Chapter 10
K.
I cannot stop thinking about the kiss.
Each step up the mountain path, the guilt hammers harder. What possessed me? She is hurt. Vulnerable. Under my protection. And I took advantage of her in the worst possible way.
Though did I?
The rationalization arrives unbidden. I was asleep. Dreaming. I had no conscious awareness of what I was doing.
The excuse feels hollow.
I knew enough to pull her close. To kiss her with desperate hunger. To touch her face with tenderness that came from somewhere I can’t access.
Which means some part of me was aware. Some fragment of consciousness guided my actions even if my waking mind was absent.
And if I was aware enough to act, I should have been aware enough to stop.
Behind me, Mara stumbles. The scuff of boots on loose stone, a sharp intake of breath.
I stop. Turn. My hand lifts, instinct demanding I steady her, keep her safe.
She catches herself on a boulder, knuckles white against gray stone. Won’t look at me.
My hand falls.
“Do you need—?”
“I’m fine.” The word comes out clipped. She straightens, shoulders rigid. “Just keep walking.”
I want to close the distance. Want to touch her shoulder, her face, anything to bridge the space I created with my wrongness this morning.
I don’t move.
She’s right to be angry. Right to reject my help after I took what wasn’t offered.
I turn back to the path.
The silence that follows is different from yesterday’s easy quiet. This one has edges. Every unspoken word between us pulls it tighter.
I try to find something to say. An apology more substantial than this morning’s hollow formality. An explanation for the inexplicable.
But what can I say?
I’m sorry I kissed you while dreaming of someone I can’t remember?
Forgive me for wanting you with a desperation that makes no sense, considering I’ve known you for three days?
I wish I could explain, though I don’t have answers for myself?
All true. All useless.
The haunting question circles back: Who did I think she was?
A memory surfaces—rain hitting stone, the scent of burning, a woman’s laugh that made something in my chest ease. Then grief, sharp as a blade.
I reach for the memory desperately. Try to hold it long enough to see her face, hear her name, understand—
It dissolves…
Gone.
The ache that follows is physical. Loss for someone I can’t remember.
I flex my hands. Add it to the growing list of questions without answers.
The path steepens. I navigate by instinct, feet finding purchase without conscious thought. Behind me, Mara’s breathing grows labored, exhaustion in every step.
I slow slightly.
“I said I’m fine,” she snaps. “Stop hovering.”
The dismissal stings more than it should.
I maintain the pace and try not to feel the weight of her judgment pressing between my shoulder blades.
God, you’re a fool.
We climb for another hour. The air thins. My body adjusts automatically—breathing deeper, heart rate steady, temperature rising to compensate.
Not normal.
I know this. Have known it since I woke in these mountains with capabilities I can’t explain.
But knowing doesn’t make understanding any easier.
The terrain begins to level. We’ve reached the high pass. I feel it in the shift of air pressure, the change in wind direction. Beyond this ridge lies the valley where my instincts promise safety.
Where I might finally find answers.
We crest the ridge.
The valley spreads below. Terraced fields still green despite the season, stone buildings clustered near a central square, smoke rising from chimneys.
My chest contracts.
Not pain. Recognition without memory. Like my body knows this place, even if my mind refuses to surrender it.
Heat floods beneath my skin. My pulse kicks—too fast, too hard. I press my palm to my sternum, trying to contain whatever this is. This pull. This impossible knowing.
Home.
The word arrives unexpectedly. Certain.
My people lived here.
I glance at Mara. She’s watching me, wariness in the set of her shoulders. For a moment, I forget the tension between us. Forget everything except the need to… What? Ask if she feels it too?
“Is this it?” Her voice is careful. Guarded. “Your home?”
I look back at the valley. At the place my body knows, and my mind can’t reach.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But yes. Perhaps.”
Something shifts in her expression—too quick for me to read.
“Well,” she says. “Let’s find out.”
We descend.
The path switchbacks down the ridge face, well-maintained despite its rustic appearance. Someone tends this route regularly. Cares for it.
As we near the village, I feel eyes on us.
Not hostile. But watchful.
I scan the buildings. See movement in windows, shadows shifting in doorways. People emerging from homes and workshops to observe our approach.
