Caliban’s grip on his glass tightened. “How would I know him just because I lived here? He lived here once, so what? I don’t keep registers of every man who’s ever set foot in this village.”

  Divan remained silent.

  Caliban’s eyes darkened, suspicion creeping into his expression. “Why would you think I knew him?” His voice was dangerously quiet. “Did he tell you he knew me?”

  “No.” Divan’s tone was careful, measured.

  Caliban’s breath was unsteady. “What did he tell you about me?”

  Divan studied him, the way his brother’s fingers twitched against the glass, the way his chest rose and fell with barely contained anger. Caliban was unstable, not just emotionally, but mentally.

  He chose his next words carefully. “He never mentioned you, not even once.”

  Caliban stared at him, his gaze piercing, sharp as a blade. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Caliban leaned back in his chair, but the tension in his body never faded.

  Divan could feel his brother watching him, as if weighing his words, deciding to believe him or not. Divan knew he needed to leave, despite what his big brother wanted.

  “I’m going to spend the day in the village,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ll be back later.”

  Caliban said nothing. He only glared as Divan strode toward the door, his presence pressing against his back. When Divan stepped outside into the crisp morning air, he released a slow breath, only now realizing how hard his pulse was hammering in his chest. Something was very wrong in Castle Bran, and the trouble lay not in the stones or the walls, but in the man who lived within them.

  Divan’s boots echoed against the frozen stone as he stepped into the courtyard, the early morning air crisp and biting. He moved with purpose toward the barn, then saddled his horse as quickly as possible, eager to put distance between himself and the castle.

  Something about the conversation with Caliban had unsettled him. Not just the vulgar way he spoke of Lila, but the way his brother had reacted at the mention of Cel Tradat, volatile, defensive, as if he were hiding something.

  His studies as a doctor trained Divan to observe. He had seen fear in a man’s eyes before, but what he saw in Caliban’s eyes was not fear. It was paranoia, and that made him dangerous.

  Tightening the last strap, Divan swung himself into the saddle and turned the horse toward the village road. As he reached the gates, the sound came. A roar of fury from inside the castle. Then the unmistakable crash of breaking glass. Divan pulled back on the reins, his horse shifting uneasily beneath him as the violence inside escalated. Furniture overturned. The echo of something heavy striking the stone walls. Another crash, this time the sharp shatter of porcelain.

  Divan’s jaw tightened as he listened, waiting for some instinct to tell him to turn back, to intervene. But there was nothing, no sympathy, no fear, no sadness, only pity, and even that was minimal.

  With a shake of his head, he gave his horse a nudge and rode forward, leaving the castle behind. Caliban’s rage faded with distance, swallowed by the howling wind that swept through the valley. Divan did not look back, because whatever was happening in Castle Bran had nothing to do with him.

  As he rode down the narrow, winding path toward Bran, it was not Castle Bran that filled his thoughts, nor his brother. Only Lila. Those large, dark eyes, the warmth in her voice. The way their fingers had brushed when they packed up the booth. Lila was the one thought that made this trip bearable, and yet, even as he rode toward town, something in his gut told him nothing about Bran would be simple.

  Chapter 7

  There are a few in Bran who have guessed the truth. I see it in their eyes and the way their hands tremble, the way they avert their gaze too quickly. They know or they nearly know. But they say nothing. And so long as they keep their silence, the beast does not turn its hunger upon them. It is a mystery to me. How can anyone know how the beast chooses its victims? - from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  Divan rode into the square just as the village of Bran shook off sleep. Mist hugged the rooftops. In the market, merchants rolled up their sleeves, hammered posts into the cobbles, and arranged their goods beneath striped awnings. The scent of fresh bread drifted from the baker’s shop, and he heard the distant bleating of livestock being herded down the side streets.

  Divan wasn’t here for the market, not yet. He wanted to see Ishtak Kohen. The Prevalie, or as some called “the general store,” had been here when he was a boy, a modest but sturdy shop nestled between two taller buildings, its wooden sign faded but still legible. I. Kohen – Goods & Supplies.

  As a child, the shop had fascinated Divan. The Prevalie had seemed to contain everything a villager or farmer might need, tools, cookware, bags of grain and flour, and sturdy leather goods. Wooden toys sat neatly on a shelf, alongside rare and unusual items that found their way to the shop, like Turkish rugs piled on a table. There were even tins of brightly wrapped candies for children. His mother would bring him here often, and while she spoke with Ishtak, Divan would wander the small space, marveling at the stacks of practical goods and the occasional unexpected treasure nestled among them.

  Ishtak himself had been a tall, frail man, but with a brilliant mind. At least, that was how Divan had remembered him at six years old. He hoped the old man was still alive.

  Dismounting, he tied his horse near the trough and stepped inside.

  The familiar scent of wood, leather, and grain filled the air as Divan stepped through the heavy wooden door of the Prevalie. This was the same scent that had greeted him as a child, mingling with the faint tang of metal tools, candle wax, and the musty perfume of time itself. The door creaked on its hinges, announcing his arrival, but nothing stirred, except for the dust motes, swirling lazily in the dim morning light that slanted through the warped glass windows.

