Divan exhaled. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

  Cel seemed convinced that something dark was stirring in Bran, but Cel always spoke in riddles and half-truths. Then there was his brother’s letter. Why now, after so many years?

  He didn’t trust the situation, so he did what he always did. He prepared carefully.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” Divan said. “Dr. Petrescu can manage the clinic in my absence. I’ll set everything in order before I leave.”

  Marku hesitated. “You don’t sound eager to go.”

  Divan glanced at the dagger on his desk, the moonstone catching the candlelight. I’m not eager. I’m wary. That, more than anything, unsettled him.

  ***

  Divan spent the next couple of weeks preparing for his departure, though he told himself there was nothing to prepare for. His brother had summoned him, nothing more. Caliban had lived in isolation for decades, loneliness had finally taken its toll, or he had fallen ill. The answer was as simple as that. But something in the pit of Divan’s stomach remained.

  He ignored it. During the daylight hours, he kept himself busy organizing his clinic, ensuring his patients would be cared for in his absence.

  Dr. Petrescu, the town’s elder physician, grunted when Divan informed him of his leave. “Bran? You’re going to that cursed valley?”

  Divan sighed. “That valley is not cursed, Doctor.”

  Dr. Petrescu’s thick, white brows lifted. “You say that because you have not lived long enough to see the patterns.” He tapped his temple. “Men go to Bran and do not return. If they do return, they are never the same.”

  Divan forced a smile, waving away the older man’s concerns. “This is a family matter.”

  “Hmph.” The doctor stroked his beard. “Watch your back, Drakovar. That valley has long teeth. You’re a fine physician, and I’d like for you to return safe and unharmed.”

  Divan gave a polite nod, but something about the old doctor’s words lodged itself deep in his mind. He spent his evenings reviewing patient notes, arranging schedules, and ensuring that the midwife, Ana, would be available in case of emergencies. His medical journal, one he had kept since his apprenticeship, he locked away in his desk. If anything happened to him, at least his work would remain.

  Not that anything would happen, because there was nothing to be concerned about. And yet. . . as the nights passed, the unease grew. Sleep did not come easily. When he finally drifted off, he dreamed of Bran.

  The valley lay cloaked in mist, the towering trees shifting in the wind like silent sentinels. Castle Drakovar loomed, dark and jagged, its windows like gaping maws. The great hall was empty, save for the echoes of laughter long gone.

  In the dream, he walked through the ruined corridors, his breath visible in the frigid air. His boots echoed on the stone.

  And then a whisper. A shape shifting in the shadows, something watching him.

  The dream always ended the same way. Just as he turned a corner, just as he was about to see whatever lurked beyond the darkened hall, he woke up with his heart pounding, his breath quickened. Alone in his room bathed in cold moonlight, silver beams stretching across the floor like grasping fingers, he tried to tell himself it was only a dream.

  But then he remembered the stories. Brașov was no stranger to travelers or merchants passing through on their way to other villages. In the days before his departure, Divan overheard things he had never paid much mind to before.

  “The beast is still in the valley,” an old woman whispered at the bakery.

  “My cousin swears he saw it, a shadow with eyes,” muttered a butcher as he sharpened his knife.

  “A shepherd found three of his ewes dead. Torn open,” a merchant’s apprentice said. “He’s moving to the next village. He doesn’t want his family anywhere near Bran.”

  Divan tried to ignore them. He tried to reason through it. Wolves. Why is it always wolves?

  The superstitions of the countryside were strong; stories of ghosts, witches, and werewolves had existed for centuries. But then a patient, a boy no older than ten, came into his clinic with a fever, and in his delirium, he murmured something that made Divan’s blood run cold.

  “The monster has woken,” the child had whispered. “The one in the castle.”

  Divan froze. “What did you say?”

  The boy had only whimpered, twisting in the sheets.

  His mother, frazzled and exhausted, sighed. “Don’t mind him, Doctor. It’s just the stories his grandmother tells.”

  Divan had nodded absently, forcing himself to continue checking the boy’s pulse, but as he walked home that evening, the weight of it pressed against him.