Their attention focuses on me specifically.
Not Mara. Me.
My spine tightens.
A woman steps out from a stone building near the village center. Old. Perhaps eighty, perhaps older. Her face is weathered like mountain rock, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. She wears traditional clothing—long skirt, embroidered vest, headscarf tied in a style I don’t recognize but somehow know.
She studies me with an intensity that raises the hair on my arms.
Then she speaks. Romanian. I understand every word despite having no memory of learning the language.
“We did not expect to see one of you again. Not in our lifetime.”
The words unsettle me.
“I’m sorry,” I say in English. Then, without thinking, switch to Romanian. The words flow easily. “I don’t understand. Do you know me?”
Her eyes narrow. “Know you? No. But I know of you.”
She knows of me?
“And who are you?” I ask, hoping her answer will prompt some sort of memory.
“Dragana is what the winds call me,” she replies. “The earth knows me as one who guards the secrets of those who walk among us.”
Mara shifts beside me. “Um, hi… um… Dragana? Do you speak English? Also, is there any chance you have Wi-Fi? Or a phone I could use?”
The old woman’s attention flicks to Mara briefly. “English, yes. But Wi-Fi?” She pronounces the word carefully. “I do not know this word.”
“Right.” Mara’s tension bleeds through. “Of course not.”
“What’s Wi-Fi?” I ask her.
“Seriously?” Mara rolls her eyes. “It’s how you connect to the internet.”
“What’s the internet?” I say.
“It’s…” She flings her hands into the air. “Oh, for God’s sake. Forget it. This is ridiculous!” She swivels her head, taking in the village around us. I realize I’ve been dismissed.
Dragana returns her focus to me. Switches to accented but fluent English. “You carry the old blood. I see it in your eyes. Feel it in the air around you.”
“I carry nothing,” I say. Heat rises in my chest, frustration mixing with desperate need for answers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came here hoping someone might recognize me. Might know who I am.”
“Who you are?” She tilts her head. “Or who you were?”
The distinction feels important, though I don’t understand why.
“Either. Both.” I gesture helplessly. “I have no memory. No past. Only—” I stop. How do I explain the certainty that led me here? “I knew this place existed. I knew I needed to reach it. But I don’t know why.”
“The blood knows,” she says simply. “Even when the mind forgets, blood remembers.”
More riddles. More non-answers.
Heat flares beneath my skin. My jaw tightens. “I came here seeking help. If you cannot provide it, just say so.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then: “You may shelter here. Rest. Recover.” Her tone sharpens. “But understand: we are wary. Your kind have not walked our valleys in many years. There are reasons for this.”
Your kind.
The phrase again. Specific. Loaded with meaning I can’t grasp.
“What kind?” I ask directly. “What do you think I am?”
“I do not think.” Her voice is firm. “I know. But if you do not remember, perhaps it is not my place to tell you.” She pauses. “Knowledge given too freely can be dangerous. Better you remember on your own. When you are ready.”
The frustration crests. Not just heat now; genuine anger at being kept in the dark when answers are standing right in front of me.
“I don’t have time to wait for memory that may never return. I need answers now.”
“Need and readiness are not the same.” She gestures toward a building at the edge of the square. “There is shelter. Food. Water. Rest tonight. Perhaps clarity comes with morning.”
It’s not an answer. But it’s not a dismissal either.
I glance at Mara. She looks exhausted, pale beneath the dirt and windburn. Whatever my feelings may be, she needs rest. Warmth. Safety.
“Thank you,” I say, though the words scrape out.
The old woman nods. Starts to turn away, then pauses. “One question, traveler. Do you dream?”
The shift in topic catches me off guard. “Yes.”
“And in these dreams… do you speak?”
The memory surfaces: waking to Mara’s touch, words I didn’t choose pouring from my mouth in a language I don’t remember learning.
“Yes,” I say carefully.
Something shifts in Dragana’s expression. Not quite fear. Not quite respect. Something between.
“Then you are close,” she says quietly. “Close to remembering. Be careful when you do. The past has teeth.”
She walks away before I can ask what that means.
