297- The Shadow That Follows Me
POV Viktor Averwyn:
Felix did not scream, but tears spilled from his frightened eyes when I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him until his feet left the ground. For some reason, I revolted against his death and, at the last second, thought of his father, who would watch his only son be torn to pieces before his eyes.
“I condemn him to the Pit of Death,” I roared.
It was the only other punishment accepted there, created by me. I had never sent anyone to the Elders’ lifelong prison. But between that and my claws tearing out organs, there was the pit.
A minimal chance for the criminal to escape and be banished from my lands if he managed it.
In centuries, no one had ever succeeded.
Despite that, hope rekindled. Vlad thanked me immediately, as if this were a less painful death. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I also hoped Felix would be young and strong enough to endure the fall and the silver stakes at the bottom that would pierce him through, impaling his body.
I dragged him behind me as he stumbled, the others following. Low voices, whispers, feet striking the dirt of the cemetery as I entered it.
The pit stood in a corner, open—a summons to death among the buried women. Their gray tombstones reminded all of the fate of those who crossed my path, for good or for ill.
I did not think much.
I lifted him and hurled him into the hole.
His screams were muffled by the circular walls as he fell deep into the darkness, echoing up to us. Silence followed—until a final cry of agony.
And nothing more.
Everyone stood still.
I retracted my claws and fangs, felt the fur recede until my face once again held only the shadow of a beard. Rage still coursed through my blood—for what Felix had done, for what I had been forced to repay.
No sound. No groan.
Cezar, Lonut’s older brother—Daciana’s son and my right hand—approached the pit and looked down. His sharp vision allowed him to see into the dark bottom.
He turned back to me solemnly and shook his head.
Dead.
Everyone understood.
I turned to the members of my pack. Adelina was on her knees, crying as Daciana supported her. Desolate faces. Lowered heads. Vlad serious, though his eyes shone with unshed tears.
“Anyone here who is not satisfied, speak now,” I said harshly.
No sound was uttered, and I turned to Vlad.
“Do you want permission to leave the village? To try life outside here?”
“No, Alpha Viktor. My son disappointed you. He acted wrongly. I will not do the same.”
I looked him straight in the eyes and saw no anger. Only pain. Perhaps one day he would revolt, would want revenge against me for that. I would remain watchful.
But for the moment, he was still one of us.
“You are welcome here, Vlad.”
I said nothing more. Everyone had understood.
They stepped aside when I passed and grabbed my daughter. She came with me without making a scene, crying quietly, breaking my heart. Daciana followed us in silence.
(...)
POV Seraphine Valerian:
When the taxi entered Vila Rósia, my heart almost climbed into my throat. I gripped the strap of my bag tightly, my eyes scanning everything around me.
We had circled the medieval city of Sibiu, with its immense walls, until we reached a narrow road bordered by forest on both sides. The village had once been an old Romani camp, but it had grown over time.
Some still preferred to live in tents, coming and going in a semi-nomadic rhythm, but most had settled into houses and started working there. They held fairs for their goods and also sold in neighboring regions. My father said it was a calm and dignified life.
“We’ve arrived,” the taxi driver announced as he stopped in front of a blue-painted house with an arched porch in the front. No walls. Simple and beautiful.
Nervously, I looked at the number and confirmed it.
The man helped me by pulling my heavy travel bag from the trunk. I thanked him and paid. When he left, I remained standing there for a few seconds. Strong emotions struck me from every direction.
Some people from neighboring houses peeked at me through open windows or from their porches. It was almost eight at night. The flight had been delayed, so I arrived later than expected.
Embarrassed, I realized that I would know who each of them was if I had grown up in the village. But I was nothing more than a stranger, stepping for the first time into the place I had desired most in my life.
I grabbed my luggage and climbed the two steps to the porch, knocking the metal ring against the wooden door. My legs trembled and I fought the urge to cry.
In the same instant I found myself facing a short elderly woman with a red scarf on her head, a colorful skirt, and a faded blue blouse. Her skin was sun-worn and wrinkled, her nose sharp, her eyes cunning. She looked me up and down with curiosity and asked in Romani:
“Who are you?”
I knew German, my native language. Since childhood I had learned Romanian and Romani. I had studied English in school, only the basics. Even so, I understood perfectly.
“Seraphine. Zorvan Valerian’s daughter.”
“Girl! Our girl is among us!” she exclaimed, surprising me with a tight embrace.
I clung to her while tears ran down my face. I hadn’t known how they would receive me, and that hug silenced my doubts.
“I always wanted to come…” I murmured.
“I know, child.”
“My father…”
“He will be surprised. He’s a little better today.”
We pulled apart and I tried to be strong, wiping my face with my fingers. I nodded, showing I was ready.
“I’m Camélia. Come in.”
The woman dragged my luggage inside and I stepped, for the first time, into his house.
Fabrics hung from the ceiling in bright, flowing colors, as if a colorful tent had been built inside the house. The smell of burning incense filled the air. Hand-made rugs covered the wooden floor. The furniture was crafted with carved details, forming a small and cozy living room.
Green sofas with yellow and red cushions, a small table with four chairs—everything so vivid and intense that it felt like entering another world. My aunt’s apartment in Cologne was cheerful, but it seemed simple compared to that profusion of colors.
“I want to see my father,” I asked, leaving my handbag on the table. My hands trembled.
“Come with me.”
There was a small hallway with four doors. At the end I glimpsed the kitchen. Camélia pushed one of the doors open and entered, saying in a happy voice:
“You have a visitor, Barô!”
I took a deep breath and saw him in bed, covered by a green blanket up to his hips.
A shadow of what Zorvan Valerian—the clan leader, the priest—had once been. His skin, once light brown, was now yellow. The same color as the eyeballs that fixed on me. Thin, exhausted, his belly swollen.