  The stories, the dreams, the letter. Caliban.

  Finally, when he could no longer rationalize his unease, when even logic failed to quiet the whispers of doubt, he packed his bags. The morning of his departure, Divan was tightening the straps of his saddlebags when Cel Trădat appeared at his side, silent as a shadow.

  Divan startled slightly, but sighed as he turned. “I should have expected you.”

  Cel smirked. “I have a habit of appearing when I’m needed.”

  Divan arched a brow. “Needed? I’m simply going to visit my long-lost brother.”

  Cel hummed thoughtfully and then, without a word, reached into his coat and pulled out an old book. The worn, cracked leather cover showed its age; the gilded title was almost rubbed away.

  Divan took it hesitantly, flipping it over in his hands before squinting at the title. Werewolf: A Study of the Beast Within.

  His lips parted slightly in confusion. “What in the devil is this?”

  Cel tapped the book lightly. “Some reading material. Bran isn’t exactly lively. You may find yourself with plenty of time to read.”

  Divan let out a short laugh. “I doubt I’ll need academic distractions.”

  Cel gave him a long, unreadable look. “Humor me.”

  Divan frowned but nodded, slipping the book into his pack. “You and your gifts. First the herbs, then the dagger, now a book on folklore.”

  “Not folklore.” Cel’s voice was quiet. “Truth.”

  Divan shook his head. “You and your riddles, old friend.”

  Cel only smiled. “Safe travels, Dr. Drakovar.”

  Divan tipped his head in acknowledgment before mounting his horse. Without another word, he urged the animal forward, disappearing down the road.

  ***

  Cel watched him go, the early morning wind tugging at his coat. His fingers curled at his sides. Divan didn’t know. He didn’t know why Caliban had called him back after twenty-five years. Nor did he know the truth behind the beast that haunted the woods of Bran, and hopefully, he wouldn’t know that the curse which plagued his brother had been Cel’s own doing.

  The sorcerer exhaled slowly and turned, making his way back to his shop, the familiar scent of old parchment and incense washing over him. For the first time in years, the comfort of his home felt hollow. He walked past the shelves, past the jars of herbs and bones, and stopped at a small wooden chest tucked into the corner. He hesitated only briefly before kneeling and lifting the lid. Inside, wrapped in a faded cloth, lay a portrait.

  He hadn’t looked at it in years, but now, as he unfolded the cloth, he saw two familiar faces, Lord and Lady Drakovar, their smiles warm, their hands entwined. The artist captured them beautifully. His friends.

  Gone, because of him, because he had been rash, because he had let his anger drive his magic. He had been young then. Younger, wilder, and filled with righteous fury. When he had learned what Caliban had done, when he had stood before him, the scent of his wife’s perfume still lingering in the air, his rage had been blinding.

  He had not thought of the consequences, not of what the curse would do to the world around Caliban, and not of the innocent blood that would spill. Most certainly not of Lord and Lady Drakovar, who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the storm of a punishment meant for their son.

  Cel swallowed hard and shut the chest, his fingers pressing against the wood. Regret was a bitter thing. Now, after twenty-five years, the past was stirring again. Divan would go to Bran, and Cel feared what he would find when he arrived.

  Chapter 5

  There are nights I walk from room to room, looking for what I lost. The fire dies quickly here now, as if it too has no will to linger. I do not weep. The guilty have no right to tears. – from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The village of Bran was smaller than Divan remembered.

  As he rode through the narrow streets, he noted the changes. The homes seemed older, weathered by time and mountain winds, but the people moved about the market as they always had. Merchants called their wares, the scent of roasted chestnuts and fresh bread filled the air, and children darted between the stalls, their laughter breaking through the otherwise quiet, watchful atmosphere.

  But beneath it all, something felt different. The way the villagers spoke in hushed voices, glancing toward the woods as if afraid to draw the attention of something unseen. There was also the absence of music, of the lighthearted chatter that once filled the square. Or it was simply the weight of his unease pressing against him.

