The footprint was massive. Twice, maybe three times the width of a man’s foot, the toes elongated and splayed, ending in sharp impressions like claws. The depth of the cast alone spoke of weight no normal man could bear.

  Costea, notebook still clutched in his hand, edged closer.

  “Is it. . . is it the Picolici?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  Divan shook his head slowly, a grim line tightening his mouth. “No, Costea,” he said, voice low. “This is no spirit from the grave.” He looked again at the terrible print in his hands, the brutal weight of it, the sheer wrongness carved into the earth. “This is something far worse. Something very real. Something extremely dangerous.”

  Costea swallowed hard, his boyish face pale. “What is it?”

  Divan glanced once at the pile of wood they were stacking for the dead woman, then back at the cast. He whispered the word, like it was a curse he didn’t want to speak aloud, a word he never thought he would ever validate. “A werewolf.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  Divan’s mind raced. He remembered his brother covered in blood and scratches. Caliban had smelled like the fur he found in the cottage. His brother had blacked out on the night of a full moon. He had woken up naked and confused.

  Divan’s stomach dropped. No. No, it couldn’t be. He had to be wrong. He had to be missing something. Because if he wasn’t, then the creature the village feared, the beast that had been hunting on the full moon, was Caliban.

  Divan realized Costea was still beside him, waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry, Costea, um, yes, there are some especially important things I need you to do for me. I will need to go to Brașov for a day, but while I’m gone, if you can, I will need someone to record what is in the cottage. I know Anica was your friend, but will that be too difficult for you emotionally?”

  “I can do it,” Costea said. “I want you to—“

  Before he could finish, Costea pulled a small book from inside his coat and flipped it open, producing a well-worn pencil from his pocket. He licked the tip absentmindedly and, without a word, began writing.

  Divan paused mid-sentence, blinking. He saw him earlier with a notebook, but his mind was on so many things that it hadn’t stuck with him what Costea was doing with it.

  “What are you doing, Costea?”

  “Writing it down,” Costea said simply, his tone matter-of-fact as his pencil scratched across the page. “You were saying?”

  Divan hesitated, watching the man’s hand glide over the paper. His script was careful, not elegant, but precise, each letter formed with slow, deliberate strokes. Not the crude scribbles of an uneducated man.

  Shaking off his surprise, Divan continued. “Check the wreckage again. Look for any unusual claw marks. Record the blood stains and anything that doesn’t fit. If you find something, sketch it.”

  Costea nodded, never looking up, his pencil still moving.

  “Talk to the villagers, but don’t let them know you’re investigating. See if anyone heard or saw something last night, before or after the attack. People remember trivial things when they are not asked directly.”

  There was more writing, more careful strokes.

  Divan crossed his arms, studying Costea with fresh interest. “Do you always do this?”

  Costea finally glanced up, tilting his head slightly. “Do what?”

  “Write everything down.”

  Costea hesitated, then offered a small shrug. “Only things that matter.”

  Curious now, Divan gestured toward the book. “Let me see.”

  Costea hesitated for just a moment, then turned the book around, holding it open for Divan to see.

  Inside were pages upon pages of notes, observations, minute details about the village, past events, things overheard. Some pages contained sketches of various places, objects, and even people. The lines were simple but expertly drawn; Costea had a keen eye for proportion and movement evident in each one.

  But it was the latest page that caught Divan’s attention. A perfectly detailed sketch of the beast’s tracks. Divan inhaled sharply. The impressions were exact, down to the depth of the claws and the strange shape of the heel. “You did this?” he asked, lifting his gaze.

  Costea nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “While we were waiting for the plaster to dry. I thought it might help.”

  Divan exhaled slowly, looking at the sketch again. The sketch wasn’t just useful; it was precise. Maybe more useful than the cast he’d made. He looked back at Costea, a flicker of realization settling in. Costea wasn’t just some villager following him around. He was intelligent, observant, and deeply overlooked. For the first time, Divan felt something unexpected toward him: respect.

  “It helps,” he said at last, closing the book gently and handing it back. “Keep doing this. Keep recording everything.”

  Costea straightened slightly, as if the words meant something more than just a simple instruction.

  Divan gave him one last look before turning to his horse. He had a feeling Costea Stinga was going to be more valuable than he had ever expected.

  Chapter 11

  There is no forgetting the smell of burning flesh. I have smelled it too many times, in the fields after the hunt, in the village when fear grew louder than grief. In the quiet corners of memory where no one dares to tread. The odor is not like death. Death is clean, in its way. Fire is something else, it is anger, fear, shame turned into smoke. When the wind carries that stench to my door, I know it is not the dead they are trying to drive away. It is I. -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The wood caught slowly at first, a low crackling whisper beneath the morning chill. The men had built the pyre with rough efficiency, stacking broken branches, scraps of timber, anything dry enough to burn.

  The woman’s body lay atop it, wrapped in cloth so stained with blood it might have been black. A few villagers muttered prayers under their breath, old words, old fears, never meeting Divan’s eyes. The fire climbed higher, greedy orange tongues licking at the bundle. Smoke billowed thick and black, heavy with the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh.