  The shop was large, deeper than it seemed from the outside. Its interior was a labyrinth of shelves, cabinets, and tables stacked with tools, cookware, bolts of fabric, and other practical goods. The Prevalie was a place of order, but also of disorder, an organized chaos where everything had its place, even if no one but Ishtak knew precisely where that was. Long wooden shelves lined the walls, sagging slightly under the weight of iron nails, wooden toys, and sturdy leather goods.

  To the left, a section dedicated to farming and household essentials, arranged in a meticulous yet haphazard way, sacks of grain and flour stacked beside coils of rope, lanterns, and sturdy work gloves. Barrels of dried beans and tins of brightly wrapped candies for children sat near crates of horseshoes and metal fastenings.

  To the right, rare and unexpected items filled a series of wooden display tables—polished brass tools, finely made cookware, and Turkish rugs still piled in an untidy yet inviting heap. He remembered pressing his hands against the smooth grain of a new-handled axe as a boy, eyes wide with wonder, before his brother had pulled him away with a gruff reminder that they were not here to play.

  And there, just as he had always been, stood Ishtak behind the heavy wooden counter, his long fingers methodically sorting through a handful of coins. The ritual remained unchanged. Divan had once asked, as a curious child, why Ishtak always counted his money when they came. The old man had merely smiled, his deep-set eyes gleaming with amusement, and said, “To remind myself of what is mine before I give too much away.”

  The words came back to him now, stirring something in his chest. How many times had he stood in this very spot, watching his mother and Ishtak exchange quiet words, watching his brother lean against the counter, bored but patient? Before everything changed, this place had been a weekly ritual: his small hand in hers, the scent of flour and cinnamon. The world still whole.

  Divan took a slow breath, his fingers trailing lightly over the worn wooden edge of the counter. This place had survived time.

  Then, from behind the counter, a voice rasped, hoarse but sharp as ever.

  “Well, well. I never thought I’d see you again.”

  He looked older, of course, his once-thin frame now almost gaunt, his hands more gnarled, his skin paper thin. But his sharp eyes were the same.

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Then Ishtak grinned, showing still-strong teeth. “Divan Drakovar.”

  Divan smiled warmly. “You remember me.”

  “Of course, I do. Your mother brought you here often.” Ishtak’s expression softened just slightly. “You were always a curious little thing. Running around my shop, touching things, asking far too many questions.”

  Divan chuckled. “Some things never change.”

  Ishtak stepped out from behind the counter, eyeing him up and down. “You’ve grown into a fine man. A doctor, I’ve heard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Your mother would be proud.”

  Something in Divan’s chest tightened at that. He inclined his head in quiet gratitude.

  Ishtak gestured toward a chair near the counter. “Sit. Tell me, what brings you back to this cursed place?”

  Divan hesitated, but took the offered seat. “I received a letter from my brother.”

  At the mention of Caliban, Ishtak’s expression darkened. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by something cold. His lips thinned. His fingers curled slightly on the counter. And then he scowled and muttered something harsh under his breath in a language Divan did not recognize.

  Divan blinked, taken aback. He had expected many reactions upon returning to Bran. But this? He had never seen Ishtak angry before. He nearly asked about it, pressed for an explanation, but something held him back. Instead, he simply let it pass.

  A small silence stretched between them before Ishtak let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Well.” His voice was neutral again, but his eyes remained sharp. “Tell me, then. What have you been doing all these years?”

  And just like that, the tension eased. Divan spoke of Brașov, of his clinic, of the people he knew. He told Ishtak about the apothecary he ran, the lives he had saved, and the ones he had lost.

  And Ishtak told him about his shop, how business had changed, how the village itself had changed.

  They spoke easily, like old friends, slipping into a comfortable rhythm. For a little while, Divan almost forgot the weight pressing on his shoulders.

  But then, as their conversation drew to a close, Ishtak leaned forward slightly, his voice quiet but firm. “Listen to me, Divan. You must return to Brașov as soon as you can.”

  “Tell me about this beast, Ishtak. I spoke this morning with Otilla. She told me the beast killed Vladimir, but she spoke like it was more than an animal from the forest.”

  Ishtak’s irritation was noticeable. “I will only tell you this. The beast is real, and some of us have been lucky enough to still be alive after all these years. Many people have died, men, women, those close to us, and those traveling through. It comes once a month during the full moon.”

  “So, the stories are true?”

  “They are, and the full moon is tonight, Divan, and you should be nowhere near this village when that moon rises.”

  Divan hesitated, unsure of what to say. So he only nodded. And then, warmly, he said, “Thank you, Ishtak.”

  Ishtak only sighed. “Go on, then.”

  As Divan stepped back out into the morning light, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the old man knew something he wouldn’t say, and that, more than anything, disturbed him.

  ***

  The morning mist had burned away by the time Divan made his way back to the market. Village Bran was now alive with the hum of daily life. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the sharper tang of drying herbs, and merchants called out their wares as villagers bartered in hushed voices.

  He easily found Lila. She stood behind her booth, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands moving deftly as she sorted dried flowers into small bundles. Sunlight wove through her dark hair like molten gold spilled across midnight silk, catching the loose strands and turning them to fine threads of amber.

