I knew I never truly loved Viorica. I could not have quantified a quality like love. Attraction, fascination, yes. I believe those to be quantifiable, but love? It is a mystery.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  Walnut shells littered the ground, a good sign of small game. Where there are pine martens, there are birds, and often, where there are birds, there are berries. Dragos raised a bracer to hold back branches of flowering blackthorn to see a not-quite-clearing; a less dense riot of plants in the understory. Bassus stood next to a well’s low wall of crumbling stone.

  “There’s still water, and it’s sweet. I tried it when I found it,” he said, notes of smug pleasure in his voice.

  “Sipping strange waters from wells can get you a week of squatting in the bushes,” Chinhua commented, though her expression was hardly sour. She slipped past Dragos, who held the bushes aside for her, and skipped over to look down into the hole.

  When she looked up, she was beaming. “It’s lovely!”

  “We should cap it when we can. Prevent leaves and the like from falling in,” Octavian strode up to look down, nodding.

  Dragos stepped into the clearing, grasses brushing at his greaves. With a slow, thoughtful turn, he took in the area. A dark shape, a hint of something man-made caught his attention. Its lines did not follow the way of nature’s organic shapes, like a natural outcropping would. He pointed. “There. Remnants of a building.”

  “Ruins!” Chinhua squeaked, grabbing her skirts to hurry toward it.

  Octavian and Bassus rushed after. The other eleven of Octavian’s friends filtered through the thicket’s winding passage behind him, and Dragos moved to follow Chinhua.

  Ruins occasionally harbored things best left forgotten. The simple joy of her exploratory spirit did not touch Dragos. Instead, he thought of P?durea Manc?toare, where he’d gone to escape the villagers of Plansura, a wailing baby in his arms.

  The memory stung. He let it go quickly, instead focusing on the surroundings. The trees above leaned in, an oppressive chill trapped in their boughs. Hints of darkening clouds above encouraged a grimness to settle into his spirit as he trudged behind those ahead of him.

  The building, such as what was left, stood as two mostly intact walls and two crumbled ones. The roof had long since weathered away. A few toothy crossbeams lingered, sagging to rest on the decayed remains of a fallen wall.

  “Once, this might have been a monastery, not as large as the one at the Palisades,” he mused aloud, gripping the rope strap of his peddler’s box with an anxious hand.

  He wanted his iron-bladed gloves, though he couldn’t name a reason.

  “A barracks, maybe? This road goes all the way through the Aluta Pass. There are a few cavarul outposts along the way,” Octavian suggested, his fingers scratching at the scruff of his chin.

  Dragos considered the words, then shrugged. The air tasted sharp with charged moisture, and the breeze fluttered Octavian’s unruly hair. “Looks like as good a place as any to pitch a camp. The sooner, the better. Rain’s coming.”

  The extended group arrived with the tools and materials to fashion a comfortable lean-to large enough to shelter them all. They worked together as a practiced team, some fetching water and wood, others throwing themselves at the construction.

  A spry girl climbed the leaning rafters to affix waxed canvas over the viney bowers that had taken over the ruins. The rest cleared the dirt and rubble, tore up weeds, and stowed belongings. One cared for the precious donkeys they brought with them, settling them with fodder and a water bucket near the edge of the shattered wall.

  Dragos chose one of the unmovable boulders to sit on while the campfire was kindled. Octavian came to stand beside him, arms folded over his chest with quiet pride. “Good group, eh?”

  “Yes,” Dragos replied, gaze following the activity. They worked together well. Cheerfully.

  He shrugged the box off his shoulder, and it creaked a groan as it settled beside his knee.

  “Interesting box,” the man commented, glancing at it.

  Controlling the rise of anxiety, Dragos nodded. “Belongs to someone I know.”

  “Ah, and you’re bringing it back to them?” Octavian asked.

  Dragos knew he was just making conversation. It still felt like an inquiry with motives, and he battled with himself to not react to his false perceptions. He licked his lips, which had mostly healed, and nodded, letting that be his answer.

  Octavian hummed, asking nothing more about it. Instead, he said, “This place is Light-sent. Bassus has a good eye. He found the trail. We’ve traveled from east of Dorvaeli to get here in the hopes of finding the right spot to settle. With the Aluta nearby, we can fish, and in the forest here, we can hunt for meat and furs to trade.”

  “It has potential,” Dragos agreed.

