I used to enjoy paging through old maps. Towns were merely names on a page of shapes that represented mountains and rivers. I lived on a mountain, and to see it be so minuscule put me in a state of awe at the scale of Calruthia and the greater world.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  Zgavra brought them down out of sight of the little hamlet of Corvesta. When the beast’s limbs touched down, Dragos leaned in an attempt to slide off, but his splinted leg caught in the zmeu’s mane.

  He switched Mirel’s bucket to the other hand mid-slide, dangling her above the ground to gently drop it the last few inches into the cushion of tall grass. It landed flat, then tilted drunkenly in the lush stalks.

  He hung there, the press of wooden splints digging into his twisted knee. Before he could grab his knife to cut himself free, the zmeu’s form unravelled into smoke, curling upward until the breeze tore it apart.

  Dragos crashed to the ground with a pained grunt; the contents of his peddler’s box protested with a clatter. He lay there for a moment, letting the thrill of impact through his knee settle while he glared at the beast. The zmeu reformed its body into the guise of a spindly old man, his spine curved like a hook. The old man cackled, showing three mirthful teeth.

  The wanderer held out an expectant hand, brow raised. “Done having fun Zgavra? Flip this turtle, yeah? I’ve got a town to limp to.”

  The old man snorted, stroked his beard, and took Dragos’ hand, hauling him to his feet. Dragos grabbed Mirel’s bucket and hobbled toward the sleepy hamlet, grass brushing his shins, not so tall as to tangle his staggering steps. He shot a glance back at the zmeu, who bounced with an annoying spryness through the grass. Dragos’ gaze narrowed with envy. He wouldn’t admit to jealousy over the zmeu’s beard. He’d feel lucky when he could find something to shave.

  Dragos glanced into the bucket to see cerulean eyes staring back at him. Like a thorn in his chest, a sense of failure washed over him. It wasn’t betrayal, it was mercy. She wasn’t his. Never had been.

  They climbed from the fallow field up onto the cart path. It led through a sprawl of farmhouses to the mansion on the hill. Zgavra gestured at their destination, the walled manor at the end. “That is where we’ll find the mother seeking a child.”

  The sun beat down on Dragos’ hood as he hobbled along, doggedly making his way to the well-kept grounds of the house, listening as the zmeu talked.

  “I heard Croitoru lost their only child recently. The man of the house often travels, and the wife has been desperately trying for children. Their daughter died a few days ago,” Zgavra wrung his spotted hands together eagerly, eyes gleaming. “Now is the time to offer up a child to take its place. She’ll still have milk and a hole in her heart.”

  Cunning. Ruthless. And practical. The house was wealthy.

  “You didn’t kill the child to make this opportunity?” Dragos asked, suspicion thick in his voice.

  Zgavra scoffed. “Do you take me for a casual baby murderer? Insulting.”

  Dragos ignored him and crossed the distance to the gatehouse.

  He tugged the dangling bell pull, its ring clanging out the presence of visitors. In her bucket, Mirel trembled and wailed at the sound. Dragos rocked her and spoke in soothing tones, “There, there. It’s alright.”

  A servant in a plain tunic appeared, hair neatly braided. She peered through the iron gate and glanced between the two with unconcealed suspicion.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss, I’ve come with a sad tale—that may yet end in hope,” Dragos began.

  The girl sighed and reached for the little bag on her apron, clearly used to requests for alms and given an allowance for it. Dragos held up a hand to stop her.

  “Wait. I haven’t come for money,” he said, watching her expression grow confused.

  “I can’t care for my daughter. Her mother’s gone. I was hoping, since the lady of the house…”

  “Shh!” The girl said, glancing around. “Say no more. Come.”

  She quickly unlocked the gate and let them in, and gestured to follow. The gate locked behind them, she led them across the walled yard, blooming with spring flowers, and to the servants’ entrance. She left them in the staff’s dining room with refreshments.

  “Proper food,” Dragos groaned, and tore into the simple fare of bread, cheese, and ale.

  Zgavra dunked his bread in ale to soften it, giggling at something he didn’t share. Dragos shot him a sidelong glare, then turned to the baby beside him.

  After he cleaned his plate, he lifted Mirel out of her bucket. She blinked up at him, sucking on her fingers. The hint of a wistful smile tugged at his mouth.

  “Well, little girl, if you’re lucky, you’ll get a mama."

  It felt like loss, not gain. There was no way to keep her, not with the life he led. He leaned her against his shoulder and patted her, rubbing her back for what could be the last time.

  “I’ll come back before it all happens. I promise I’ll see you off to the sky.”