  Divan stood a few paces away, his coat pulled tight against the rising heat. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. This was not his custom, not his belief. But it was theirs. Better to let them have their fire, their fears, their ancient ways. Better to respect the dead and the living left behind.

  As the flames roared and the smoke smeared the sky, Divan found his gaze drawn, unwilling, to the outline of the castle far above, a black silhouette against the gray morning.

  Something watched from those broken walls. He felt it. And whatever it was, no fire built by human hands would drive it away.

  Divan stood a few feet away, scanning the area where they had found her body. Dirt and pine needles covered the bloodstains, but he could still see where the struggle had ended, the ground disturbed by desperate movements.

  Nearby, Maria and Lila spoke in hushed voices with a small group of women, their murmurs blending with the moaning wind. Some women wept softly, dabbing at their eyes with frayed kerchiefs. Lila’s presence was soothing, her quiet, steady voice calming their nerves as she offered words of comfort.

  Then she turned and walked toward him.

  “They told us you looked at the body,” she said.

  Divan exhaled sharply, as if shaking off the memory. “Yes, I did. It was horrible. I need to investigate further.”

  Lila hesitated, lowering her gaze. “Do you think it’s a Picolici? Like they say?”

  He followed her gaze toward the looming silhouette of Castle Bran, its dark stone walls cutting against the overcast sky. “I don’t know for sure yet.”

  She shivered, folding her arms. “We’re safe if we stay inside.”

  “No, you’re not. The creature broke into Anica’s house,” he said, voice rough with restrained anger. “After he killed her, he dragged her body here.”

  Lila paled. “Oh no, then no one is safe.”

  He nodded grimly.

  “At least not for another month,” Lila reminded him. “It won’t attack again until the next full moon.”

  “So, we have a few weeks, but that means we need to prepare now, and I need your help.”

  She straightened. “Tell me what to do.”

  He hesitated, then spoke carefully. “I need to return to Brașov to gather some information that might help. But in the meantime,. . .” he let his voice drop slightly. “I remember your grandmother was a witch. I saw the embroidery on your dress the other day, protection runes. I assume you’re a witch as well.”

  He searched her face for a reaction. Lila’s expression remained unreadable, but she did not deny it.

  “It’s all right,” he said gently. “I’m a sorcerer; not much of one. I prefer science, but I understand these things. My mother was a sorceress.”

  She finally nodded. “My grandmother has books that may help.”

  “Good. I need you and Maria to find out what the villagers can do to protect their homes. Search for anything about talismans, herbs, incense, candles, runes, anything. Until we know exactly what we’re dealing with, we won’t know what will work, but at least we can start a list.”

  She nodded. “We’ll do what we can.”

  A small smile touched his lips. “I know I’ve only known you for a few days, Lila, but. . .” He hesitated, then exhaled, as if deciding to be honest. “There’s something about you, something I find myself drawn to in a way I don’t quite know how to handle.”

  Her cheeks flushed pink, and she lowered her eyes. “Oh. . .”

  He hesitated for a moment. He wasn’t sure why. It was the way the morning light caught in the loose strands of her dark hair, or the way her deep brown eyes held a quiet wisdom that always made him feel as though she saw right through him. Now, standing before her, he let out a soft chuckle.

  “You know, when I first saw you, I thought maybe you’d enchanted me.”

  Lila arched a brow, crossing her arms. “Oh?”

  He smirked. “Yes. I saw you at the market, giving some poor woman a tincture, and suddenly, I couldn’t think straight. I was certain it must have been the runes on your dress. Maybe you were working some love spell on me.”

  Lila let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “That sounds exactly like something a man would say when he doesn’t want to admit he was just struck dumb by a pretty girl.”

  Divan grinned. “I’m not ashamed to admit it. You knocked the sense right out of me.”

  Lila smiled at that, but there was something soft in her expression, something he hoped was love. She tilted her head. “So, when are you leaving for Brașov?”

  “You make it sound like you’ve been waiting for me to go.”

  She shrugged, crossing her arms. “No, but you keep saying you’ll leave, but you’re still here.” Her gaze softened slightly. “Are you sure you’ll go?”

  He exhaled, nodding. “I have to, but I’ll come back.” He chuckled softly, watching the warmth rise in her face. “When I return from Brașov, will you go on a picnic with me?”

  “Yes.”

  She pulled a small fresh loaf of bread and a jar of honey out of her bag. “Here,” she said, wrapping the bread in a bit of linen and pressing it into his hands. “Something to take with you. A little taste of the picnic we’ll have when you return.”

  Divan looked down at it, then back at her. The gift was such a simple thing, but it settled in his chest like warmth against the cold. “Thank you.”

  Lila hesitated, then lifted her hands to her hair, pulling a thin ribbon free from one of her braids. The deep burgundy color shimmered slightly in the light as she twisted it between her fingers before pressing it into his palm, right beside the bread.

  “And this is so you don’t forget your promise.”

  Divan stared at the ribbon for a long moment before curling his fingers around it.

  “I won’t forget.”

  Lila nodded. “Good.”

