Chapter 12
K.
I stand in the stream long after Mara disappears down the path, cold water doing absolutely nothing to cool the fire beneath my skin.
What just happened?
One moment, I was apologizing—trying to restore honor after yesterday’s violation. The next, she was touching me, kissing me, her hands trailing down my body with clear intent.
And I wanted it.
God help me, I wanted it with an intensity that bordered on madness.
Still want it. My cock throbs against my thigh, demanding I follow her back to that shelter and finish what we started.
I sink beneath the water’s surface, hoping the shock of cold will restore some semblance of control. It doesn’t. My body remains stubbornly, painfully aware of how close we came to—
Enough.
I surface, dragging air into lungs that feel too tight. This is not helpful. Mara is under my protection. Recovering from injuries that should have killed her. The last thing she needs is me losing control simply because she touched me.
Even if her touch felt like home.
Even if kissing her felt more right than anything I can remember.
Even if every instinct I possess screams that she’s mine in ways I don’t understand but can’t deny.
I force myself to focus on practical matters. Finish bathing properly. Dress. Return to the village with some measure of composure.
But the frustration gnaws at me.
Dragana knows what I am. Sees it in my eyes, feels it in the air around me. Yet she refuses to explain. Insists I must remember on my own, when I’m “ready.”
How can I be ready for knowledge I don’t possess? How can I remember what’s been taken from me?
The questions circle endlessly, offering no resolution.
I dry off briskly using my shirt, then pull on my clothes, and head back toward the village.
I find Mara in the central square, surrounded by a small group of women as she eats some sort of pastry. They’re speaking in rapid Romanian. Curious. Friendly, even.
Mara looks lost. She smiles and nods, but I see the tension in her shoulders. The way she keeps glancing around like she’s looking for an escape route.
Looking for me, perhaps.
The thought warms something in my chest that has no business being warm.
I cross the square. The women notice my approach, conversations faltering. They watch me with that same wary respect from yesterday, acknowledgment mixed with unease.
“K.” Relief floods Mara’s face. “Thank God. These women are very nice, but I have no idea what they’re saying, and smiling is getting exhausting.”
One of the older women speaks, her English heavily accented but almost understandable. “We ask about your journey. Where you come from. How you meet the fire-blood.”
“The what?” Mara glances at me. “Why do they keep calling you that?”
I have no answer. Just another question to add to the collection.
“We traveled from the northern ridges,” I say carefully. “There was an accident. I brought her here seeking shelter.”
The woman translates for the others. They nod, exchange meaningful looks I can’t interpret.
“You are fortunate,” another woman says. “To be found by one such as him. The fire-bloods are rare now. Almost gone from these mountains.”
“What does that mean?” Mara asks. “Fire-blood?”
The women just smile. Cryptic. Knowing.
I have no doubt that Mara finds this village as frustrating as I do.
Dragana emerges from a nearby building. She surveys the gathering with sharp eyes, then gestures. “Enough questions. The travelers need peace.” Her gaze fixes on me. “And perhaps some understanding of where they find themselves.”
She calls something in Romanian. Two young men approach—maybe early twenties, both lean and weathered from mountain life. Brothers, I think, based on their similar features.
“This is Andrei,” Dragana indicates the taller one. Dark hair, serious expression. “And Nicolae.” The younger brother, lighter hair, more open face. “They will show you the old places. Help you understand our history. When you come back, there will be feasting.”
“History?” Mara asks.
“Context,” Dragana corrects. “For what you seek to know.”
More riddles.
But Nicolae grins, apparently unbothered by his elder’s cryptic nature. “Come. We show you the caves. Very old. Very interesting.”
Andrei nods. “Our ancestors painted there. Long ago, when the…” He pauses, searching for the English word. “When the old gods walked.”
“Old gods?” Mara’s eyebrows rise. “Like mythology?”
The brothers exchange a look I can’t read.
“Yes,” Andrei says carefully. “Like mythology.”
But the way he says it suggests he doesn’t quite believe that’s all it is.
They lead us out of the village, up a steep path that winds between rocky outcroppings. Nicolae chatters in a mix of Romanian and broken English, pointing out landmarks and sharing stories.
Andrei is quieter, more watchful. He keeps glancing at me when he thinks I’m not looking.
Assessing. Comparing me to something.
The path narrows, following a ridgeline with steep drops on both sides. Mara stays close, and I find myself positioning my body between her and the edge without consciously deciding to.
Protection. Instinct.
