Although I'd studied in a fortress of stone, I was raised like a monk with austerity. The beauty, comfort, and opulence of house Cel Tradat left me in awe. I had been impressed with the house where I'd left the Cerel, and that paled in comparison to the wealth I witnessed. I'd never felt so obviously out of place. The irony of that is immense.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  Far up in the tower, in a charming little room meant for reading and gazing at stars through large open windows, Dragos sat with a girl whose hair was literally out of control.

  He’d requested ingredients and tools for refinement to be brought to the little reading room at the top of the tower. He’d also asked Zgavra to help Nico gather what he needed. The zmeu had rolled his eyes but said nothing and went with the stolnic. Nico and Zgavra returned with crates normally used for wine bottles, repurposed for Dragos's work. Dragos got up and went to clear a table of things he didn’t need; a teacup, a vase of flowers, and a stack of books were set on the floor.

  “Where did you find an alembic?” Dragos exclaimed, eyes alight when he spotted it in the crate. It was perfect. He wished he could carry one in his box, but there’d be room for little else if he did. The copper pot with the curved neck for distilling would have been a delight to own.

  Once, he’d had one, and so much more. That time was gone. With the school.

  “For m’lord’s experimentation with wines. He likes to use it to make small brandy batches—well it hardly matters,” Nico said, waving away the rest.

  He was right. Dragos didn’t care. The wanderer pawed through the rest, finding all that he needed. The roadworn man straightened from the box and glanced at Ewa. “For all your misfortunes, it seems you’ve got some luck left to you.”

  Ewa smiled weakly. She suffered again, as her hair went through another Unspoken-fueled growth spurt, twisting and pulling. Fresh blood stained her pillow.

  Dragos's stomach took that moment to remind everyone in the room that he hadn’t eaten in a while, with a low grumble and lingering gurgle.

  Even in the midst of her discomfort, Ewa noticed. “Ni—Nico, bring some refreshment.”

  “Right away,” Nico said, hurrying off again.

  Dragos snapped his fingers at Zgavra. “Stop reading and be helpful. Light the hearth.”

  “Is that any way to speak to your father?” Zgavra said, scowling.

  “Please, dearest Father, be a sweet pumpkin and light me a fire?” Dragos returned with dripping sarcasm.

  Zgavra glared at him but got up and went to the hearth. The small, elegant fireplace had fresh wood already waiting for the evening’s chill. Without stooping, the fire blazed. Dragos hadn’t seen what the zmeu did, but he knew it had sway over that element. Legends said zmeu could breathe fire, and it made sense. How else might it have set Alina’s whole village ablaze before they arrived?

  Dragos plucked small flowers from the hyacinth and shredded wormwood, grinding them both in the mortar. He added a few grains of sulphur. Just a few. He’d rather not curse the poor girl into smelling like rotted eggs, but the curse had to be balanced with an equal, opposite curse.

  Which could go horribly. Luckily for her, he’d neutralized curses before. There was a chance he wouldn’t botch it.

  The lower tower door banged open once again. Dragos assumed it was Nico, coming back with food. He salivated at the mere thought of it. Instead of the usual slap of Nico’s enviable shoes, he heard a collection of footsteps. Smaller, lighter, swifter.

  Dragos stiffened just before the door flew open and two girls burst in, only to stop just past the open doorway. Two young women, he corrected himself. Their bright smiles turned to shock. The one in front looked at him, gasped, and then immediately looked to her sister for guidance.

  “Ewa! Who is this?” she demanded.

  The girl behind her had a hand over her mouth, already shrinking back towards the stairs. They had to be her sisters. They had the same soft features and dark skin. One with her hair in braids, the other with a decorative bun with butterfly hairpins. Naturally, their dresses were as fine as Ewa’s. Even the servants dressed smartly in this house, so Cel Tradat’s scions would be no less adorned.

  “Doctor,” Ewa hissed through gritted teeth, the lie that could keep Dragos there.

  “Oh!” Said one.

  “Hmm,” Said the other.

  The two glanced at each other and hurried back down the stairs without another word.

  “Seems your family is back,” Dragos murmured, facing Ewa. Without another word, he got back to work. Time was something he’d run out of, and there was much left to do.

  He’d rendered the pulp the best he could. He went to his peddler’s box and knelt beside it, undoing the latches. It was turned in such a way Ewa could see the contents.

  “What is all that?” She whispered, wide, curious eyes on the rows of small boxes and tiny vials in leather loops. “Who are you, Dragos?”

  “I sell remedies and herbs when I can. I’m just… a cursed wanderer,” Dragos replied, “Nothing special.”

  “I disagree,” Ewa said.

  Dragos's lips twisted wryly. “There is more in the dark than you should have reason to notice, my lady.”

  “Don’t get formal with me now, wanderer,” Ewa returned, her gaze sharp.

  Dragos bowed his head in concession. He didn’t know what she’d seen or what she hadn’t. It was an inappropriate assumption. His purpose held true; that was all that mattered. To him, anyway.

