He had thought nothing of it until her husband had come. No, he hadn’t given it another thought until the wizard had stood before him, eyes burning like the fires of hell, cursing him with words older than time itself. Still, he thought nothing of it.

  On the next full moon, the hunger had come. The first night, he had thought he was dying. A fever consumed him, the fire in his blood, the way his bones cracked, and his skin burned as though he were being ripped apart from within. He had died that night, at least, the man he had once been had died.

  Caliban shrugged as he remembered it all. Perhaps that was the point, the death of who he was. What remained was something else, something that craved, that hunted, that killed. Was it so different from who I had been?

  The first time, he hadn’t even known what had happened. He had woken in the woods, naked, caked in mud and blood. He had stumbled back to the castle in a daze, his body aching, his throat raw from screaming.

  Then they found the bodies. A shepherd’s boy, no older than ten, ripped open like an animal had attacked him. A woman who had been gathering firewood, her throat ripped out, her eyes frozen wide in terror. He had done that, and it had only been the beginning.

  Every month since, the cycle has repeated. No matter how hard he fought it, no matter how much he drank, no matter how he barricaded himself inside these cursed walls, the beast always won. He had tried to atone, to stop it. He had tried to lock himself away, but when the hunger came, there was no choice, no will, no humanity. Only insatiable blood lust.

  How many more? How many more mornings would he wake up covered in blood, not knowing whose life he had stolen? How many more times would he hear the villagers whisper of a monster, of a demon in the woods, not knowing that the beast they feared was the very man who had once ruled over them?

  The worst of it was, he knew he deserved this. He had earned this curse with his own recklessness. There was no one to blame but himself. His fingers tightened around the goblet. His chest heaved with the weight of it all. The fury, the helplessness, the self-loathing, it all festered like an open wound.

  Unless . . .

  His breath hitched, his hands flexed at his sides. Unless he ended it, once and for all. But could he? Would he? How many times before had he considered this, even tried? But the monster did not want to die.

  For a while, he just sat there, staring at the ceiling, sipping his drink.

  His mind drifted, circling the same dark pit it always did after the full moon. I need help. The words slithered into his thoughts, unwelcome and raw.

  But from whom? No one could cure this, no one who could fix him. And yet, a name surfaced, like a forgotten memory. Divan, his brother.

  The last time he saw him, Divan was six years old. A child. Now he would be— Caliban’s breath hitched. He sat up, gripping the edges of the tub, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Thirty-one. Oh, my word. . .” He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, staring blankly at the flickering candlelight. “I have been in this hell for twenty-five years.”

  The weight of it crashed down on him all at once. A quarter of a century, he had lived longer as a monster than he ever had as a man.

  ***

  Divan set aside the ledger and glanced at Marko, who was sorting jars on the apothecary shelf. “Who’s next?”

  Marko smirked as he checked the list. “Two women left. One is Mrs. Dumitru with a sprained wrist, and the other is a young woman, Mirela Gusa, I believe.”

  Divan nodded. “Send one of them in.”

  Marko didn’t hesitate. He ducked his head into the waiting area, and moments later, the door swung open. Mirela stepped in, her eyes immediately lighting up when she saw Divan.

  “Dr. Drakovar,” she greeted, her voice soft, with the faintest hint of amusement curling at the edges.

  “Miss Gusa.” He motioned to the chair across from him. “What brings you in today?”

  She sat on the examination table gracefully, then lifted the hem of her skirt past her knee, exposing smooth skin and just enough of her thigh to make her intentions clear. “My knee has been aching terribly,” she said, placing a hand delicately over it. “The pain has been so strong, I can hardly walk without wincing.”

  From behind him, Divan heard Marko cough to disguise a laugh.

  Maintaining his usual calm, he reached forward and pressed lightly around the joint. “Does it hurt here?”

  Mirela sighed softly, as if even his touch brought her some relief. “A little.”

