2025-12-12 18:52:00Isolde returned to the Corbul Negru after the festival, her mind reeling. The image of the pale man in the black coat, the man who looked the same as the man she saw in the castle burned behind her eyelids.
After bidding the others goodnight, she couldn’t sleep, she tossed and turned for hours.
When she finally drifted into a fitful doze, she was awakened by the sound of her window latch clicking shut.
She sat up, heart pounding. "Who’s there?"
The room was empty. The window, which she was certain she had locked, was unlatched. But on the sill, bathed in the pale moonlight, lay a single object.
It was a black rose.
It was fresh, velvety, and impossibly perfect, with thorns that looked like polished obsidian. Next to it was a small piece of parchment. Isolde picked it up, her hands trembling.
There was no text. It was a charcoal sketch.
It was a drawing of her, standing by the bakery wall at the festival, looking into the shadows.
The skill was masterful, capturing not just her likeness, but the longing and fear in her eyes. It was signed with a single, sharp letter: A.
Isolde admired the sketch for a while, luring her into a imagination of her own
He had been here? He had come into her room?
The fear she should have felt was completely eclipsed by a strange, intoxicating pull.
She lay back down, the scent of the black rose, like earth and winter rain filling the room.
***********
Sleep took her instantly this time, dragging her into a vivid, lucid dream.
She was not in the inn. She was in the Great Hall of Aethelred, but the ash and ruin were gone. The walls were draped in rich tapestries, and thousands of candles flickered in iron chandeliers.
Music played—a slow, haunting waltz. She was dancing, spinning effortlessly in the arms of a man.
Aurelius.
He wore the black velvet she had seen in her vision. His hands were cold, but his hold was gentle, protective. He looked down at her, his golden eyes filled with a desperate, centuries-old adoration.
"My beloved...." his murmured in Romania
„Ești mai luminoasă decât toate candelele din sala asta.
Când te privesc, uit cine sunt ca prinț… și îmi amintesc cine vreau să fiu ca bărbatul tău.
Rămâi lângă mine în seara asta… și în toate serile care vor urma.”
“You shine brighter than all the candles in this hall.
When I look at you, I forget who I am as a prince… and remember who I want to be as your man.
Stay by my side tonight… and in all the nights to come.”
"Who are you?" she asked in the dream.
"I am the memory that refuses to fade," he replied, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "And you... you are the dream I thought I had lost."
He leaned in, his lips inches from hers. The cold coming off him was intense, burning.
Isolde woke with a gasp, her skin flushed, her body humming with residual adrenaline. The sun was not yet up, the village was draped in the heavy, pre-dawn grey. The room was empty, but the black rose remained on her nightstand, a silent proof that the connection was real.
Isolde could no longer stay in the room. She felt suffocated and scared.
She grabbed her coat and boots, needing the bite of the mountain air to clear the fog in her head.
She slipped out of the inn, nodding to the empty chair where Marius usually sat guard. He was gone likely asleep, she thought.
She didn't intend to go far. She walked toward the edge of the village, where the cobblestones gave way to the dense treeline. The mist was thick this morning, curling around her ankles like white smoke. She walked until the village was just a smudge of grey behind her, lost in thought about the sketch and the man.
Snap.
The sound of a heavy branch breaking pulled her from her reverie.
Isolde stopped. The silence of the forest was absolute. No birds. No wind.
Then, a low growl vibrated through the mist.
Isolde turned slowly. Ten feet away, emerging from the fog, was a wolf. It was massive, its fur matted and grey, its yellow eyes fixed on her.
The Zimbrul Fomist???
But no... It wasn't the monstrous Zimbrul Fomist, it was a natural wolf, but it was starving and desperate.
Two more stepped out from the shadows to her left. A pack.
Isolde backed up, her boot hitting a root. She stumbled. The lead wolf lowered its head, sensing weakness, and lunged.
Isolde threw her arms up, screaming, expecting the tear of teeth.
A blur of black motion tore through the mist.