  Nico rattled up the stairs with a tray of refreshments. He found a spot to place it and wrung his hands, turning to face Ewa. “M’lady, your family has returned from the banquet.”

  “Yes, my sisters have been up already,” Ewa replied, her rounded features somehow hardening. Firming in preparation, perhaps.

  Dragos had a feeling her family would not be as open to his appearance in their daughter’s tower as the servants and Ewa herself. His gaze flicked between the two. Zgavra leaned in the opposite window, quiet as ever, but remaining visible. Thankfully. If he decided to drop his shapeshifter act, no doubt even Ewa herself would change her mind about Dragos and his uncertain remedies.

  “I’ll see to them,” Nico murmured, his shoulders trembling visibly.

  “Don’t let Tati fire you. This was my choice,” Ewa reminded him.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Small comfort to the powerless, Dragos thought. It wasn’t his place to say anything, so he didn’t; he simply finished the easier part of the process. The milling of the ingredients. The difficult part came next. First, to steady his hands, he chose to eat.

  He didn’t recognize the food. It had been prepared in such a lovely way. The aroma of egg, roasted vegetables, and spices was intoxicating, promising flavors he hadn’t eaten since—in a while. As he perused the tray’s contents, Nico turned to leave. When he did, Ewa spoke, and the words were chilling.

  “When you go down, we will bar the doors. Tati will take one look and try to have Dragos thrown out of the tower window.”

  Ewa knew her father, so Dragos had no reason to doubt her words.

  Nothing like a little pressure to make him feel comfortable. Dragos swallowed and poured himself a cup of the herbal flower tea. He sipped it and glanced at Nico over the rim with a grim look.

  To Ewa, he said, “Would you like food, or tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’d like for this to be over with,” Ewa replied.

  While Dragos stuffed the sliced rolls of crepe-wrapped vegetables into his mouth, Zgavra followed Nico down the stairs, presumably to do what Ewa suggested. Bar them. A tiny thrill hit Dragos a few moments later, nutrients coursing in his blood. He drank the rest of his tea before facing his open peddler’s box again.

  Zgavra came up and threw the lock, then went to sit beside the fire, picking up a discarded book. He looked a normal man, his shoulder leaned against the stone hearth, but Dragos saw his eyes. They flickered orange, not just reflecting firelight.

  This was where things could get perilous. Nightweb was no less dangerous than starlace, but on the whole, more terrible when mistakes were made. Starlace was more like to cause growth or madness. Nightweb’s purview was of decay, death, and the more unpleasant undeath.

  As much as he’d sold starlace, he never did with nightweb. He only carried a very small sample, carefully protected. Within the leather loop hung a leather case, and in that, a vial wrapped in cloth, which served only to hold another wrapped vial within. Ewa watched as his nesting doll of glass vials was drawn out until he tugged the last string, and the final vial appeared. So black it looked flat, absorbing all light around it.

  “The final ingredient,” Dragos murmured, his gaze slipping from the vial to the girl who lay with her head by a window. A tragedy he could resolve. Or worsen.

  He observed the original serum again, closing his eyes so that he could only see the starlace. He knelt there for a long minute, until Ewa asked, “Are you alright?”

  With a sigh, Dragos nodded, opening his eyes again. He’d counted every spark. With a glance at the small vial in his hand, he withdrew a glass dropper from the box Nico brought. The stopper on the nightweb cautiously removed, Dragos took a drop from the vial, then squeezed a bit back in, raising the dropper. Eyes closed once more, he counted the dark sparks.

  “Why do you close your eyes?” Ewa said with a nervous note in her tone.

  “Let him do his magic, Doamn? Ewa,” Zgavra murmured. He’d taken up the chair again at some point when Dragos hadn’t paid him attention. The zmeu sat with his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled, watching with fascination.

  “Magic?” She whispered, her eyes grown wide with a primal horror.

  Zgavra shot her a bored look. “What did you think this was?”

  Dragos ignored Ewa’s moral dilemma and Zgavra’s disdain. The counter-curse was all that mattered.

  He brought the dropper and vial over to the mortar. Carefully, he moved the dropper from over the vial to the mortar and squeezed gently. The blackness fell and welled there in the center of the greenish mud he’d made from the other ingredients. He worked the nightweb in with the pestle until the whole concoction was darker than a starless night.

  “Zgavra, the alembic,” Dragos said, hand out for the curved copper kettle with the bent neck. Quickly, he tacked on, “Please.”

  The zmeu eagerly snatched the contraption and brought it over. Dragos glanced at it, surprised. This time, the beast wanted to help? It did seem to be transfixed when he crafted remedies or did the rare spell. He supposed it made sense.

  Dragos unscrewed the minaret dome from the top of the kettle and scraped the ingredients in, then spilled some water over that. Just enough to cover. He screwed the top back on, carefully setting aside the tools he’d used. His gaze turned up to Zgavra as he said, “These will have to be removed from the house or risk another curse.”

