Lila met Divan’s gaze. “We try not to talk about it. Speaking of the beast only makes people more afraid.”

  Divan exhaled, staring down at his plate. He had heard whispers in Brașov, but he hadn’t taken them seriously. Now, sitting at this table, he wasn’t so sure. “Maria, I saw Otilla this morning up at the castle, making breakfast for Caliban and me. She told me a beast had killed Vladimir, but I didn’t know what she was talking about or if her words were metaphorical.”

  Maria exhaled sharply at the mention of Otilla’s husband, her fingers tightening around the wooden spoon she held. The firelight cast long shadows across her face, deepening the lines of worry etched into her skin. She nodded grimly.

  “Yes, the beast killed Vladimir, just as it killed the others before him.”

  She hesitated, glancing at the fire as if gathering her thoughts, then set the spoon down and folded her hands in front of her. Her voice dropped lower, carrying the weight of sorrow and old fears.

  “His death happened almost five years ago,” she began. “Vladimir was a good man, one of the best. He ran the mill down by the river, the only one in the valley. Everyone depended on him, not just for grain, but for the kindness he gave so freely. He never turned away a family in need, even when the harvests were poor.”

  She paused, her expression tightening.

  “That night, something went wrong at the mill. One man who worked for him came running to their home, pounding on the door, saying the wheel had jammed. If they didn’t fix it by morning, half the village would be without flour for the week. Otilla begged him to wait until sunrise, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said people were counting on him, that the children needed bread, and that he’d be quick and careful.”

  Her fingers curled into a fist against the table.

  “He never came back.”

  Divan listened, silent.

  “When he didn’t return by dawn, Otilla and a few of the men went searching for him. They found him near the mill, just beyond the tree line, as if he’d been trying to make his way home. His body was. . .” she broke off, pressing her lips together before whispering, “ruined.”

  She shook her head, her voice raw.

  The beast ripped open his throat and chest. . .“ She finished quietly. “. . .devoured.”

  A cold weight settled on Divan’s chest. “Wolves?” he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

  Maria met his gaze. “No. There were no tracks, no blood on the ground, though there should have been. Just him, lying there with his face frozen in terror.”

  She crossed herself.

  “Otilla told us she heard him cry out once, just once, in the night. By the time she unbarred the door, there was nothing but silence.” Maria’s voice dropped lower, a whisper. “We all know what did it. The same thing that killed the others. The thing that comes when the full moon rises, the creature we cannot fight.”

  She straightened then, as if shaking off the weight of her words, but the fear remained in her eyes. “That’s why we lock our doors, and why we pray, but Divan, it never stops. The monster always comes back.”

  For a long moment, the only sound was the crackling fire and the wind whispering against the shutters. Maria rose to clear the plates, but Divan still had questions. He took a sip of wine before speaking. “Has my brother ever come to you for any herbs or tinctures?”

  Maria stilled, her back half-turned to him.

  Divan watched her closely.

  When she finally turned back, her expression was wary. “Help with what, exactly?”

  Divan studied her. “Moodiness, sleeplessness, other issues. Anger.”

  Maria fidgeted, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “No, he hasn’t.”

  She was lying. Divan could see it in the way her fingers twitched, in the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze directly.

  Lila leaned forward slightly. “What happened that made you wonder?”

  Divan sighed. “I mentioned Cel Trădat to him this morning.”

  The cup Maria held slipped from her fingers, shattering against the wooden sink.

  Divan’s eyes narrowed. Her hands were shaking. “Do you know Cel?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

  Maria swallowed hard, bending down to pick up the broken pieces. “Certainly, I do.”

  Lila looked confused. “Who is Cel Trădat?”

  “Cel is an old friend of mine,” she said finally, setting the shards aside. “How is he?”

  Divan didn’t take his eyes off her. “He’s doing well. Cel has a shop in Brașov. He sells curiosities, artifacts, and such. He’s happy.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  But she didn’t sound relieved. She sounded nervous. Divan leaned back, folding his arms. Whatever had happened between his brother and Cel Trădat, Maria knew, but she wasn’t ready to say.

  Maria set the last of the dishes aside, then turned to him, her sharp eyes soft with concern. “How are you doing up there in that old castle?”

  Divan ran a hand through his hair. “I spent the night there last night, but honestly, Maria. . .” he hesitated, searching for the right words. “There’s an evil presence in that place, and it’s strong.”

  Maria’s expression darkened, the warmth in her face dimming.

  “Have you been up there recently?” he asked.

  Maria shook her head, her voice quiet. “Not since your parents died.”

  Divan frowned. “Does anyone go up there?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked at him then, and for the first time, he saw it: sadness.

  “We are unwanted,” she said simply. “Caliban has made that very clear.”

  Divan studied her. “He refuses visitors?”

  She nodded. “The only one he allows is Otilla, and even that is occasionally. He says if he wants company, he’ll come to town.”

  Divan leaned forward. “And does he?”

  “Oh yes,” Maria said, her mouth twisting slightly. “He drinks, gambles, and carries on at the tavern. He’s quite gregarious, buying drinks, laughing, and everyone’s friend.”

