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.