  Divan dismounted near the edge of the market, tying his horse to a post before moving through the crowd. He did not intend to stop. He was merely observing, reacquainting himself with a place that had once been home.

  Then he saw her.

  A young woman stood behind a wooden booth, her long, dark hair tied back in a braid, a few strands catching in the crisp morning breeze. She was speaking with an older woman, her voice calm, confident, yet soothing, like a balm to the soul.

  Divan paused.

  She wasn’t selling the usual market goods, no vegetables, no cloth, no trinkets. Instead, she lined her table with small vials, bundles of dried herbs, and jars filled with salves.

  A healer.

  He watched as she selected a tincture for the woman before her, pressing it gently into her hands.

  “This should help with the pain in your joints,” she said softly. “A few drops in your tea each night.”

  The woman nodded, murmuring her thanks before walking away.

  Divan found himself rooted to the spot, watching the healer move gracefully as she arranged her supplies. There was something striking about her, not just her beauty, but the way she carried herself, the way her hands moved with ease, the quiet strength in her presence.

  A memory stirred. His mother, in their old home, grinding herbs in a small mortar, her voice warm as she hummed an old song. Before he could dwell on it, movement in the crowd caught his eye. An older woman approached the booth, a woven basket of herbs in hand, and he recognized her instantly.

  Maria Unger.

  A sharp pang of nostalgia struck him. Maria had been his mother’s dear friend. He remembered visiting her home as a child, sitting at her table with his feet swinging beneath the chair as she placed a plate of sweet cakes before him, dusted with sugar. She had always smelled of lavender and warm earth, and her laughter had been as rich as the tea she brewed.

  He even remembered her cat, a fat, lazy thing that tolerated his presence as he rolled a small leather ball across the floor for it. That was a pleasant memory. One of the few. A smile pulled at his lips as he stepped forward.

  “Excuse me,” he said, his voice carrying over the market’s hum.

  Maria turned toward him, her sharp eyes narrowing in curiosity until they met his. She froze. Her weathered hand rose to her mouth, her fingers trembling. Her eyes were so familiar, so kind, welling with tears.

  “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “You are Divan?”

  His grin widened. “Yes, Maria.”

  For a moment, she simply stared, as if afraid he would vanish if she blinked. Then, with a cry of joy, she threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. Divan chuckled, wrapping his arms around her in return, surprised by the flood of warmth in his chest. She smelled the same, of dried herbs and earth, of safety and home.

  “My goodness,” she said, pulling back to study him, her hands cupping his face. “You are a fine young man now. Just look at you!”

  A soft, amused voice broke in. “Grandmother, who is this?”

  Divan turned, and his breath caught. The young healer stood beside them, watching him with curiosity. Up close, she was even lovelier, her dark lashes framing large, intelligent almond-shaped brown eyes.

  Maria beamed, wiping at her eyes. “Oh, Lila, this is an old friend, one I haven’t seen in years. Divan Drakovar.”

  Divan met Lila’s gaze, offering his most charming smile. “A pleasure.”

  Her lips parted slightly, as if surprised. There was something in her expression, recognition? No, not quite, but something stirred between them. A pull. A strange, undeniable awareness. Lila hesitated only a moment before dipping her head politely. “I’ve heard the name before.”

  “Good things, I hope,” he teased.

  Maria laughed, patting his arm. “Oh, don’t let him fool you, child. He was a rambunctious boy.”

  Divan chuckled, but his gaze never left Lila’s. The connection between them was unexpected. Strong, even in its infancy.

  Maria didn’t seem to notice. “You must come to dinner tonight. We have so much to talk about.”

  Divan hesitated, but only briefly. A meal with Maria and Lila? After the tension of the past few weeks, the unease in his gut, the looming uncertainty of Castle Bran. . . this invitation sounded like a reprieve. “I would love to,” he said sincerely.

  Maria clapped her hands. “Good! You can help us close up.”

