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 bestvin 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. Lanternshang from posts, casting warm light as dusk approaches. A fire pit in the center, flames dancing.
Villagers gather, talking and laughing. Children run between tables, playing some game that involves much shrieking.
