“Rise, Avram,” Petru said sharply, his tone edged with a forced calm. “Fetch Lord Dragomir some wine to drink.”

  Avram blinked, then slowly pushed back his chair, the weight of his father’s words pressing heavily on his chest. The air in the room seemed thicker as he made his way to the cupboard where the wine was kept. Reserved for special days and rare occasions, their wine was a modest treasure, and Barbat’s rank far exceeded his father’s humble status. He could feel Barbat’s piercing gaze following his every movement, sharp and unrelenting, like a predator studying its prey.

  “Such hospitality,” Barbat said smoothly, his voice a blend of velvet and steel. He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile curling his distorted lips. “Truly, it is appreciated, Petru. But...”—his twisted smile widened, revealing a hint of something darker beneath— “wine is not the kind of drink I normally desire. Perhaps later.”

  Avram froze, his hand hovering over the wine jug. He glanced at Barbat, whose eyes gleamed with a sinister amusement. The meaning behind his words was clear, though unspoken.

  “Sit back down, boy,” Barbat commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I will talk now.”

  Avram hesitated, but a sharp glance from Petru urged him to obey. He returned to his seat, his heart pounding as he watched Barbat’s every movement. The air in the room felt colder, heavier, as if the shadows themselves had drawn closer to listen.

  Barbat Dragomir’s presence dominated the room as he turned his sharp, calculating gaze upon Petru. His voice, deep and resonant, carried a chilling authority as he began to speak. “Petru,” he said, “my men have made a discovery. Three young men, caught in the abandoned village of Darva?.”

  Petru stiffened at the name, his expression darkening. Darva? was a place spoken of only in whispers—a forsaken village shrouded in the dense, ancient forests to the west. It was a short ride from Albescu lands, a place of legends and ghost stories, where the air itself seemed to hum with an unnatural energy.

  Barbat’s lips curled, the scar stretching across his face made it look like his mouth had been torn open. He continued, “Darva? is an eerie place, is it not? Thick woods that blot out the sun, ruins that reek of decay, and yet... treasures still lie hidden among the wreckage. Among those ruins, my men discovered the remnants of an old chapel, once dedicated to the ‘Order of the Dragon.” He paused, his words hanging heavy in the air like a spider’s web.

  "The Order of the Dragon," Petru mused, the name heavy with meaning. Founded in 1408 by none other than the Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund of Luxembourg, its purpose had been noble—to defend Christianity and stand as a bulwark against the encroaching Ottoman Turks. Vlad the Second, Dracula’s earthly father, was inducted into its ranks in 1431, claiming the name ‘Vlad Dracul’— ‘Vlad the Dragon’—as a badge of honor and loyalty. Yet now, the name lingered like a bitter taste, its glory tarnished by irony. An order sworn to the light, now reduced to a forgotten relic under the suffocating shadow of Dracula’s dark legacy.

  Barbat leaned forward, his voice softening but losing none of its menace. “These three young men, they were caught leaving the chapel ruins. My men were thorough in their questioning, of course, but I wanted to ask you personally. Their names: Vasile and Mihai Dumitru, and Nicolae Stanescu. Tell me, Petru, do you know them? Do you know their village? And who would their village lord be, I wonder?”

  "The mocking edge in Barbat’s voice was impossible to miss. He already knew the answer, and he savored every moment of Petru’s visible unease. The room seemed frozen, as though even the shadows dared not stir. Petru’s fists clenched beneath the table, his jaw rigid with suppressed anger. Avram, wide-eyed and silent, glanced between the two men, Barbat’s words sinking heavily into his young mind. He couldn’t help but think of the three village men—men he was fond of—now caught in the crossfire of Barbat’s cruel game."

  Avram’s keen eyes caught the subtle tension in his father’s posture as the names were spoken. Petru’s hands, steady even in the most trying of times, tightened ever so slightly as one hand was moved to the edge of the table. His gaze flickered downward for a moment, a shadow of worry crossing his face before he lifted his head to meet Barbat’s expectant stare.

  Petru’s voice, though calm, carried the weight of duty and unease. “Yes, my Lord,” he answered, the honorific laced with reluctant respect. “The boys—Vasile, Mihai, and Nicolae—are from this village, Moreni.” He straightened in his chair, his shoulders squared despite the heavy atmosphere. “And I am their village Lord.”

  Barbat’s smile deepened, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he leaned forward, the flickering firelight casting jagged shadows across his angular features. “Ah, Moreni,” he drawled, as though savoring the word. “It is your quiet little corner in this world. But it seems your young men have a penchant for wandering away from their homes, Petru—when they would do better to stay put and tend to the tasks their masters have set before them.”

  Petru’s jaw clenched slightly, but his expression remained stoic. Avram, however, could feel the tension rolling off his father like waves. The weight of Barbat’s words, veiled in mockery and malice, seemed to hang in the air, threatening to suffocate them all.

  Barbat tilted his head, his voice dripping with feigned curiosity. “And tell me, Petru, how is it that three boys from your quaint little village found themselves in the ruins of Darva?, poking about in places best left forgotten?”

  Petru’s response was steady, though Avram caught the faint edge of frustration beneath his calm tone. “I sent them, my Lord, on a task to retrieve an item I believed to be found there. They were only following my orders. As their master, the fault is mine alone. Whatever punishment you see fit should rest on my shoulders.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Avram’s stomach churned at his father’s words. Though he admired his father’s sense of responsibility and leadership, he knew the weight of Barbat’s gaze was not one to be borne lightly. Barbat’s cleaved smile widened, revealing the sharpness of his teeth as he regarded Petru with an unsettling mix of amusement and disdain.

