In this dark world where fear drives countryfolk indoors by twilight, there are still people who care for each other. There are still fiercely loyal people. I cling to that notion when I spot a beggar's corpse, or a societal transgressor swinging from a rope at the edge of a town.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  “He was attacked by a bear,” Dragos explained, taking a step back, palm up against the woman’s threatening pose.

  “Radu!” She cried, tucking her knife away as quickly as she’d drawn it, hurrying to her husband.

  Radu wobbled on his feet, and she slid under his uninjured arm. Together they staggered for the house. Dragos fell in behind, casting a surreptitious glance around for the zmeu. There was no sign of it, nor any ominous sense of its presence nearby. Good.

  With a soft sigh, Dragos lingered on the threshold; the hearth’s woodsmoke and roasted meat and vegetables pulled at his belly. It felt improper, but Radu’s unsteady step cut away impropriety. They needed help.

  Slipping in, Dragos placed the grouse in its canvas sack on the corner. The innards were left behind in the forest, but the meat—he couldn’t leave that behind. The woman brought Radu right to a coarsely framed bed, and he eased to sit on it, falling onto his side immediately.

  “Ilinca, go to your brother’s, tell him to get the bear,” Radu rasped from where he lay, wounds up and face half pressed into a pillow.

  The woman was bent over him, hands fluttering above her husband, unsure where to start with the mess that he was. She shot Dragos a glance pregnant with doubt. “I can’t leave you now. What if you take a turn?”

  “Go,” Radu insisted, rolling enough to look at her.

  He weakly grabbed her hand with his, her hand trembling to cover it. Together, they shared an unspoken moment, the sort Dragos imagined couples had ways of speaking, as he had with animals. Words implied, but never spoken. Understood, through familiarity. Her gaze moved from the grasp on her hand to the insistent look in Radu’s eyes.

  “This man, can you trust him?” Ilinca whispered, thinking Dragos couldn’t hear her.

  Dragos interjected from where he lingered beside their hearth. “I’m a simple peddler of remedies, Doamn?. I can help.”

  “Already has,” Radu rasped. He grunted, pushing himself into a more comfortable position. “Fetch some meat and the skin, woman. I’ll be fine.”

  Her chin trembled. Her eyes scanned the bound wounds and she glanced at Dragos again. “Alright, love.”

  She straightened from her fussing over her husband and approached Dragos. She pointed at the rolled-out dough, then at the stranger. “Help my husband and finish that pie. If he dies, I’ll skin you alive.”

  Dragos nodded. He believed that she’d try to skin him alive, at least. She’d been quick enough with that knife of hers.

  Ilinca hustled out the door, pausing long enough to snatch a cloak off a hook beside it. Dragos searched the shelves for laundered cloth and the barrels for fresh water. He found both and brought them to the bedside. Having already inspected the wounds for foreign debris, he brought a lantern close to look again as he unbound them and washed them. Moss and yarrow, nothing more. They looked reddened, but when he hovered his palm over them, they didn’t radiate excess heat.

  The man’s clothes were common. Simple. Ruined. He wore no adornments but for a bear’s tooth on a hemp cord and a ring woven of wheat stalk. The irony of the tooth didn’t escape Dragos. Zgavra was definitely not present, or the tooth would have prompted a clever whisper from the zmeu. That was a small favor.

  Dark blood clung to the gashes, which seemed to have swollen enough to keep them shut without stitching. Dragos's brows pulled down as he examined them by guttering lantern light. Not just swollen, already sealed. Very atypical.

  “We’ll see how they look tomorrow,” Dragos murmured as he applied a new poultice quickly blended with a bit of water.

  “You’ve a clever hand,” Radu replied, observing. “Is it any moss and just yarrow?”

  “Not just any moss, I can show you. Also birch bark, a pinch of white willow bark. Just a bit,” Dragos said, quietly pleased that Radu was interested instead of shying away from simple knowledge, as many did.

  He’d been alone for so long—besides Zgavra—he already imagined Radu a companion in foraging to replenish his stores. Once the man was well.

  His foolish hopes got to him again. He put them aside.