  “How often?”

  “I’ve heard he comes a couple times a week, at least.”

  Divan’s brow furrowed. That made little sense. The man he had met at Castle Bran had been nothing like that. A man who barely looked at him, who spoke in riddles, who flew into rages at the mere mention of a name. A man whose eyes carried something broken beneath the surface. And yet. . . Everyone’s friend? He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “Good,” Divan finally said, though the words felt hollow. “At least he’s getting out of that horrible place now and then.”

  Maria watched him as if trying to gauge whether he honestly believed that. “The reason I’m asking is, if it’s too difficult for you to stay up there, Mrs. Altonov has a cottage for rent just next door.”

  Divan lifted a brow.

  Maria continued. “You could rent it until you’re finished with your business here. You wouldn’t have to stay in that dreadful place with him.”

  Divan leaned back, considering it. The idea was tempting. The castle was suffocating, haunted by an unseen force that made his skin prickle, the air heavy. He wanted to understand his brother, but every instinct told him that staying in that castle with him was dangerous.

  Maria placed a hand on his arm. “You are even welcome to come and take your meals with us.”

  Divan exhaled. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Maria’s eyes softened. “A small thing. Your mother was a good friend. Her death was a tragedy.”

  Something in Divan’s chest tightened, but he only nodded. “I’ll go back and stay one more night. I’ll make arrangements in the morning.”

  Then, a thought struck him, and he glanced out the window. The sky had begun to darken, the sun dipping low behind the tree line.

  “Which reminds me,” he said, rising from his seat, “if there is a Picolici or something out there, as you say, I better get back before the moon comes up.”

  Maria’s face grew grim. “Be careful.”

  Divan gave her a reassuring smile. “I will.”

  As he stepped outside, the crisp evening air wrapped around him, carrying the distant scent of burning wood. Lila followed him onto the porch, her arms folded against the chill.

  He turned to her, pausing for a moment before saying softly, “Goodnight, Lila.”

  He hesitated, watching something flicker behind her eyes. Then, shyly, he said, “Can I come work with you in the market tomorrow?”

  A slow smile spread across her lips. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Divan let his fingers graze her arm lightly, a touch so faint it could have been mistaken for the wind. “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

  With that, he turned, mounted his horse, and rode back toward Castle Bran, but as he left, one thought lingered. If Maria and the entire village feared something in the dark, then what, exactly, was waiting for him in the castle tonight?

  Chapter 9

  The nights are worse than the days. When the sun falls and the shadows lengthen, they come for me, the faces I cannot bear to remember, yet cannot forget. I wake shivering, soaked in sweat, the taste of iron on my tongue. The dreams do not fade with the morning. They cling to me like a second skin. -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The castle was cold when Divan entered, the air inside heavier than it had been when he left that morning. The scent of old stone and damp wood clung to the halls, and somewhere in the distance, the wind howled against the thick walls.

  He made his way toward the main hall, where the fire still burned low in the hearth.

  And there, seated by the tall windows, bathed in silver light, was Caliban.

  He was drinking again, a bottle of vodka in his grip, but his focus wasn’t on the fire anymore. He was staring out the window at the full moon. The pale light ran across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw.

  Divan slowed his steps, the weight of his presence barely registering as he entered the room.

  Caliban didn’t turn to look at him. “How was your day, brother?” he asked, voice low, almost distant.

  Divan hesitated, observing him. “My day was fine. And yours?”

  Caliban finally tore his gaze from the moon and looked at him.

  A slow, bitter smirk curled his lips.

  “Glorious, as always.” There was an edge to his voice, a hint of something sharp beneath the surface. Then, as if to wash it away, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took another deep drink.

  Divan didn’t ask what he meant. He didn’t want to know. Instead, he exhaled and took a step back. “Good night.”

  Caliban lifted the bottle slightly in a mock toast. “Yes, good night.”

  Divan turned on his heel and strode toward his room. His mind already made up. Tomorrow, he was moving to the cottage. Whatever darkness lived in this castle, whatever had taken root in Caliban’s soul, he wanted no part of it.

  ***

  The cold seeped in through the cracks, settling deep into Divan’s bones. He had barred the door to his chamber, though he could not explain why. Something instinctual, primal, had made him do it. Still, it was a feeble comfort.

  He lay in the vast, ancient bed, the heavy canopy above seeming to press down on him. The mattress was stiff with age, the scent of dust and old fabric surrounding him like a burial shroud. Sleep did not come easily. His thoughts churned, tangled with the uneasy weight that had been growing in his chest since his return.

  Then, in the night, he drifted into a restless slumber. At first, the dream was shapeless, just a sensation of cold and weight, of something unseen watching him. Then the images took form.

  He was standing in the village, the cobblestone streets slick with mist. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, blood. The houses loomed dark and silent, their shutters bolted tight, but he could feel the eyes behind them, peering through the cracks, holding their breath.

  A whisper rode the wind, a voice calling his name, not spoken, but felt in his bones. He turned toward the sound and saw the blackened forest, its trees gnarled and reaching like skeletal fingers. Shadows moved between the trunks, flickering just beyond the edge of his vision.