  His examination was brief. There was no real swelling, only a slight stiffness that was nothing more than an excuse to be here. “Your condition is not serious, likely just a strain. I’ll give you a salve. Apply it twice a day and rest the knee as much as possible.”

  As he stepped back, Mirela shifted on the table, making a show of swinging her legs down. But as she did, she tilted suddenly and fell straight into him. “Oh!” she gasped, catching herself against his chest, her hands resting on his shoulders, then slowly moving down his arms. “Forgive me, Doctor, I must still be unsteady.”

  Divan steadied her politely, gripping her arms just enough to keep her upright. “These things happen,” he said simply. But as the moment stretched, she didn’t move.

  From the back of the room, Marko was grinning outright now, shaking his head in amusement. Divan could see it in his peripheral vision.

  After a long pause, Divan gently but firmly moved Mirela to arm’s length, making sure she was stable and stepping back. “Take care, Miss Gusa.”

  She smiled, still lingering, before finally stepping back and smoothing down her skirt. “You’re always so kind, Doctor.” Then, with one last glance, she disappeared through the door.

  The second the door shut, Marko let out a laugh. “I don’t know how you keep a straight face. Every young woman in Brașov looks at you like you’re a festival prize they’re all competing to win.”

  Divan only shrugged.

  Marko leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “And yet you don’t seem the least bit tempted. How is that?”

  Divan smirked. “Unless she’s a rare find, I have a feeling that for a doctor, a wife is more trouble than she’s worth.” He pointed to the door Mirela had gone through. “A perfect example.”

  Marko chuckled, shaking his head. “So that’s how it is.”

  Divan nodded and then told Marko, “Bring in the next patient.”

  The scent of dried herbs and antiseptic tinctures lingered in the air as Divan tightened a linen bandage around Mrs. Dumitru’s wrist. She winced but did not pull away.

  “There, it’s just strained, not broken,” he said, securing the last knot. “Keep it wrapped for a few days, carry nothing heavier than a loaf of bread, and be careful so you won’t fall again. You’re lucky it was just your wrist that was hurt.”

  The woman, a local baker’s mother, gave him a gap-toothed smile. “And if I fall again, Doctor?”

  He arched a brow. “Then you’ll be back here, and I’ll charge you double.”

  She crackled, shaking her head. “You’re too much like your mother’s people, all practical and sharp-tongued. But a fine doctor, all the same.”

  Divan merely smiled and rose from his stool, watching as she shuffled toward the door, murmuring her thanks.

  As she left, Marku entered, wiping his hands on a rag. “That’s the last patient for today.”

  Divan exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Good. I need a few hours of peace before—”

  A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. Marku went to answer, revealing a dust-covered courier, panting as if he had run the entire way from the city gates.

  “Dr. Drakovar?” the man asked, eyes scanning the apothecary shelves before settling on Divan.

  Divan wiped his hands on his apron. “Yes?”

  The courier pulled a sealed letter from his leather satchel and held it out. “Urgent delivery.”

  Divan took it, immediately recognizing the Drakovar family crest stamped into the wax. His eyes narrowed. He had not seen that mark in twenty-five years. Frowning, he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. His brother’s bold, slanted script filled the page:

  Divan,

  Too many years have passed. I have spent all of them without family, and I find I cannot bear the solitude any longer.

  Come home. I need you.

  —C. Drakovar

  That was all. There was no explanation, no formalities, just a simple plea. Divan wondered. What could make my brother summon me after so many years of silence? The unease in his gut told him this was not a simple matter of nostalgia.

  He set the letter down and turned to Marku. “Close up for the evening. I need to see someone.”

  Without another word, he grabbed his coat, slid the letter into his pocket, and strode out into Brașov’s cold streets.