  After the treatment was complete, Dragos washed his hands and attempted to finish the meal Ilinca had begun. The dutch oven, the crust, the filling had all been prepared. He still had a time getting it all together. Used to simple food, the complex construction of the pie kept him busy for a while.

  Radu lay quiet on his bed. Hopefully, he had found some sleep. If not, Dragos had a remedy for that as well.

  He finished cleaning the grouse and, uncertain of what to do with it, sliced it thin and salted it, and left it to sit a while. He checked on Radu in the meantime. The man’s snores rumbled. Good.

  Dragos stepped outside, closing his eyes against the midday sun. Ilinca had been gone a while. He supposed their neighbors, Ilinca’s brother, lived distantly enough that it was a long walk.

  Crows circled the field, their black wings the only thing in the unblemished, cerulean sky. After a short time of taking in the pastoral silence, Dragos returned to the grouse meat and strung it above the fire to dry.

  Still, something wasn’t right.

  It pushed at the edges of his awareness without breaking through, like wind against glass. He’d missed something. What?

  His box sat beside the bed, his cloak draped over it. With his sleeves rolled up, he sought something to keep busy with besides tend the fire and wait for Ilinca. There wasn’t much to do. Wood was stacked nearby. It was strange, but after so long being alone, his voice had rusted by the time he approached anyone. Traveling with Zgavra changed that. He’d returned to the smooth tenor he’d had before.

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  The beast had ruined some of his affinity toward solitude and brooding.

  Beyond the fields, the forest beckoned. What might he forage there? But he didn’t dare wander too far from Radu yet.

  Something felt off about the bear. He’d just met Radu, but some deep, instinctual trepidation hung over him regarding the man. He hated that looming, nameless doubt. Dragos went to the shutter beside the bed and threw it open, leaning on the sill, staring out at the forest with a vague longing.

  He finally turned to his journal, pulling the slim book from the box. With quill and ink prepared, he sat on the rushes scattered on the earthen floor. He used a chair for a table and wrote of past deeds—until he got to Radu. He looked over his tight, small script, lost in thought.

  The signs were there, but he missed them, so deep in the past his mind wandered. Footsteps outside. A soft murmur of words. He only noticed when the door banged open. His head shot up from his notes to see Ilinca and a man in the doorway.

  “Nerostit?!”

  Dragos stood slowly, leaving the book and quill on the chair. He’d left his cloak with his box and wished for its comforting embrace as he stood tall to face Ilinca’s brother. His knife was on his hip.

  He hoped he didn’t need it.

  “Gheorge, stop,” Ilinca said with the brisk tone of one tired of superstition. She stepped between them, staring up at her brother.

  “Tis like to a ghost,” Gheorge sneered, arms full of a heavy bear pelt. He looked ready to toss it aside and take up arms. A large knife hung at Gheorge’s side, tucked into his belt. Dragos flicked a look at it.

  “A man,” Ilinca corrected, dropping a thick, bloody package on the table. “Moroi viu may he be, but he’s only helped Radu, and he finished making my pie. More than I can say for the likes of you, who wouldn’t.”

  “Cooking is woman’s work,” Gheorge protested.

  “And a dress will manifest itself onto your body if you do it, we know,” Ilinca deadpanned, shooting a tired look his way.

  A faint grin twisted on Dragos's lips. They reminded him of the arguments of his Cohort. Like family.

  Gheorge’s lips twisted in an ugly scowl. “And you let it touch your food? Bread won’t rise at a striga’s touch.”

  Ilinca stared at her brother, arms folded. “Helpful ghost. We’ll see what comes out of the pot. Things can’t get much worse with Radu like this.”

  The smile on Dragos's lips died. Wariness hovered in the rafters. He lacked an escape route, except past the rather large-bodied Gheorge. Not as big as Radu, but Ilinca’s brother filled the doorway well.

  “I’ll drive him out,” The man’s brows were drawn brutishly low, with a narrowed gaze focused on the pale traveler near his brother-in-law.

  Ilinca pulled her knife and shook it at him like an admonishing finger. “You’ll finish scraping that hide if you want to linger. Shoo!”

  That brought another quirk to Dragos's lips. Ilinca wasn’t quite what she seemed when she first came at him. He’d assumed she’d threatened him because he was a stranger. Seemed it was simply her way. Gheorge, protesting under his breath, took the pelt out to finish work on it, while his sister took care of the meat. Dragos, for uncertainty’s sake, tucked himself back by the chair to finish his entries.