She notices. Rolls her eyes but doesn’t comment. Her hand finds mine—small fingers slipping through larger ones. The contact shouldn’t seem significant.
It does.
Her palm is warm against mine. Soft. I’m hyperaware of every point where our skin touches, the way her thumb brushes the side of my hand. Casual. Easy. A simple familiarity that feels… natural. Like we’ve done this a thousand times.
My body remembers holding hands.
The realization comes sudden and unwelcome. Muscle memory without context. I’ve walked beside someone before, fingers linked just like this.
But not her.
Not Mara’s hand, though hers fits perfectly against mine.
Something inside me says I should want to pull away.
I don’t.
After perhaps thirty minutes, we reach a cliff face. A dark opening yawns in the stone—natural cave entrance, partially hidden by scrub and fallen rock.
“Here,” Andrei says. “The old place. Sacred to our people.”
Nicolae produces a torch from his pack—wood and pitch—strikes flint and lights it.
We enter.
The cave is larger than it appears from outside. The ceiling soars overhead, lost in shadow. Our footsteps echo off stone walls as we descend deeper.
Then Nicolae raises the torch higher, and I see them.
Paintings.
Covering every surface within reach. Faded with age but still visible—ochre and charcoal and what might be crushed minerals, showing scenes that make my breath catch.
Creatures in flight. Massive, winged, breathing flame.
“The old gods,” Nicolae says reverently. “Who ruled these mountains before men.”
I step closer, drawn by something instinctive. The paintings are crude by modern standards—simple lines and shapes—but something about them feels right.
One image dominates the far wall: a creature mid-flight, wings spread wide, fire erupting from its mouth toward enemies below. Powerful. Majestic. Terrifying.
I reach out, fingertips brushing the ancient paint.
Heat surges beneath my skin—sharp and immediate. The stone warms under my touch. Not gradual. Instant.
“K?” Mara’s voice seems distant. “You okay?”
I pull my hand back. The stone cools immediately, like I imagined the whole thing.
Except I didn’t.
“Yes. Just—” I struggle for words. “These images. They feel familiar.”
“Old?” Andrei supplies.
“Known,” I correct.
The brothers exchange another significant look.
“Our grandmother says the old gods are not truly gone,” Nicolae offers. “Just sleeping. Waiting to wake when the world needs them again.”
“Grandmother says many things,” Andrei mutters. Then, to us: “She is Dragana. The elder you met.”
Doesn’t surprise me.
“These paintings,” Mara says carefully. “How old are they?” She’s examining them with eyebrows pulled together, her expression intent.
“Centuries,” Andrei replies. “Maybe older. Before written record. When our people first came to these mountains, the old gods already lived here.”
Mara glances at me, then looks away, her brow furrowed.
“And what happened to them?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.
Nicolae shrugs. “They left. Or died. Or went to sleep beneath the earth.” He grins. “Depends who tells the story.”
We move deeper into the cave. More paintings line the walls—battles, hunts, ceremonies. Always the winged creatures, sometimes alone, sometimes with human figures who seem to worship or serve them.
In one panel, a creature lies wounded. Humans tend it. In another, a creature and a human stand together, hand to claw, as if making a pact.
“Alliance,” Andrei says quietly, noticing my focus. “The stories say some of the old gods loved humans. Protected them. Made promises.”
“Promises?” Mara asks.
“Oaths,” he corrects. “Binding. Forever.”
The word resonates somewhere deep. Oath.
Something stirs in the depths of my missing memory—vast and important and just out of reach.
Then it’s gone.
Frustration builds. These paintings mean something. I know they do. My body responds to them, but my mind offers nothing.
“We should go back,” Nicolae says eventually. “The feast will start soon.”
“Feast?” Mara perks up.
“Tonight we celebrate the season’s end. Everyone eats together. Drinks. Tells stories.” He grins. “You will like it. Grandmother makes the best vin fiert.”
“Mulled wine,” Andrei translates at Mara’s confused expression.
We exit the cave. Sunlight seems too bright after the dim interior. I blink, adjusting.
Mara touches my arm. “You were really into those paintings.”
“They felt important.”
“Important how?”
I don’t have an answer. Just the bone-deep certainty that those creatures—those “old gods”—are connected to whatever truth Dragana sees but won’t name.
The village square has transformed by the time we return.
Long tables arranged in a U-shape, already laden with food—roasted meat, root vegetables, dark bread, cheese. Lanterns hang from posts, casting warm light as dusk approaches. A fire pit in the center, flames dancing.