  The scent of porridge bubbling in the pot over the fire drew his attention. Dragos dragged the sack around to sit on his lap and rooted in it. He held up a small turnip and two carrots. “Here, for the pottage.”

  Octavian grinned. “Ah. Lumini, this will add some flavor!”

  It would not, but Dragos didn’t want to argue. What little rations he had amounted to hardtack and those vegetables he’d stumbled upon. Early, young roots he’d pillaged from the earth before they’d grown to a decent size.

  “I can find more. I know this land and her bounty,” he said, grabbing his box to go hunting for something to strengthen the stew.

  “You can leave your things behind,” Octavian suggested.

  Dragos only smiled and pulled the straps over his shoulders and set out.

  A fine mist fell by the time he returned with a few handfuls of mushrooms and wild garlic. He presented his finds to Chinhua, who crouched over the pot. Her dark eyes lit up, and she nearly purred with pleasure. “Oh, this. Very good, yes, very good.”

  She scooped them out of his hands and went to wash them in a bucket.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The tarp snapped as the wind picked up. Dampness kissed his face as the swirling forest breeze threw soft rain beneath the lean-to. Dragos moved toward the corner where the tarp overlapped the crumbled walls and found a semi-dry place to settle. The box leaned against the wall, his sack of clothes and hardtack atop it, he draped an arm over his belongings and got comfortable.

  His half-drowsing state vanished to the warmth of a bowl of stew under his nose and Chinhua’s smile. He took it and ate, listening to their banter. Most of them already had plans. They’d build there. Hunt the woods. Cut down some trees and grow seeds brought from the south.

  Night had fallen, and the world beyond the tap barely existed beyond the steady patter of rainfall. When they all gathered for sleep, the space was cramped. Dragos found himself sandwiched between Octavian and Chinhua with his woolen cloak the only thing between him and the chill ground. Octavian’s back was against his shoulder, the man’s arms curled around the woman who’d climbed the wall to fasten the lean-to.

  After a few moments, he undid the chin strap of his helmet and eased it off. By the faint light of coals, he decided it didn’t matter. He was too tired to think of anything other than comfort. The cuirass and ptruges went next, the pinch and jab of thick leather instantly relieved. The scant clothing he had on wasn’t as warm, but the radiant heat of the bodies around him helped.

  It helped even more when, in the darkness, Chinhua tucked in close beside him, nudging herself into the crook of his arm. His heart thumped wildly as he shifted to let her. She smelled of garlic, but that was his fault for offering it. Her body was warm, and she felt good there. The softness of her figure soothed in ways he’d forgotten he’d longed for; comforting.

  His doze fell into blackness as deep as the spirit realm.

  Dragos awoke to soft murmurs. Chinhua knelt beside him. He blinked away the swimming muck in his eyes to see they were alone in the corner. The others had gravitated to the fire near the mouth of the lean-to. Many nervous glances slid his way as the soft whisper of voices continued.

  “But he’s cavalarul…”

  “Can one be a cavaler?”

  “He has a mark, but he breathes, he sleeps—he’s no striga. Got to be moroi viu.”

  “Moroi viu may not be hunted here…”

  Futui. His gut felt like it was full of river stones, smooth and heavy, sure to drag him to drown. He pushed up on an elbow and focused on Chinhua, whose hands were clasped on her lap. She clenched her fingers together, then cautiously reached out to touch a stray lock of hair that rested on his cheek.

  “You’re moroi viu,” she stated, her tone calm, reserved.

  He couldn’t argue the obvious.

  “But also a knight that serves the Luminatori,” she added.

  He didn’t answer that either. Instead, he said, “If you all want, I’ll go.”

  Confused murmurs sprang up. A few clearly said yes. Still others, including Octavian and Bassus, emphatically said no.

  Dragos held up a hand and said, “I’ll go. There’s no need to be divided over this. I thank you all for a safe night.”

  With that, he grabbed the cuirass and began to fit it together, buckling as he went. The discussion continued, louder, since he’d woken. Octavian stood up as the argument heated. The three who had wanted Dragos to leave stood as well.

  “This man is a knight and a fellow traveler. Are you telling me that you’ll judge him by what you see?” Octavian scolded, jabbing a finger in Dragos's direction.

  The irony of those words smarted. He also appeared to be a knight, and wasn’t.

  “Moroi viu are dangerous…” one of the men said.