  Ilinca checked Dragos's work and nodded, satisfied.

  Gheorge came in, glaring at Dragos where he sat scribing. Ilinca grabbed her brother by the elbow, and they stepped outside to have words. Dragos heard some through the little open window by his head. He didn’t hear everything but got the gist. Superstition did not win the day in Ilinca’s house, but Dragos's presence wouldn’t be forgotten by Radu’s brother-in-law.

  He’d be best to move on instead of attempting to take haven with the Dumitru. It was disappointing, but also unsurprising. The complexities of life below the mountain continued to restrict him in ways it never had when he was Mirel’s ward.

  Radu broke the restless silence with a groan. The man’s body trembled, rattling the sturdy bedframe against the wall as he convulsed. Dragos was on his feet that instant. Somehow, Ilinca still beat him.

  Her hands thrust out to try to hold Radu still.

  “Don’t,” Dragos murmured, eyes on the man, whose body shuddered and stiffened, limbs jerking like the death throes of a small animal. “He’s safe, as long as he doesn’t choke.”

  “What would he choke on!?” Ilinca barked, her face reddening with anger or frustration. She was clearly a woman of action and didn’t like being able to do nothing.

  “His own tongue. If that happens, I’ll fix it.” Radu could also bite it, but Dragos had read it was rarely fatal. Fits came due to sickness, fever, or a birth ailment. Having only ever read about quite a lot of what he’d never experienced in life, Dragos was truly certain about nothing.

  Still. Better to console her now and run from her knife later, if he was wrong.

  Foam gathered around the convulsing man’s lips. It tinged pink, indicating he had indeed bitten his tongue. Dragos remained still in silent vigil as Ilinca gasped. He met her eyes with a calm reassurance and nodded. Just a bit of blood. Nothing to worry about. He hoped.

  Minutes spread as water over marble, thin and far for mere droplets of time. Radu’s bones settled once more, as muscles relaxed and did not seize again. Ilinca snatched up his hand, holding it to her breast as she leaned over him.

  Ilinca whispered, “Prin harul lumini, Radu. Please be alright.”

  There was no way she could see what Dragos saw.

  A flicker in the back of his vision, something wisped in and around the giant man, slithering into his muscles, creeping through his wounded areas like vapor, pushing out, then slinking back inside, away from the cold beyond the man’s body.

  Vision of the mind’s eye. A skill learned by living close to the spirit rivers, studying under the Solomonari for seven years in the dark heart of ?oloman??, away from sunlight and eating a strict diet. The cohorts learned such skills, though no one taught them why.

  It must have been for things like this.

  Dragos remembered to breathe. Exhaling hard, he looked over the man. There was no sign of whatever it was. A thought came. A fascinating, frightening, amazing thought, and Dragos wished he had access to the school library again.

  There would have been answers there.

  The man’s eyes opened. Ilinca gasped, her head pulling back, though she didn’t let go of Radu’s hand. Radu’s eyes were no longer a jovial blue but a dark amber, and of the whites, nothing could be seen. They were yet unfocused, the man’s face dazed and lined with weariness.

  Ilinca screamed, “Ce blestem e ?sta?”

  Dragos thought it a terrible, awe-inspiring thing. Was he witnessing the birth of something only whispered in myth?

  One other question plagued him, redundant and useless. Why was it always him who got dragged into things like this?

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  (zmyeh-oo): Dragon shapeshifter.

  Doamn? (do-AHM-nuh): Lady, ma'am.

  Yarrow: Sometimes known as bloodwort. For pain relief, fever reducer, and sleep.

  “Nerostit?!” (neh-ross-TEE-teh): Unspoken. All manner of things strange or supernatural.

  Moroi viu(mo-roi vee-oo)[rolled r]: Cursed person. Sometimes thought to be lacking a soul.

  ?oloman?? (Shoh-loh-MAHN-tsuh): Wizard school Dragos once lived in within the Spineback mountain.

  “Ce blestem e ?sta?” (cheh BLESS-tem eh uh-stuh): What curse is this?