  But something in her eyes said she still wasn’t sure she believed him, and that was fair. As he tucked the ribbon into his pocket, he knew one thing. When he came back, he wasn’t just going to take her on that picnic. He was going to make sure she never doubted him again.

  His voice lowered to a near whisper. “I should go if I want to return quickly.”

  She nodded, but he could see the faint hesitation in her expression, the way she seemed both eager and apprehensive. Divan pulled a small coin pouch from his coat and placed it in her hand. “The cottage. Can you secure it for me while I’m gone? Tell the owner I’ll pay more if needed when I return.”

  Lila glanced down at the bag of coins, then back at him. “All right. I’ll see you soon then.”

  He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze holding hers. “I’m looking forward to that picnic.”

  “So am I,” she said softly.

  Divan took a deep breath and turned, forcing himself to walk away. As he mounted his horse, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. Lila still stood there, watching him, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes shadowed with quiet thoughts.

  With a firm tug on the reins, he rode off toward the road to Brașov, determined to find the answers they needed before the next full moon.

  Chapter 12

  There are nights I dream of him, the sorcerer who spoke my doom with a smile. I see the black of his cloak, the glitter of triumph in his cursed eyes. The words falling from his mouth like venom. He stole everything with a whisper and a gesture. My life, my family, my soul, as I stole everything from him, with a single word, a single betrayal. I tore out his heart, and now he has set mine to die slowly in return. This I swear, if there is a hell, I will drag him down into it with my own hands. -from the Journal of Caliban Drakovar

  The bell above the door jingled softly as Divan stepped inside Cel’s curiosity shop. At the counter, Cel was engaged in what could only be described as shameless flirtation. A woman, middle-aged, plump, and wearing a deep violet shawl, held an old brass lamp in her hands, turning it over with an appraising eye.

  “This, my dear, is no ordinary lamp,” Cel declared, his voice like smooth honey. He leaned in ever so slightly, his expression one of deep, conspiratorial confidence. “They say it once belonged to a nobleman of Wallachia, an alchemist, a man of great power. He only lit it when conducting his most sacred experiments.”

  The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “Truly?”

  Cel nodded solemnly. “Of course, and let me tell you, my dear lady, there are rumors that if lit under the full moon, it may reveal secrets hidden the naked eye.” He reached out, gently brushing his fingers against the lamp’s handle. “Perhaps, a lost love’s whispers? A vision of something yet to come?”

  The woman’s grip tightened, her gaze flickering with interest. “But does it work?”

  Cel placed a hand over his heart as if wounded. “Would I ever sell you something that did not?”

  Divan, standing just a few steps away, bit back a smirk. Cel had not changed at all, always weaving tales with just enough charm and mystery to entice a sale.

  The woman hesitated, clearly wavering between curiosity and skepticism. “How much?”

  Cel’s eyes gleamed. “For you, my dear, a mere five silver coins. A treasure at such a price, I assure you.”

  Divan finally stepped forward, arms crossed. “A nobleman’s lamp, is it?”

  Cel didn’t so much as flinch. He turned to Divan, his expression unreadable for a brief second before slipping back into his usual charismatic ease. “Ah, my friend, you doubt me?”

  Divan tilted his head. “Only that a nobleman’s lamp would fetch such a modest price.”

  Cel grinned. “And that is why I sell treasures, not keep them.”

  The woman eyed Divan warily, then turned back to Cel. “I’ll take it,” she declared, digging into the coin purse at her waist.

  Cel accepted the coins with a graceful bow, wrapping the lamp in soft cloth before handing it to her. “May its light bring you only the best of fortunes, my dear.”

  As the woman turned to leave, Cel finally gave Divan his full attention, amusement dancing in his sharp gaze. “You always did have impeccable timing.”

  “And you always did have a knack for storytelling.”

  Cel chuckled, motioning for Divan to follow him deeper into the shop. “Come, then. I suspect you didn’t stop by just to watch me work my magic.”

  Divan’s expression sobered as he stepped forward. “No. I need answers.”

  Cel sighed, his playful air fading just slightly. “I was afraid of that.”

  The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the walls as the two men moved further into the depths of the shop.

  Divan didn’t waste time. He reached into his coat and pulled out the cast of the track, laying it flat on the wooden table between them: clawed, inhuman, unnatural.

  “You were right,” Divan said, his voice quiet but edged with tension. “I was walking into danger.”

  Cel peered down at the plaster, his expression unreadable. His fingers tapped idly against the table. “You found these by the body?”

  “Yes, from what I gathered,” Divan’s voice tightened. “He broke in, then after. . .” He hesitated, jaw clenching. “After she was dead, he dragged her body out of the house and into the village square.”

  Cel’s face darkened slightly. He nodded, but said nothing.

  “You already suspected this, didn’t you?” Divan pressed, studying the older man’s reaction.

  “I feared it.”

  Divan’s brows drew together. “Then tell me, Cel, what happened to Caliban?”

  Cel hesitated for the briefest moment, then turned away, reaching for a small metal object on a nearby shelf and running his fingers along its surface. A habit, Divan realized, a way to busy his hands when his mind was elsewhere.