It slammed into the mid-air wolf with the force of a freight train. There was a sickening crunch, a yelp, and the massive animal was thrown twenty feet into a tree, sliding down motionless.
Isolde scrambled back, gasping.
Standing between her and the pack was the man from the festival. The man from her dream. The man from the castle.
He stood tall and calm, his black wool coat billowing slightly. He didn't have a weapon.
He looked at the remaining wolves and let out a low, hissing sound, a noise that was primal and predatory, something no human throat could make.
The wolves whined, tails tucking between their legs. They scrambled over each other in their haste to flee, vanishing into the forest.
Silence returned.
Aurelius turned to Isolde. Up close, he was devastating. His skin was pale as marble, and the golden rings in his eyes seemed to glow in the gloom. He looked furious.
"Why do you wander, little historian?" his voice was rough, like gravel grinding on silk.
He reached down, gripping her arm to pull her up. His grip was iron-hard and freezing cold, even through her coat.
"I... I needed air," Isolde stammered, her legs shaking so hard she could barely stand. She looked at the dead wolf, then at him. "You killed it. With your bare hands."
"It would have killed you," he said simply, as if swatting a fly and killing a wolf were the same. He didn't let go of her arm. He pulled her closer, his eyes scanning her face, searching for injuries. "Did they touch you? Do you bleed?"
Isolde shook her head, mesmerized by the proximity. He smelled of ozone, old stone, and the black rose he had left in her room.
"No," she whispered. "You saved me."
Aurelius looked at her, his anger fading into that same hungry, sorrowful look she had seen at the festival.
He raised his hand, hesitating, then gently brushed a smudge of dirt from her cheek. His thumb lingered on her skin, cold and electrifying.
"You look so much like her," he murmured, more to himself than to her. Your heart... it beats so loudly."
He seemed to snap out of a trance. He stepped back, the mask of the aloof nobleman sliding back into place.
"Go back to the inn, Maria. Do not come into the woods again. Unless it's daytime.
The mountain is not kind to things that bleed."
"Wait!" Isolde cried, reaching out. "Who are you?
I... I saw you at the castle, at the festival, you drew that portrait and left the rose in my room right?
Aurelius smiled a bit, she seemed to like the drawing.
He paused, half-turned into the mist. He looked back over his shoulder, a tragic, enigmatic shadow.
"I am Lord of the Mountain," he said softly. "Go home."
Then, he stepped into the fog and vanished as if he had never been there, leaving Isolde alone with the dead wolf and a heart that was beating far too fast to be safe.
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Chapter Eight: The Archaeologist Obsession
The near-death encounter with the wolves failed to scare Isolde out of the High Carpathians, instead, it solidified her strange, dangerous obsession.She spent the morning of the attack narrating to Ben, Leo and Maya, insisting the man she saw was the same man she saw in the castle, the night of the bonfire as well.Leo, however, was thrilled. "A physical encounter! She was saved by something real. This is not a ghost story anymore!"The person you have been seeing was actually a real person?? Alive and breathing!! Ben howledMarius brought this, earlier this morning, Leo pointed to a large, brittle map he had spread out on the Corbul Negru’s table, pointing at a small structure half a mile from the main castle ruin.“This is the only auxiliary structure labeled in the 17th-century texts, the Watcher’s Tower. It was supposedly the private archive and observation post for the Von Caerstein family, sealed after the catastrophe. If there’s uncensored history, it’s there.”Ben was liv
Chapter Seven: The Bride, Rose, and the Wolves
Isolde returned to the Corbul Negru after the festival, her mind reeling. The image of the pale man in the black coat, the man who looked the same as the man she saw in the castle burned behind her eyelids.After bidding the others goodnight, she couldn’t sleep, she tossed and turned for hours.When she finally drifted into a fitful doze, she was awakened by the sound of her window latch clicking shut.She sat up, heart pounding. "Who’s there?"The room was empty. The window, which she was certain she had locked, was unlatched. But on the sill, bathed in the pale moonlight, lay a single object.It was a black rose.It was fresh, velvety, and impossibly perfect, with thorns that looked like polished obsidian. Next to it was a small piece of parchment. Isolde picked it up, her hands trembling.There was no text. It was a charcoal sketch.It was a drawing of her, standing by the bakery wall at the festival, looking into the shadows.The skill was masterful, capturing not just her