  “Oh, I will do as I please, as I see fit when dealing with these boys,” Barbat said, his voice as smooth as silk and twice as cutting. “But that is a matter for later. For now, my interest lies with you, Petru. After all, you sent them. Surely, as their Lord, you must have some insight into what compelled you to take such a risk—one that led them to such recklessness?”

  The room seemed to grow colder, the air heavy with unspoken tension as Barbat’s words hung in the air. Avram glanced at his father, searching for any sign of weakness, but Petru’s expression was unreadable—a mask of calm resolve in the face of the storm.

  The memories came to Petru unbidden, unspooling in his mind like the threads of a tapestry. It had been a month earlier, on a crisp autumn morning, when he found himself at the stables. The Albescu draft horses were among the few treasures left to his lands, their strong, steady frames vital for plowing the hard, unforgiving soil. Petru was bent over one of the mares, running a hand along her flank, when he heard the excited shuffle of boots behind him.

  He straightened and turned, spotting Mihai Dumitru approaching with his brother Vasile and their friend Nicolae Stanescu trailing close behind. Mihai’s face was lit with an eagerness that barely masked the nervous energy beneath.

  “My Lord Albescu!” Mihai called; his voice tinged with breathlessness. In his hands, he clutched a worn and weathered tome, its cover cracked with age and edged in curious designs that seemed to shift in the morning light. “You must see this!”

  Petru furrowed his brow but waved the boys closer. “What is it, Mihai?” he asked, brushing hay from his hands as he stepped out of the stall.

  Mihai held out the book, his fingers trembling slightly. “It’s... well, we found this. You need to look at it.”

  "Petru accepted the book, its rough leather binding coarse beneath his calloused fingers. Strange, sinuous markings ran along the edges, almost serpentine in their design, and the very air around the object seemed to hum with an unspoken menace. His gaze fell to the title embossed on the cover in faded gold letters: Skotádi Sophia. Though his grasp of Greek was rudimentary, he understood it to mean Wisdom of the Darkness.

  A flicker of doubt crossed his mind. The Albescu lords of old, with their classical education, would have unraveled the mysteries of such a text with ease. Petru, however, lacked their scholarly refinement. Yet curiosity urged him forward. As he turned the first page of parchment, relief washed over him—the text had been painstakingly translated into an archaic form of Romanian, a script he could still decipher. The delicate handwriting, likely the work of a long-forgotten monk, bore the marks of tireless devotion, preserving the knowledge of what must have been an ancient Greek manuscript.

  What lay within, however, unsettled him further. The text spoke of arcane rituals, the manipulation of unseen forces, and incantations that seemed to bridge the natural and the supernatural. It was unmistakably a tome of magic and sorcery.

  Petru hesitated, his thumb brushing the edge of the parchment. Could a Christian man, bound by faith, justify delving into such forbidden knowledge? Yet, the weight of the book in his hands felt more than physical—it felt like a burden he was meant to carry. A responsibility.

  Closing the book with deliberate care, he resolved to study it, though a seed of unease had already taken root in his heart."

  “Where did you find this?” Petru asked, his tone sharper now.

  Mihai shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Vasile and then Nicolae before answering. “In our village's old church, my Lord.”

  Petru narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been through that church countless times as a boy. There’s little left but rotted wood and dust. Where in the church?”

  Mihai hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. Then, after a glance at Nicolae, he spoke, his voice lower now. “It’s... a strange story, my Lord. I was dreaming, or at least I thought I was. In the dream, I was standing in the old church. But it wasn’t like it is now—it was whole, new, as if it had been restored to its former glory. And there was a man. Or at least, I think it was a man. His face was in shadow, and his voice...” Mihai shivered slightly. “His voice sounded like a thousand whispers at once. He told me there was something hidden in the church, something that was meant to be found.”

  Petru frowned, his grip tightening on the book. “And you believed this dream?”

  ‘Not at first,’ Mihai admitted, his voice trembling slightly. ‘But it felt... real. When I woke up, I told Vasile and Nicolae about it. We decided to go, just to see.’

  ‘And it was there?’ Petru asked, his tone edged with disbelief as he glanced down at the book in his hands.”

  Mihai nodded; his earlier excitement now tempered with unease. “We searched the ruins for hours and were about to give up,' he said. ‘But then I felt drawn to a part of the church we hadn’t checked. And there it was—a hollow cavity inside the altar itself, visible only when you looked beneath it. Inside, we found the book, carefully wrapped in cloth.” The boys' faces lit up as they spoke in unison, their voices overlapping with excitement as they recounted the thrill of their discovery

  Petru studied the boys, their faces earnest and filled with a mix of fear and wonder. He turned his gaze back to the book in his hands, its pages seeming to pulse faintly in the corner of his vision. Whatever this was, it was not the work of chance.

  ‘This is dangerous,’ Petru said at last, his voice heavy with concern. ‘Whatever this is, it was not meant for the likes of us.’

  “But, my Lord,” Nicolae interjected, his voice pleading. “What if it’s important? What if it can help?”

  Petru’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the book again, the weight of its presence pressing against him. He could feel the pull of curiosity, the whisper of temptation. But deep within, there was also a warning—a shadow of something darker, waiting to be unleashed.

  “Leave it with me,” he said at last, his voice firm. “I’ll decide what to do with it. And you three—” he fixed them with a stern gaze “—you’re not to speak to anyone about this, especially your mothers. Do you understand me?”

  The boys exchanged uneasy glances before nodding in unison. 'Yes, my Lord,’ they replied, their voices subdued but resolute.

  Petru turned away, clutching the book tightly. He would spend the next days poring over its pages in secret, trying to decipher its meaning. What he found would lead him to a decision he would soon come to regret.