  The condenser was set at a distance, the tubing connected, and the collection flask set. There was nothing to do but wait. Dragos's gaze flicked to the stacks of books, then back to Ewa. The interminable days of misery must have nearly driven her mad.

  “Would you like some pain relief? I can make something,” He asked as he packed away the nightweb.

  “If it’s—not magical,” Ewa said, lying motionless.

  Always so still. Who tended to her needs? That may be why she refused a drink and food. Someone must help her…

  Dragos shook his head to clear his thoughts as he measured out a blend of herbs into a cup of tea. He brought it over to her and held it to her lips. “A little sip in the cup, enough for the mix to dissolve. It should make you drowsy. Let it relax you. We just have to wait for the new serum to finish distilling.”

  She hesitated, then sipped, the odd position of her head causing some to dribble from the corner of her lip. She licked it and frowned. “So bitter.”

  “Medicine usually is,” Dragos said, a brief grin flashing across his face. He glanced again at the books. “Would you like me to read something?”

  Her lashes dipped. She heaved a trembling sigh. “Yes. Distractions are welcome.”

  Dragos chose a book at random and began to read. It was a historical biography about some conqueror from some other land, campaigning in yet another country. It was set far enough in the past that it felt as distant as those faraway places were. Uniting the four kingdoms sounded romantic, though Dragos couldn’t imagine war being as the author described with his sweeping brush of brilliant conquest.

  Ewa dozed, and Dragos stopped reading to check the condenser. It had gotten warmer than he’d have liked, but he had no new water to use to cool it. It would slow the process, which was irritating, to say the least.

  He glanced at her, thinking he saw motion. It was not her hair, which did growth spurts randomly, nor her sleepy limbs. Something… inside her.

  Dragos squinted and turned his head, trying to see the glimmer he’d caught out of the corner of his eye.

  A thunderous knocking came and ripped him away from his focus. The door at the bottom of the tower rattled in its casing, followed by shouting. They were too far away, separated by two thick doors. But Dragos knew without a doubt that his time was almost up. By the time they broke through the second door, he desperately hoped the serum would be complete.

  The banging gave way to the sharp crack of a hatchet in wood, echoing up the spiral staircase.

  Dragos stared at the receiving flask, as if that would make the process move more quickly. Meanwhile, he gathered up all the tools he’d used that touched the nightweb. Those he put into a lap blanket and tied up.

  “Zgavra, can you take the alembic and the condenser away without being harmed? When I’m done, that is.”

  The zmeu smirked. “Why? They’d behead you with the axe they’re using to break down the door, and still, you’d save them. Why, Dragos?”

  Dragos bit back harsh words. His expression darkened, and he said only, “You’ll do as I ask, because I need you to. Sacrifice it and these to the Umbregrin. The nightweb must return to its source.”

  “It all returns, eventually,” Zgavra said, its tone turning more pensive than petulant.

  A drop fell into the flask. Dragos forced himself to take in regular breaths, putting aside the crack, creak, and smash that signalled the lower door had been breached. Eyes still closed, he murmured, “We won’t be able to make the medicine in time.”

  Footsteps on the stairs. A handful of men, by the weight of their steps. The wanderer listened a moment, then opened his eyes to look at the slumbering lady nearby.

  “You’d still bother to save her?” Zgavra scoffed. “A lovely lady in a tower, trapped by some random curse? Why?”

  “Because it isn’t a game, to me,” Dragos said, tugging on the knot around the items he’d used already.

  In a way, he felt he owed her. This problem of hers could have been caused by starlace he sold.

  His gaze slid to the flask. The condenser tube spilled drop after drop, faster now. And too late.

  “Open the door!” A thick, masculine voice called. Commanding. Dragos imagined a man who resembled Ewa but with sterner, harder features. Imposing, like a boyar would be. Used to being obeyed.

  Dragos stood up straight and faced the door. Fear was something he’d lost long ago, with his childhood and his innocence. No mere man would make him bow or tremble against his will. The crack of an axe in wood sounded again, much louder than before.

  The door shuddered, over and over, the bright edge of the metal blade gleaming in new cracks made. The wanderer glanced at the flask. A steady dribble fell into it, but, as the axe twisted and the men beyond could see him through the ragged crack in the door, it hardly mattered. He saw murder in their eyes.

  (zmyeh-oo): Romanian dragon shapeshifter

  (Stol-NEEK): Pantry manager, much like a butler, but with responsibilities regarding the kitchens more than the house and grounds.

  Alembic: A distilling apparatus with a rounded, necked flask and condenser.

  Tati (TAH-tee): Dad, informal way of saying father

  Nightweb: the pure essence of the Umbregrin, the dark/yin spirit river

  Doamn? (do-AHM-nuh): Lady, miss, ma'am

  Umbregrin (UM-bruh-grin) [rolled r]: Dark/yin spirit river

  Boyar (bow-yaar): Nobleman

  Starlace: pure essence of the light/yang spirit river