  Chapter 4

  He came cloaked in black, with a tongue of poison and a heart full of vengeance. I did not know his name, only that he spoke it like a death sentence. The curse he laid on me was no accident, it was crafted with hatred, stitch by stitch. - from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  Cel Tradat, the proprietor, looked up as Divan Drakovar pushed open the door. The breeze that followed him stirred up the scent of incense and old parchment. Divan looked around as he entered like he always had since he was a small boy, curious what he would find on the shelves that lined the walls, filled with trinkets, ancient books, jars of dried herbs, and things better left unexamined. By now, Cel believed this had become a habit.

  Hunched over a cluttered counter, his thin fingers sorting through a bundle of human bones. He turned a skull in his hands, his thumb running over the smooth curve of the cranium, eyes narrowing at the faint, unnatural elongation of the canines. Human bones fascinated him. There were all kinds of things he could tell by looking at them: cause of death, age of the death, gender of the person they once belonged to, even their occupation and lifestyle, signs of disease, after-death tampering, and unnatural features.

  “Working late old friend?” Divan’s voice carried a note of curiosity, though his gaze sharpened as he took in the skeletal remains laid out before him.

  Cel huffed a quiet laugh, setting the skull down with an almost reverent touch. “The dead tell stories, Divan, if you know how to listen.” He gestured to the bones scattered before him, his fingers trailing over a fractured femur. “Take this one. A clean break, but it never healed. That means it happened close to death, and it wasn’t an accident, too precise. More likely a blade.”

  Divan stepped closer, arms crossed as he studied Cel’s work. “And this?” He nodded toward a rib bone, blackened and split down the center.

  Cel clicked his tongue. “Burned post-mortem, not a funeral pyre, though, too controlled. Someone tried to erase something.” He lifted the rib, holding it to the light. “Or perhaps someone didn’t want this poor soul coming back.”

  Divan exhaled through his nose, his gaze lingering on the long, sharp teeth of the skull. “And this one?”

  Cel’s lips curled in amusement, but there was something else in his expression—something darker. “That, my friend, is the real question, isn’t it?” He tapped the elongated canines with a fingernail. “Human mostly, but not entirely. What do you make of that, doctor?”

  Divan didn’t answer right away. The air in the shop felt heavier now, the candlelight flickering as though disturbed by something unseen. He finally met Cel’s gaze.

  Divan said nothing.

  “What brings you to my humble den of secrets?”

  Divan pulled the letter from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. “This.”

  Cel’s smile faded as he picked up the parchment, scanning the single line. His brow furrowed, unease and a shot of anger rushed through him. “Your brother.”

  “Yes.”

  Cel tapped the letter against his palm. “This is the first time he’s reached out?”

  “Ever.” Divan confirmed.

  The sorcerer let out a slow breath, setting the letter aside. “And what does your gut tell you?”

  Divan leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “That something is very wrong.”

  Cel nodded slowly. “If he’s called you back after all these years, it’s because he has no other choice.”

  “Or he wants something.”

  “Maybe both.” Cel rubbed his chin. “Bran has not been kind to him. He’s been alone for twenty-five years in that crumbling castle. That solitude is enough to drive any man insane or desperate.” If your brother has finally reached out, it means one thing.”

  Divan arched a brow. “And what’s that?”

  Cel met his gaze. “Whatever drove him to reach out after all these years must be worse than the hell he’s been living with.” He leaned back, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “The villagers they whisper about a curse. About a beast that walks under the full moon.”

  Divan frowned. “I’ve heard the stories. What does that have to do with Caliban being lonely?”

  Cel shrugged, his mouth twisting in a grim smile. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

  A heavy silence settled between them.

  Divan exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “I was hoping you’d tell me not to go.”

  Cel chuckled dryly. “You already know you’re going.”

  Divan sighed. “Yes. But I’m not staying. I live here.”

  Cel grabbed a small pouch from behind the counter and tossed it to him. “Take this.”

  Divan caught the pouch, feeling the weight of dried herbs inside. “For protection?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Cel’s grin was sharp. “For luck, you’ll need it.”