Around us, villagers return to their work. But I feel their attention still—sideways glances, whispered conversations that stop when I turn.
They know something. Something about me. About what I am.
And they’re not telling.
Mara breaks the silence. “Well. That was cryptic and… unhelpful.”
“Yes.”
“Do you actually speak Romanian? Because that was—” She stops. Shakes her head. “Never mind. Of course you do. Mystery language in your sleep, Romanian when awake. Makes perfect sense.”
The weariness in her voice surprises me. I look at her and see exhaustion mixed with something else. Annoyance? Fear, maybe.
“Are you—?”
“I’m fine.” She cuts me off. The same clipped tone from the trail. “Can we just… I’m tired and cold and done with cryptic mountain people.”
She’s not fine. But I don’t push.
We cross to the building that the old woman indicated. Simple stone construction. Wooden door, weathered gray. One narrow window facing the square.
I push the door open.
Inside: one room dominated by a large stone hearth. Two sleeping pallets against opposite walls. A rough wooden table. Hooks for hanging clothes. A basin of water. Spare but clean.
And warm. Someone laid a fire before we arrived, flames crackling steadily.
Did they know we were coming?
Mara moves immediately to the hearth, hands extended toward the heat. She doesn’t look at me.
I close the door. Scan automatically: single entrance, window too small for entry, stone walls defensible. Safe enough.
Then I just stand there, uncertain.
I should say something. Break the tension. Apologize again, more genuinely this time.
But Mara speaks first. “I’m going to sleep.” Still won’t meet my eyes. “Wake me if the villagers decide to burn us as witches or whatever.”
“Mara—”
“I’m serious, K.” She finally looks at me, and the exhaustion in her face cuts deeper than anger would. “I just… I need to not talk right now. Okay?”
I see it then. Not just tiredness. Hurt.
I did that. With my wrongness. My lack of control.
The knowledge sits heavy in my chest.
“Okay,” I say quietly. Because what else can I offer?
She settles onto the pallet. Pulls a rough blanket over herself. Turns to face the wall.
Dismissed.
I deserve it. I know I do.
But standing here, watching her retreat into sleep rather than trust me…
It… cuts.
I move to the window. Look out at the village square. People moving about their evening tasks. Normal. Peaceful.
But watching us. I see it in the way they angle their bodies, keeping the cabin in peripheral vision.
They have answers.
The old blood, the elder said. Your kind.
What kind?
What am I that makes them wary despite offering shelter?
I press my palm against the cold glass, trying to make the pieces fit.
The power of the mountain that feels like it’s fueling me.
The pull I felt—connecting me to someone far away who needed help.
The heat beneath my skin. My body’s “wrong” capabilities.
The way fire didn’t burn Mara when it should have consumed her.
My instinctive knowledge of terrain and tactics and languages I don’t remember learning.
And now this: a village that recognizes what I am on sight.
All connected. All pieces of something I’m not seeing.
Blood knows, the old woman said.
But what if the blood is all I have? What if memory never returns and I’m left with only these fragments, these instincts without context?
What if I never learn who I was before I woke in these mountains?
The questions circle endlessly.
Behind me, I hear Mara’s breathing even out. Exhaustion claiming her despite the tension between us. Her body still heals. I can’t let myself forget that.
I should rest too. Tomorrow will bring… what? More vague non-answers? Recognition without explanation?
I move away from the window. Add wood to the fire. Check that the door is secure.
Then I settle onto the second pallet, back against the stone wall, where I can watch both the entrance and Mara.
Old habits. Strategic positioning from training that I don’t remember.
Who were you? I ask the emptiness where my past should be. And what will I become when I finally remember?
No answer comes.
Just the crackle of fire and Mara’s quiet breathing and the presence of a village outside that knows my nature better than I do.
I close my eyes. Try to rest.
But sleep feels dangerous now. Because in sleep, I dream. And in dreams, I kiss women who aren’t mine to touch.
In dreams, the past has teeth.
Mara shifts on her pallet. A small sound escapes her… a sigh.
My eyes open.
Outside, the village settles into night. Inside, Mara’s breathing eventually evens.
And I keep watch over someone I have no right to protect.
Someone I’ve already failed.