the room quiet, as they sat on the worn leather sofa. Lila curled up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, offering silent support as he unfolded the letter:

  Divan,

  I never knew how it would end, the mess I made by cursing Caliban out of anger, by causing all the death and destruction in Bran these last several years. But if I had ever wanted it to end right, it would have been you who ended it.

  That’s why I gave you the dagger.

  Now that you have used it, and I am bound to it, it will have killed Caliban and destroyed the curse.

  But, like all bad decisions that come back to haunt a man, there is a price.

  Once you use the dagger and the Umbrawolf is dead, and the curse is broken, I will die also.

  I am not afraid.

  I accept this as the consequence of a rash decision that has caused undue suffering and, most of all, the death of your parents, whom I loved with all my heart.

  I have left everything I own to you and your new bride, my shop, my home, and all that I possess.

  You have been like a son to me, Divan. Watching you grow into a strong man has been a pleasure. You were a light in the darkness of my life.

  Thank you.

  —Cel

  Divan wept.

  Lila wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as he let the grief wash over him. He hadn’t always understood Cel’s choices, but now, at the end, he knew the man had paid the price for his sins.

  When Divan finally gained control of himself, they left the office.

  Dr. Petrescu was waiting for them, his expression solemn but kind. “I have something else for you,” he said, reaching into a drawer. “Cel left this for you as well.” He handed Divan an item wrapped in finely embroidered cloth. “I don’t know what it is.”

  Divan unwrapped it slowly, the fabric falling away to reveal a small oval painting, about the size of a dinner plate. The moment his eyes fell on it, his breath caught in his throat. He knew. “My parents.”

  Lila leaned in, studying the painting. The man in the portrait had the same strong features as Divan, the same deep, thoughtful eyes. The woman was striking, elegant, and kind, her soft smile radiating warmth.

  Lila touched the edge of the frame gently. “They are a handsome couple,” she said, then smiled. “And you look like your mother.”

  Divan swallowed hard, his voice hushed. “I do, don’t I?”

  For all these years, Cel had kept this. Had held onto this one piece of his past, and now, it had found its way back to him.

  Divan took Lila’s hand, squeezing it. “Let’s go home.”

  ***

  Their new apartment was warm and inviting, filled with the golden glow of lamplight spilling in from the tall windows. The scent of fresh linens and the lingering aroma of candle wax wrapped around them, a quiet intimacy settling in the air.

  That night, as they finally climbed into bed, Divan reached for Lila, pulling her against him, their bodies molding together with perfect ease. His lips found hers in a deep kiss, lingering and filled with love, relief, and the silent gratitude of a man who had found his home in her.

  His hands traced slow, reverent paths down her back, pressing her closer, as though he could hold her inside him, safe and unshaken. His breath was warm against her skin as he whispered, his voice husky, raw with devotion. “I want to love you like this always.”

  Lila smiled against his lips, threading her fingers into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. “Then love me now,” she murmured, her voice soft yet full of need.

  He exhaled, his forehead pressing against hers. “Right now, after everything that’s happened. . . if you hadn’t come into my life—“ His voice wavered slightly, thick with emotion. “I don’t know where my mind would be. Everything feels like it’s all been so dark, and you are the only light I have.”

  She cupped his cheek, her thumb tracing along his jaw as she held his gaze. “You are stronger than you realize, Divan,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his. “But I am happy to be here, to be your light.”

  His response was a deep, shuddering breath before he captured her lips again, this time with more urgency, more need. Their bodies moved together in perfect harmony, the heat between them building as clothes were cast aside, leaving nothing but bare skin and whispered promises.

  Every touch, every kiss, was a silent vow of love, of devotion, of a future intertwined. He worshiped her with his hands, his mouth, the slow, aching movements that bound them even deeper. And as they lost themselves in each other, in the warmth and safety of their home, the rest of the world faded away.

  They moved as one, their hearts beating in perfect rhythm, until pleasure crested and shattered between them, leaving them breathless, tangled in each other’s arms.

  As the night deepened, Divan held her close, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. “Always.”

  And with her nestled against him, his soul at peace, he knew he would love her like this, now and forever.

  ***

  The next day, they stood in front of Cel’s old shop. The door creaked as Lila pushed it open, the scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and time-worn wood filling the space.

  Lila turned to Divan after they stepped in and looked around, barely able to walk through with so much stuff everywhere.

  “What are we going to do with this place, and all this stuff?” she asked, eyeing the cluttered shelves filled with trinkets, books, and mysterious objects. “I can’t imagine what the back rooms look like.”

  Divan smirked. “You can do whatever you want with it.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “The shop is yours.”

  Lila’s eyes widened. “Mine?”

  Divan stepped forward, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Wouldn’t you like to work here? Once you and I clean this place up, sort through everything, I mean. There could be some amazing things hidden in here. You can make powders and tinctures for the clinic, sell whatever you like to the public.”

  Lila looked around, excitement flickering in her expression. “A lot of this will take time to study.”

  Divan chuckled. “I’m sure Cel has a library hidden somewhere in here. What do you think, my little witch?”

  Lila laughed, standing on her toes to kiss him softly. “I think I love you.”

  Over time, Lila transformed the shop. She cleaned it, organized it, and renamed it simply—Lila’s.

  She took all the books home, where she and Divan poured over them together, discovering ancient texts and forgotten knowledge, some written in languages neither had ever seen before.

  Divan returned to the clinic, falling back into his work of caring for people, but this time, he relied on Lila’s remedies, using her herbs and tinctures to heal those who came through his doors, and the people took notice.

  One evening, as they sat together at dinner, Divan reached across the table, taking Lila’s hand.

  “You know,” he said, smiling, “I am the happiest man on earth.”

  Lila tilted her head, amused. “Oh, and why is that?”

  “I love you so much,” he said, his eyes shining. “And what you’ve done with the shop, it’s wonderful. Every day, when people come into the clinic, I hear them say, ‘I need to stop by Lila’s before I go home.’”