  They were brought to see Lady Croitoru through a twist of halls and doors into a bright room with many windows and an easel. The woman sat before the blank page clipped to the board, charcoal sticks resting in a box, untouched. She looked like a painting herself, with ribbons and rich fabrics and her pale, rose-cheeked face.

  Dragos hobbled over. Her gaze dipped to the rough splint on his knee, and he murmured, “A recent injury, nothing more.” Casting a glance at the servant who lingered, he said, “Would it be possible to have a private word?”

  At the tip of her lady’s chin, the servant slipped around them and softly shut the door. Dragos patted Mirel’s back as she fussed.

  Lady Croitoru held out her hands, the ache radiating from her as she asked, “Let me?”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Dragos crossed the space and awkwardly leaned to hand the cerel to her. As he did, he weighed the possibility of the woman turning the baby away if she knew the secret of her birth and where she would go when she grew up. It was a simple conclusion. Mirel would be safer if no one knew her secret.

  He said, “Her name is Mirel.”

  The woman ignored him; she seemed to instantly take to the child, even in her stained swaddle and slightly filthy countenance. But would she take her? Mirel appeared a poorly peasant’s child, though surprisingly healthy despite what she’d been through. Discovered in a field, nearly mummified in chilled mud. Who could say what would have happened had Dragos not passed by?

  “ Her mother is gone, and I can’t care for her. I’m hoping…”

  “I will!” The woman gasped, cradling the child, an already adoring glow on her face as she gazed upon Mirel. She murmured, “Her eyes are lighter than Maria’s, but no less beautiful. Please, let me take care of her?”

  She set the baby on her lap long enough to ring the servant’s bell. The girl with the neatly braided hair whisked in. Lady Croitoru handed the baby to her and said, “Wash her up and put her in proper clothing, please.”

  Dragos stared, stunned. That was… entirely too simple. The servant carried the child off for a bath, and Dragos turned to watch her go.

  He turned back to the lady and said, “I—Doamn? Croitoru, why did you agree so quickly? I’m a stranger to Corvesta and your family.”

  Her expression cooled, her hands crossing primly over her skirts. “I want her, and I will care for her. Is there some flaw in that?”

  “No,” Dragos replied. Head shaking in the depths of his hood, he repeated, “No.”

  “Very well. See that Lupita gives you some coin on the way out, for your travels. It looks like you’ve had quite a journey to bring us our darling Maria.”

  The conversation turned from sour to bitter. The zmeu, still in the guise of an old, hunchbacked beggar, loitered behind him, but he felt its eyes on him. Could it see the way his hackles prickled through his cloak?

  Maria, then. Dragos leaned forward in the briefest of bows and turned on his heel. Perhaps it was the set of his jaw or the tight line of his mouth that prompted the lady of the house to speak.

  “What you’ve done was right. It is the best for her.”

  Her voice rolled over his back like a slow wave, crashing in his ears and over his shoulders, thrusting his heart downwards into his gut. It drowned whatever words he might have said in return. She was right.

  Zgavra followed him out the same way he’d come. Dragos did not look back. He didn’t search for a last glimpse of the cerel, or look to find Lupita for some pathetic token. However, he did stop in the empty kitchen and, after a quick perusal, took some bread, another chunk of cheese, and filled his flasks with beer and water.

  The zmeu cackled as Dragos raided the pantry shamelessly. He even snuck a bottle of his own, tucked it away into his shabby vest to bulge there conspicuously.

  The wanderer struggled with a slow, controlled limp until they reached the gardens and the gate. Zgavra’s shadow stretched unnaturally long against the garden wall, looming far further than a mere old man’s could have. Its hook shape exaggerated and bled at the edges, prickling with hedgehog’s spines. He found the latch and opened it, then slammed it shut with a clanging, vicious finality that ran up his arms and down into his sprained knee.

  With a snarl, he turned away and staggered toward the hamlet.

  “Where will you go now?” Zgavra asked.

  The wanderer's footsteps faltered, and not due to his injury. Where was he going? What was he doing? Surviving? Had that been enough, all this time? Dragos felt his lips twitch in a snarl, irritated that the Unspoken thing stirred up thoughts he'd rather not have.

  He had his answer in a flash of insight and continued walking.

  “I have people to find. The last of my Cohort,” Dragos spat, tired of secrets. Tired of lies. Just tired.

  “Interesting. I’ll come along.”

  Dragos rolled his eyes and limped away from the monster. “Great.”

  The monster in an old man’s guise cackled, stroking his scraggly beard as if plotting something, then scampered to catch up. It was hardly difficult. They walked side by side for a time, Dragos forcing himself to think of anything but Mirel, and Zgavra lost in devious thoughts, twirling its beard around a spindly finger.