  Dragos never caught his name, not that it mattered. He buckled his leathers and found his sword. He lifted the helmet off his box and looked at it as Octavian laughed, a scathing sound.

  “Since when do we judge people on appearances? Thought we were better than that.”

  Dragos tucked his helmet under his arm, loath to put it back on until he had to. He turned to face them and found Chinhua standing in his way. “Don’t go because of them. They’re just being…”

  “Rude? Ignorant?” Octavian had heard her words and completed her sentence. “We brought Chinhua with us, despite the fact that she’s Aur. No one here would call her a brutal raider, even though she looks just like one.”

  Octavian’s sermonizing quieted the three. Their nervous glances slipped around, and no one could protest. Dragos witnessed the logic. The group’s leader was adept at rational arguments.

  Dragos didn’t want to be a divisive subject, but this debate brought some interesting things to his attention. Octavian enjoyed verbally sparring, the others were intimidated by their leader, and Chinhua maybe liked him. That last bit was as frightening as it was exhilarating. His last delve into romance had gone…poorly.

  It was too much to hope for. Unwise to want.

  His chest expanded against his cuirass with a deep breath. He held up his hand. “It’s not necessary.”

  “The Umbre it’s not!” Octavian countered. He wasn’t done, apparently. “You’ve every right to your dignity, Julianos.”

  Dragos almost didn’t recognize his borrowed name. A slow blink later, he remembered, and said, “Though I agree with what you’re saying, I—”

  “You’ll stay. At least until we’ve gotten a few things done and your wounds have healed more. It’s clear they’ve forced you to go on a mission before you’d recovered from your last. Typical of any section of Calruthian hierarchy, if you ask me.”

  The intense pressure of the situation constricted Dragos's lungs. He couldn’t speak for a moment. Swallowing against the thickness in his throat, he murmured, “Alright. I’ll stay for a while.”

  A tense breakfast later, the team broke to tackle the difficult tasks they’d discussed as dreams the night before. Chinhua went with Dragos, insisting she wanted to learn about the region’s plants and wildlife. Her gaze suggested she just wanted to spend time with him.

  Her usual bursts of energy were tempered by a look at Dragos, reading him in ways no one since Mirel had.

  His pain must have revealed itself in how he moved or the expressions he made, for often she slowed down or simply sat on a weatherworn fallen log, pitted by insects. They circled the area beyond the well, finding little treasures to take back for the pot.

  It was during one of those quiet moments, the wood dewy with the lush cool breath of pine carrying the twittering of birdsong, when her gaze cast about to admire their surroundings. Just when Dragos let himself consider her profile, framed by the straightest, darkest hair he’d ever seen, her whole body flinched. Chinhua’s hand slapped over her mouth to contain her gasp, eyes widening.

  Dragos followed her gaze to what looked like a bloated purple hand thrust up out of the ground. He frowned at it and stood. Chinhua glanced back at the ruin, but the trees between obscured it. Soft murmurs of voices filtered through.

  “Never seen mushrooms that look like fingers before, eh?” He asked, glancing back at Chinhua with a smug grin. He crooked a finger at her and said, “Come. Look.”

  He was about to launch into a rare form of delighted exposition about xylaria polymorpha when something crunched under his boot. Looking down, he saw something not white but pale, caked with dirt, half surfaced from the rain the night before.

  With the scuff of his boot, some of the mud wiped away. Rounded, a bony crest sank away into mud, and another rose. The fused premaxilla and flat, rounded tooth…

  He jerked his foot away.

  Awkward to step on someone’s face, even if they were dead.

  P?durea Manc?toare (puh-DOO-ree-ah mun-kuh-twa-reh): Devouring Forest

  Cavaler/Cavalarul (kah-vah-LEHR)/(kah-vah-lah-ROOL): Knight of the Luminatorii

  Striga (STREE-guh): All manner of creatures with wounded souls. It could refer to the undead, to witches, or ghosts, depending on the context.

  Moroi viu (mo-roi vee-oo)[rolled r]: A living person lacking a soul. Someone strange, atypical.

  Futui (Fu-too-ee): A curse

  Aur (awr): A people to the east.

  Umbre (UM-bruh): Shadow.

  Xylaria polymorphia: Dead Man's Fingers. A type of mushroom.

  Premaxilla: Front upper jawbone of vertebrates, skull face part beneath the nostrils.