  Divan smirked, tucking the pouch into his coat. “I don’t believe in luck.”

  “Then take it as a favor and let an old friend rest easy.” But Cel knew he wouldn’t rest easy. That bad feeling hadn’t left him. If anything, the apprehension had only grown stronger.

  Cel watched Divan carefully, his fingers drumming against the countertop as the doctor tucked the small pouch of herbs into his coat. The sorcerer was concerned, but it was something deeper than mere concern. A mix of emotions, concern for Divan, and hatred for another.

  Divan had been like a son to him, and he couldn’t let him go unprotected. He knew this day was coming, and he wanted Divan to have what he needed to be safe. The herbs were nothing.

  Divan turned to leave, but just as his hand touched the door, Cel’s voice stopped him.

  “Wait.”

  Divan glanced over his shoulder.

  Cel moved swiftly, disappearing behind the shelves, rummaging through a small wooden chest tucked beneath a stack of ancient books. A moment later, he emerged, holding something wrapped in dark cloth.

  He placed the item carefully on the counter and slowly peeled back the fabric, revealing an ancient dagger.

  Divan’s breath caught.

  Darkened steel caught the light, its edge honed to a lethal gleam. But the handle seized attention, a smooth moonstone embedded in the hilt, polished to a spectral sheen, glowing faintly like starlight trapped beneath glass. Power radiated from the weapon, thickening the surrounding air, charging the space with something ancient and unseen. Cel slid it toward him. “Take it.”

  Divan hesitated, brow furrowing. “Why?”

  Cel grinned. “Consider it another favor.”

  Divan reached out, fingers grazing the handle. A pulse of something, energy, power, rippled up his arm the moment he touched it.

  He inhaled sharply. “This . . . this is not just any dagger.”

  “No,” Cel admitted, watching him closely.

  Divan turned the blade over in his hands, examining the intricate carvings along the hilt. Symbols, ancient ones, woven into the metal like a binding spell. “Where did you get this?”

  Cel shrugged. “Let’s just say this dagger has history.”

  Divan arched a brow. “And why are you giving this to me?”

  Then the sorcerer leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Because when you go to Bran, you may face something older and more dangerous than you understand.”

  Cel watched as Divan shivered at his words. Fear was a good sign.

  Cel tapped the dagger’s handle. “The blade may save your life. Keep it close.”

  Divan studied him, as if searching for something, anything, in the sorcerer’s expression. Cel just smiled, the same sly amusement always lingering, his way of masking whatever truth he wasn’t ready to tell.

  The dagger pulsed again in Divan’s grip. The moonstone flickered like an ember, as if responding to something. He exhaled and slipped it into his coat.

  Cel nodded. “Wise choice.”

  Divan shook his head. “I don’t believe in curses, or werewolves, Cel.”

  Cel’s grin widened ever so slightly. “Then let’s hope you never have to.”

  With that, Divan turned and stepped out into the night. Cel watched him go, the door swinging shut behind him.

  Only when he was alone did the sorcerer let out a slow breath, his fingers trailing over the space where the dagger had been.

  He had cursed Caliban all those years ago, and after twenty-five years, fate turned its wheel once more.

  ***

  Marku looked up from organizing jars of tinctures as Divan stepped inside, shutting the door.

  “You’re back early,” Marku noted.

  Divan didn’t answer right away. He unbuckled his coat, set the moonstone-handled dagger on his desk, and stared at it for a long moment.

  Finally, he spoke. “I need you to send word to Dr. Petrescu in the morning. I’ll be leaving for a few days.”

  Marku blinks. “To Bran?”

  Divan leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. “Yes, as you know, my brother has summoned me.”

  A pause.

  Then Marku said carefully, “You haven’t seen him in years.”

  “No,” Divan admitted.

  “And you’ve never spoken about returning to Bran.”

  “I haven’t.”

  Marku frowned. “Then why go now?”