Chapter 27 Serban & Ossivian
SERBAN her husband and infant slaughtered.
Tonight they will finish her—near the bend where the river meets the forest's darkest reach—with a violence only humans can muster.”
“And why bring this to me?” Serban asked, impatience thin as a blade. “Do you wish me to stop it?”
“No. You are not to interfere. Simply find her. Take her from human death and fold her into your line,” the creature whispered.
“When she is ready—when she has learned the rites and rules of your kind—release her. She will answer the cruelty wrought against her with vengeance. Yet her path is hers alone to bear; you are not chained to it.”
In the dark, Serban's shoulders sank. To struggle against the will of the gods was futile. “How will I know her?” he asked, resignation heavy in his voice.
Ossivian, wrapped in shadow so dark even Serban's eyes couldn't discern, clicked his tongue, toying with the vampire.”You know her. A glade—three turns of the sun past. Picking sweet fruit.”
Serban froze, breath torn from him as though by an unseen blow.
The young Romani peasant—Magda—whose name and face was still etched in his memory.
The reckless girl who had trembled before him, yet longed to taste what he carried in his veins.
She had wanted power—freedom beyond the limits of her birth.
He'd felt the pull even then, the thread tying them.
That day had not been chance but design. Now he understood whose.
Sadness cut through him. Blessed or cursed, the gods had marked her. And now, for a time, they had marked him with her. “What do you have for me?” Serban didn't want Ossivian to think he was willing without payment.
The creature edged forward a few inches and set a small box and a velvet pouch upon the ground before retreating once more into the dark. Serban kept his gaze lowered. His father had warned him long ago: it was forbidden to look upon the creature's true form. Some bargains required blindness.
Only when the faint scrape of movement ceased did he step forward and retrieve the offerings.
He loosened the pouch's drawstring and poured its contents into his palm—cut stones that caught even the dim light: several diamonds, a sapphire the color of midnight seas, and a scatter of opals that shimmered like trapped rainbows.
Satisfied, he returned them to the pouch.
“Those are your payment,” Ossivian said. “The box belongs to the girl.”
Serban pocketed the pouch and opened the box.
Inside lay two large rubies, their glow alive, their magic unfurling like smoke.
Power pulsed through his veins—their story threading through him as clearly as any language of men.
The rubies spoke of return, of magic that could bring back something the young woman had lost. When the vision faded, Serban exhaled and braced one hand against the cave wall.
“Why do the gods favor this girl?” he asked, the question edged with bewilderment. He had never understood why immortal beings would trouble themselves with the fragile, fleeting dramas of mortals.
“Tsk, tsk,” Ossivian tutted, the sound dry as bone against stone. “It is not for me—or for you—to second-guess the will of the divine, blood drinker.”
Serban shook his head. He preferred his ties thin and easily severed.
He stood there, absorbing the burden until it pressed him inward, bowing his shoulders with its insistence.
Without another word, Ossivian turned and vanished into the cave's depths, leaving Serban alone with the echo of his thoughts—and the weight of the task ahead.