As we move, a shadow passes over the ground, then another, making me glance up.
Ravens, more than I have ever seen at once—black shapes against the pale sky, wings tucked, heads tilted, watching us. Some lift into the air and follow overhead, others hopping from branch to branch, croaking as if speaking among themselves.
I glance upward, unease prickling my skin. Is this a sign? A warning? Or only birds drawn to noise and movement? God sends signs, Popa Vasile says, yet He does not always explain them. Around me, no one else seems to notice, all gazes fixed ahead.
As we near the road and the track widens, the land opening into a rough clearing trampled by hooves, the murmurs grow louder. I hear them drift past me like smoke:danger,unclean,Godless. Someone laughs nervously; someone else spits into the dirt as if to ward something off.
At the farthest reach of the village, where the fields give way to dust and the path stretches like an unanswered question, they wait.
My breath catches. The carts are the first thing I see—painted in colours so bright they seem almost unreal against the muted earth. Reds and blues and golds, patterns curling along the wood like living things. Cloth hangs from their sides, moving gently in the breeze, catching light. Horses stand calmly between them, tack worn but well cared for, while dogs lie sprawled in the shade, lifting their heads lazily as we approach, eyes following us without hostility.
And the people—
They are nothing like us.
The women wear flowing skirts the colour of flame and earth, the layered fabric swaying freely around their legs. Their hair falls loose or loosely braided, threads of ribbon catching here and there, glinting as they turn. Sunlight lives in their skin—deep, warm, shaped by long days beneath the open sky—and they hold themselves upright, chins lifted, gazes steady and unflinching.
The men laugh easily among themselves, dark vests embroidered with thread that glints, belts heavy with metal, posture relaxed yet alert, as if they belong wherever they choose to stand. Children dart barefoot between carts, their voices ringing clear against the tension pressing in from our side.
Awe blooms in my chest before I can stop it.
My gaze lifts without warning and meets that of a young man standing near the nearest cart. He does not look away, does not pretend not to see me. His attention holds mine, a faint smile pulling at his mouth as though it comes easily.
Heat rises at once. I drop my eyes instantly, mortified by the boldness of it, by the way he doesn't flinch. The ground becomes my refuge as I grow suddenly aware of the braid at my back, of my hands held too neatly before me, of the stillness I keep around myself.
Above us, the ravens cry again. I do not look up this time.
Under the weight of every stare, Radu’s father steps forward. He moves with the measured confidence of a man long used to being obeyed, stopping a few paces from the strangers and inclining his head just enough to be polite.
"You stand at the border of our village," he states evenly. "State your business."
One of the men steps out to meet him, his stance unhurried. He is not the tallest among them, nor the oldest, yet the others seem to make space for him without being asked. A dark coat hangs open over travel-worn clothes, and at his waist a knife rests in a sheath worn smooth by long use. His hair is threaded with gray at the temples, tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and I can't help but notice the scar that curves along his jaw in the shape of a pale crescent.
After stopping before Radu’s father, he presses one hand briefly to his chest in greeting—a gesture unfamiliar to me, yet respectful all the same.
"We thank you," he says. "My people… we travel long road still. We ask small shelter only. Two nights."
He pauses, searching for the next word, then nods as if satisfied he has found it.
"No more."
His words are shaped strangely, the sounds rolling and stretching where I expect them to fall short. He uses turns of phrase I do not quite recognize, syllables that bend instead of breaking cleanly. The meaning is clear enough, but it reaches me by a longer road.
Radu’s father studies him. "Why now?" comes the immediate question. "The road is clear. You could have passed by daylight."
The man’s mouth curves into a faint smile. He lifts one hand and points upward. "Storm comes."
Heads tilt back instantly to the sky, its pale blue endless above us. Not a cloud in sight. The sun sits high, bright enough to sting the eyes, the air light and untroubled. No heaviness. No scent of rain. Nothing that speaks of thunder or wind.
A few men exchange looks. Someone lets out a quiet scoff. Radu’s father does not answer right away, his gaze briefly flicking to Popa Vasile.
The priest’s response is almost imperceptible—a single, slight tilt of the head.
No.
Something sinks in my chest.
I had not known, until that moment, how much I wanted the answer to be yes. Two nights, I think. Just two nights. It would not have been much. Just long enough, perhaps, to watch them move, to hear their voices again, to see the way their colours shift in the light.