  Then, a shape emerged.

  The form was hulking, distorted, shifting between human and something far worse. The eyes burned with a feral hunger, glowing red in the darkness. Breath came heavily, nostrils flaring, sniffing the air. Somehow, it knew him and was looking for him.

  “Divan.”

  His name came from its mouth, but the voice was wrong, twisted, layered, as if multiple voices spoke at once. A chill swept over him. His legs refused to move. The beast stepped closer, the moonlight catching the gleam of sharp teeth, the raw, wet darkness of its maw.

  Then it lunged.

  Divan woke with a sharp gasp, his body jerking upright. His breath came fast and ragged, his skin damp with sweat despite the cold. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and for a moment, he questioned whether he had truly woken or remained trapped in the nightmare.

  The room was dark, save for the faint sliver of moonlight filtering through the window. The silence was suffocating, but beneath it, something pulsed. A wrongness.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his feet to the icy stone floor. Every instinct in his body told him something was happening. Something was out there.

  Then, far in the distance, barely more than a whisper on the wind, came a scream. A woman’s scream. The sound cut through the night, raw with terror, and then silence.

  Divan stood, his muscles taut, his breath held. He reached for the dagger he had placed on the bedside table. His fingers curled around the hilt, his pulse pounding beneath his skin. He didn’t know why, but he felt it. The beast was in the village, and this was only the beginning.

  ***

  First thing in the morning, he had gathered his satchel and made his way to the barn, where his horse waited, his breath visible in the cool morning air. But as he stepped onto the path leading away from the castle, something caught his eye. A shape in the grass. Divan’s breath hitched as he hurried forward.

  A man was lying motionless on the damp earth. As he reached him, Divan dropped to his knees and rolled the man onto his back. His stomach twisted as he recognized the face beneath the streaks of dirt and blood.

  The body was Caliban. He was naked, his skin marred with scratches and cuts, as if he had run blindly through the brambles and forest with no clothes to shield him. Blood smeared across his face and body, far more than the shallow scratches could explain. The dew clung to his skin, dark curls tangled against his face, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of a man with no concern for the world around him. This would have been almost comical if not for the pit that settled deep in Divan’s stomach. Still, Caliban was pale, and for a horrible moment, Divan feared he might die.

  But then, a sharp gasp. Caliban’s body jerked, his eyes snapped open as he startled awake, blinking in confusion before his gaze landed on Divan.

  Divan grabbed his shoulders. “Caliban! Can you hear me? What happened to you?”

  Caliban panted, his wild gaze flicking around as if trying to piece together where he was. Then, in a breathless laugh, he slumped back against the ground. “I’m fine.”

  Divan scowled. “Fine? You’re lying here naked, covered in cuts and blood! That is not fine.”

  Caliban rubbed his face, wincing slightly. “Too much to drink. That’s all. That’s what happens now and then.”

  Divan’s stomach twisted. “This happens?”

  Caliban gave a half-smirk, though there was something off about it, something too forced, too casual. “Damn alcohol. I’m afraid I’m a bad alcoholic. This happens when I drink too much.”

  Divan’s frown deepened. Everything was all too bizarre to argue. There was no stench of alcohol on him, although there was a stench of something he couldn’t process, and it was vile. No vomit in the grass, and what drunk man wandered into the woods naked in the middle of the night, only to return scratched to hell?

  But if Caliban refused to explain, Divan had little choice but to leave it be. He reached out. “Come on. I’ll help you inside—“

  “No!”

  Divan jerked back at the sudden outburst.

  Caliban sat up fully now, shaking his head. “No, thank you, brother, I can manage.” He forced himself onto his feet, swaying slightly but remaining upright. “I’ll heat water for a bath. That always helps. Then everything will be better.”

  Divan watched him, wariness creeping up his spine.

  “Are you sure you don’t—“

  “No! I can do it myself!”

  Divan studied him for a long moment, noting the stubborn set of his jaw, the way he refused to meet his gaze. Something was wrong, very wrong, but Caliban would not tell him.

  So instead, Divan exhaled and took a step back.

  “Strange,” Divan mused, glancing out toward the forest. “The beast was supposed to be out last night.”

  Caliban let out a snort, shifting slightly. “So they say.”

  Divan tilted his head. “You’re lucky, then. Passed out in the grass, drunk and defenseless, one would think the creature might have found you.”

  He meant it as an offhand comment, meant to watch for his brother’s usual smirk, a jest, or some halfhearted insult, but there was none.

  Caliban stiffened, only for a moment, before rolling onto his side with a lazy grin. “What can I say, little brother? I have the devil’s luck.”

  But Divan saw it, the flicker in his expression, the sharp tension in his jaw before he forced himself to relax. What he saw was brief, almost imperceptible, but Divan had spent his life watching people, reading the truths they didn’t speak. Caliban was lying.

  His brother let out a short laugh, as if the idea were ridiculous, as if Divan’s words meant nothing, but there was something beneath it. A bite of irritation, a warning.

  Divan held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, as if accepting the answer. Inside, the unease twisted tighter. He turned to leave, but paused after a few steps. “I’m moving to the village.”