  Divan again found himself drawn to her immediately, and it seemed she sensed it, because when she looked up and saw him approaching, a small, knowing smile touched her lips. “You’re back,” she said simply.

  Divan smirked. “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

  Lila arched a brow. “You are staying in Castle Bran. I wouldn’t blame you if you rode back to Brașov instead.”

  Divan chuckled. “Not yet.”

  He moved behind the booth with easy familiarity, setting down his satchel and rolling up his sleeves. “You’re putting these herbs together incorrectly,” he said, plucking a bundle from her hands.

  Lila blinked at him. “Oh?”

  He smirked. “Your proportions are wrong, too much feverfew. You’ll ease the pain, but you’ll leave your patient with nausea and dizziness.”

  Lila crossed her arms. “And you think you can do better?”

  Divan leaned in slightly, close enough that he caught the faint scent of roses and honey on her skin, mingling with the warm traces of soap and the faintest hint of crushed herbs. “I know I can do better.”

  Lila’s breath hitched just slightly. But before she could retort, Maria appeared beside them, setting a basket down on the table. She grinned between them, her sharp eyes twinkling. “Ah, young hands at work!”

  Lila exhaled, stepping back slightly, though there was something almost reluctant in the movement.

  Divan turned to Maria with an easy smile. “You’re very busy today.”

  Maria’s grin widened as she placed a few fresh tinctures beside the jars of salves. “I just thought I’d check in, but it seems you two don’t need my help at all.”

  Then, with an amused little hum, she disappeared into the market, leaving them alone again.

  Lila shook her head. “She’s meddling.”

  Divan laughed softly. “Do you mind?”

  Lila hesitated, then gave a small, almost shy smile. “No.”

  They worked side by side for most of the day, grinding roots, mixing tinctures, talking in soft, easy conversation. Divan introduced new methods, showing her ways to refine certain compounds and how to better balance a pain remedy without overwhelming the patient’s system.

  Lila listened intently, her sharp mind catching on quickly. At one point, as he was showing her how to strain an extract through fine muslin, their shoulders touched as they leaned over the table. Neither of them moved away.

  He put his arm around her wrist, holding her steady. Lila’s breath stilled, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she looked up at him beneath dark lashes, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “I think you enjoy teaching me.”

  Divan smirked. “I think you enjoy pretending you don’t already know most of this.”

  Lila let out a soft laugh, but the way she leaned closer to him told him everything. She was just as drawn to him as he was to her.

  They worked like that, quiet whispers and shared glances that lingered, and the longer Divan spent in her presence, the more certain he became. This woman was not just beautiful, she was intelligent, capable, and utterly captivating.

  He had come to Bran for his brother, but it was Lila Unger who had snared him. The thought of returning to the cold, dark halls of Castle Bran was suddenly unbearable.

  The afternoon sun hung low in the sky over the village square as merchants hurried to pack up their wares. The air had changed, not just in temperature, but in feeling. A quiet urgency filled the market, an unspoken tension that made the usual chatter more subdued.

  Divan was finishing up a last tincture with Lila when Maria approached, her expression serious. “It’s almost evening,” she said, setting a fresh bundle of herbs onto the table. “The market is closing early.”

  Divan arched a brow. “Why?”

  Maria gave him a look as if the answer should be obvious.

  “The full moon,” she said. “We always close before dark on nights like this.”

  Divan glanced around; sure enough, merchants were moving more quickly now, their hands brisk, their eyes darting toward the forest edge.

  He frowned. “You believe the full moon is dangerous?”

  Maria’s lips pressed together. “You should come to dinner again. Best not to be out after sundown.”

  Divan glanced at Lila, who gave a small nod.

  Chapter 8

  There are nights when I miss it more than I can bear. Not the power, not the wealth, but the simple things: A dinner shared without fear. Laughter that was not hollow. A friend’s hand clapped on my shoulder without hesitation. Once, there were men who called me brother, who spoke my name with warmth. Once, I had a place at the table, a voice in the conversation, a chair by the fire. Now there is only silence. -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  Maria’s cottage was warm, the scent of roasted meat and garlic filling the air as they sat around the table. The fire crackled in the hearth. Halfway through the meal, Divan set down his fork and leaned back. “Why does the market close on full moons?”

  Maria and Lila exchanged a glance. Finally, Maria sighed. “Because of the creature.”

  “A creature?”

  Maria nodded. “The beast hunts on the full moon. People have died.”

  “What is it?”

  Maria hesitated, then shook her head. “We don’t know. No one has ever seen it and lived to tell. She played with a cup in her hand. “Some say it’s a Picolici.”

  “A Picolici? I don’t understand. Why would the village think it’s a Picolici?”

  “They cannot consider anything else. If it were a werewolf, they would suspect one another. A Picolici is the best place to put the blame, yet no one can say they know why the cursed spirit that comes as a wolf man has come to Bran.”

  A silence settled over the table. Divan let out a slow breath. “How long has this been happening?”

  Maria’s fingers tightened around her cup. “Years.”