Chapter Six: Bon fire Night
A week passed, and the sharp edge of terror began to dull, replaced by the mundane rhythm of recovery. Leo was discharged from the regional hospital, with his arm in a sling.He set up a command center in the Corbul Negru’s common room, analyzing the few blurry frames of data they had captured before fleeing the castle.In the meantime, Isolde and Maya tried to integrate themselves into the village. They spent their days in the small market square or the bakery, buying bread and asking questions.The answers they received were a frustrating tapestry of contradictions.Everyone only talked about one person, The youngest prince of the Von Caersteins "The Prince?" a baker said, dusting flour from his hands. "He was a great military leader who went mad with grief. He jumped from the spire.""No, no," an old weaver corrected them later. "He was a sorcerer. He dabbled in alchemy to bring his bride back and blew himself up. The castle is haunted by the explosion, not a man.""A tyran
Chapter Five: The mysterious Servant
The moment Isolde stumbled out of the Great Hall, her hands over her eyes, the sheer terror radiating off her was palpable. She didn't have to utter a word to signal the danger.Maya, whose nerves were already shattered by the attack of the Zimbrul Fomist earlier that day, waited for no one. Seeing Isolde’s face was enough. She abandoned the tripod she was holding and raced down the slope to the parked minivan, wrenching the door open and diving inside.“Marius! Go! We are leaving!” Maya shrieked from the passenger seat, her hands trembling as she fumbled for her seatbelt.Marius, who had been guarding the perimeter, moved quickly. He packed up the remaining gear with practiced efficiency, throwing the bags into the trunk before jumping into the driver's seat. Isolde scrambled into the back, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Ben hopped in after.The minivan tore away from the castle gates, bouncing violently down the treacherous King's Road.**********The chaotic journey
Chapter Four: The scent of old Blood
AureliusFive centuries. The word was a mathematical concept, devoid of feeling. Five centuries of cold, eternal night, where the only sensations were the gnawing thirst and the crushing weight of memory. Prince Aurelius, now the King of Ashes, stood immobile in the highest spire of Aethelred.He had sensed the moment the four warm bodies crossed the cursed line but it was not the scent of their life that drew him. It was a resonance, a sudden, violent vibration in the heart he hadn't known could still beat.He glided to the broken window, the air in the spire instantly falling to a temperature that would freeze mercury. He looked down upon the frail, fragile mortals setting up their strange, bright equipment. And there, standing on the desolation of his courtyard, was the impossible.Maria.......The gasp was silent, a physical impossibility that nevertheless ripped through his chest. Her face, the stubborn set of her jaw, the dark hair falling just so across her shoulders it w
Chapter Three: Aethelred
The frantic journey down the mountain road ended just as the sun broke fully over the distant peaks. They reached a regional hospital on the outskirts of Cluj-Napoca.After hours of tense waiting, the doctor confirmed Leo’s prognosis: a deep, ragged laceration, severe blood loss, and a clear need for heavy antibiotics. He was stable, but he would be grounded for weeks.In the hospital cafeteria, the remnants of the team Isolde, Maya, and Ben stared into their lukewarm coffees.Isolde broke the silence, the road to the clinic took us three hours.That’s six hours round trip on those roads. We’d be traveling well into the night to get back, and we know what happens after dark.”Maya, still shaken from the attack, stared down at her hands. “The Zimbrul Fomist. He called it the Hungry Auroch.”“It’s tied to the castle, Maya. That means this entire valley is a perimeter,” Isolde explained, drawing strength from the cold logic she was imposing on the situation.“Marius has organized a ro
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