  He didn’t argue. He helped gather the supplies, his movements steady and familiar as carrying baskets and bundled herbs. Lila worked beside him, their hands brushing more than once. Each time, there was something, a flicker of words unspoken, an electricity he couldn’t ignore. At one point, as they reached for the same bundle of dried lavender, their fingers touched. Lila glanced at him sharply, startled by the contact. Divan only smiled, and she smiled back.

  ***

  A wave of warmth greeted him as he stepped inside the cottage, carrying with it the scent of simmering stew. Golden light pooled across the wooden floor, and a fire crackled in the hearth. Woven blankets hung over the chairs, and dried herbs dangled from the rafters, swaying gently with each breath of air. Divan rolled up his sleeves and took the knife Maria handed him, the worn handle fitting awkwardly in his grip. He chopped the carrots unevenly, but she didn’t seem to mind. A pot bubbled on the hearth as he added more wood to the fire, and when he set out the mismatched bowls and spoons, his hands moved more slowly, almost reverently, as if this quiet ritual were something sacred. Lila stirred something in a bowl, lips pressed tight, but her eyes kept flicking to him with quick glances when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Once, he caught her, and she dropped her gaze so fast it made him smile. Over dinner, Maria asked him about his life. He told them of Brașov, of his work, of the patients who relied on him. He left out the letter and the real reason he was here.

  The meal was simple but warm with roasted vegetables, a loaf of bread, and a delicious pot of stew rich with herbs Divan hadn’t tasted since he was a boy. They spoke quietly at first, about the weather, about how the village had changed, about nothing at all.

  Maria pushed the plates aside, reached for the teapot, and refilled her cup; her tone was light—too light. “Where are you staying, Divan?” Divan smiled faintly. “I thought I would go up to the castle and see how my brother is doing.”

  Maria’s hand froze for just a breath before she carefully set the teapot down. Across the table, Lila exchanged a glance with her grandmother, her brow furrowing. “You’ll see your brother, then?” Maria asked, her voice steady but tight.

  Divan nodded. “That’s why I came. I have been away too long.” He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “How is he?”

  For the first time all evening, the easy comfort between them thinned. Maria’s mouth pressed into a line. “I know little,” she said carefully. “I see him now and then. He comes to town. He comes to town often.”

  Divan studied her, reading more in what she didn’t say than in what she did. He set his cup down and rose from the table, reaching for his coat.

  Maria stood quickly. “The hour is late,” she said, almost pleading. “Stay the night here. Go to him in the morning, after you’ve rested.”

  Divan shook his head, gently but firmly. “I’ve waited long enough.”

  Maria hesitated, then touched his arm lightly, a mother’s touch. “Then be careful, Divan. The valley. . . the nights. . . they are not always safe.”

  Lila stepped forward, her face pale. “Promise you’ll come back tomorrow. So we know you’re all right.”

  Divan smiled at them both, a soft, tired smile. “I will. I promise.” The warmth of the meal, the flicker of candlelight, the laughter that had come so easily, all faded as reality set in once more. It was time to go.

  Lila walked him to the door, her arms crossed over her chest against the cold. “Meeting you was a pleasure, Dr. Drakovar.”

  He tilted his head. “Dr. Drakovar? Not Divan?”

  Her lips twitched. “We’ve only just met.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Her eyes met his, steady, unreadable, but there was warmth there. “Yes.”

  With a last glance at Maria, who waved from the doorway, Divan stepped out into the night. The road to Castle Drakovar stretched before him, dark and endless. As he rode into the shadows, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Lila Unger had just changed something in his life.

  Forever.

  The warmth of Maria and Lila’s home lingered in Divan’s mind long after he left the village. The scent of stew and burning firewood, the laughter, the comfort. It had steadied him more than he realized. Now, as he guided his horse up the winding, narrow path to Castle Drakovar, the contrast was sharp.

  The great stone fortress loomed ahead, its silhouette jagged against the black sky, rising from the mountains like the bones of some ancient beast. The moon hung heavy above the craggy peaks, its pale glow spilling over the valley and casting long, skeletal shadows across the overgrown courtyard. A chill rode the wind, sharper here than in the village below, carrying the faint scent of damp earth, old stone, and something more elusive, something long forgotten.