  The village commons sprawled before them. A large grassy field where sheep and goats grazed, and chickens pecked at insects. A few youngsters crouched together in a circle, playing a game. Until they spotted the strangers. Their hands froze on their collection of stones, eyes upturned, following the pair.

  “Tell me about your Cohort,” Zgavra abruptly asked.

  Dragos hissed, tipping his hood toward the children. “Later.”

  In fact, he had no desire to tell the zmeu anything about his Cohort, or anything else from the school. He’d been given little reason to trust the beast, even though he had some sway over it. It would have been better had he not mentioned it at all.

  “A student of the Solomonari, traveling with a zmeu. Bound by a name-gift.” Zgavra said, uncaring, or maliciously and openly unafraid of the children overhearing it.

  It had said Solomonari out loud. Dragos hissed through his teeth and pressed through the commons, ignoring curious stares, quickening his step until the pain would allow him to go no faster.

  Maria. The name infuriated him.

  He wouldn’t remain in the town where he’d left her.

  The zmeu still followed him, toddling along like a bent-kneed fishing hook, casting a horrific shadow across the road. Across him. He bared his teeth in frustration.

  “Why are you so eager to help?” Dragos snapped once they put some distance between them and the commons and came upon the road leading out of town.

  “Why shouldn’t I help the man who named me?” Zgavra responded, not answering the question in its annoyingly enigmatic way.

  Dragos scowled at the pitted rectangular stones before him and said nothing more. He was weary of its presence and frustrated with its tenacity, but also—his wandering had been long and lonely. It was someone to talk to that wasn’t himself, he supposed.

  Once they were well away from Corvesta, Dragos sought a place to rest. He spotted an old firepit and veered that way. Travelers past had chosen that spot to bivouac, and it seemed a fine enough spot to him as well. The ground sloped up from the road, and an ancient beech presided, its craggy back almost seeming to have a friendly smile wrinkling in its boughs.

  The traveler took himself to the roots of the tree and lowered himself, leaning back against it, the box on his back clacking on the bark. He slumped; his howling knee throbbed to the beat of his heart.

  Without a word, Zgavra skipped around, gathering wood for the rocky circle stained black from use. The monster still wore the old beggar’s guise as it went about its task. Dragos found the energy to lean forward and work the box off his back, dragging it around to find yarrow and a pinch of white willow bark.

  Once he’d taken his medicine, he relaxed back into the tree. The warmth of its spirit soothed his troubled soul more than the herbs he’d taken. He checked his splint and closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, it was night. Firelight danced around the shadow of a hunched old man. Zgavra. Still with him. As if it heard a change in his breath, it looked over its shoulder.

  Mirel had a home. He had to move on. To somewhere. Having her had reminded him of better times, when the Solomonari’s cohorts had been together.

  “I’m heading for the Spineback,” Dragos said. A dangerous place close to the vortex of the Embrace where the Umbregrin and the Zioruluc met. The occasional creatures found beyond it were sparse, but the mountains held beings untold, from mountain spirits to treacherous terrain. Above that, the mountain fortress of ?oloman?? once stood in silent watch over it all.

  The thought of going back made his hands tingle, recalling the frostbite of the winter before last. The fall. Digging himself free of ice and snow. Watching from the nursery as flames roared down into the valley.

  The mountain may keep clues to help find them. Or their corpses. He recoiled at the thought, one he’d had many times.

  Orange light danced over the shapeshifter’s eyes, glowing unnaturally. The night pressed its cold hands to his bare cheeks, and Dragos shivered. What had he gotten himself into when he named that thing?

  How did you like baby Mirel's arc? Talk to me.

  Corvesta (kor-VESS-tuh): A town name.

  Zmeu (zmyeh-oo): a form of dragon. A shapeshifter that travels between the world of the living and other realms. They are known to steal fair maids to be their wives. Suffers great hubris. Very powerful monster given to chaos, born of the Umbregrin. Solomonari wizards ride them when controlling weather patterns.

  Cerel (TSEH-rel) [rolled r]: Infant/young child. Living human form of Copiii ceruli.

  Doamn? (do-AHM-nuh): Lady or madam.

  Solomonari (so-lo-mo-NAH-ree) [rolled r]: A race of wizard strigoi that rode zmeu. Legend has it they worked blood magic and made pacts with demons and animals. Their school, known as ?oloman??, The Dark School, and also known in distant lands as Scholomance.

  Spineback: Or Spinebacks, an especially jagged mountain in a range near the Um?r, where the spirit rivers converge. ?oloman?? was located within the Spineback, hidden from the rest of the world.