366- Beneath the Silver Moon
POV Seraphine Valerian:
The full moon in the clear sky spread a silvery glow over the large square, where most of the villagers sat on benches and blankets on the ground. At the center, on a patch of bare earth, a large bonfire crackled, easing the cold breeze that occasionally swept through.
Petru’s bar was open nearby, with all the drinks on promotion. Still, there was talk that alcohol consumption should be limited. Even though they were protected up there, an emergency could happen, and Viktor didn’t want everyone drunk.
Tables set to one side offered food, snacks, and sweets, which the children eagerly ran to try. They asked the elders to tell legends and stories of their wolf ancestors. Then they ran free and went to the musicians, urging them to start playing because they wanted to dance around the fire.
Two men picked up a violin, a cimbalom, and other instruments, unhurried. I felt a wave of emotion, missing my father and the people I had known in Vila Rósia. The gypsies also loved music played on those instruments so common in Romania.
Sitting beside Daciana and her family on a large white sheet, I watched everything and spoke when someone asked me something.
Florian talked with Cezar and Ionuț, while Petru came by from time to time, leaving the bar to laugh or chat with someone.
The feeling was calm and pleasant, as if there wasn’t a battle being fought out there and Adelina wasn’t everyone’s concern. At times, their expressions revealed it, but they tried to distract themselves, to have a moment of peace with friends, neighbors, and family.
I noticed details. Some things Adelina had told me, like how the number of males was much higher than that of adult females. In the entire village, counting myself and Adelina, there were only ten. That night, eight, without her and Katarina present. And only seven children, three of them girls.
They really needed to find their destined mates, or in a few years that number would be even smaller. Especially with the three duchesses being betas, and Daciana past childbearing age. But that night, no one wanted to think about problems—and neither did I.
“Are you enjoying it?” asked Daciana’s middle son, Ionuț.
He was a tall, attractive alpha, with nearly shaved hair and a prominent nose.
“Yes. It’s beautiful and peaceful.”
“Was it like this in your Romani clan?”
I had never spoken to him before, but I liked the opportunity to get to know those who had only watched me from afar with suspicion and curiosity.
I toyed with my mug of buttery beer, which was delicious and mild. A certain melancholy arose.
“I don’t know. I lived far from them for a long time.”
“Why?” Cezar asked.
He was stronger than his brother, his hair in a long braid down his back.
“I was raised in Germany. Not as a gypsy. But I know everything about my people.”
“You speak German?” Raluca, leaning against her husband nearby, looked at me.
“Yes.”
“Say something for us,” Stoica asked, sitting a bit farther ahead with her daughter Lana and two other young men.
Other conversations flowed around us, but there we could still hear each other. Several people turned their attention to me.
I opened my mouth to answer when Viktor arrived, and at that very moment, all logical thought vanished from my mind. I could only look at him, shaken, my heart racing in my chest.
He was greeted with joy and excitement, Petru running to fetch him a mug of țuică, others offering space for him to sit. But he chose to remain standing near the bonfire, the flames casting shadows on his pale skin, giving his dark hair a coppery tone.
His dark eyes met mine when Daciana asked him something my foggy mind didn’t catch, and he focused his attention in our direction.
I burned under his gaze, frozen in place.
“It’s all fine—no attacks right now,” he replied, to everyone’s relief. “Emil took over at the office. Someone else will relieve him later.”
I pretended to focus on my beer, taking a sip without tasting anything, while he leaned his shoulder against a tree and spoke with nearby villagers.
The conversation lightened again, and I thought they had forgotten about me when Stoica called out:
“Seraphine, you were going to say something in German for us.”
Before, I had been calm. Under his gaze, nervousness surged. I tried to concentrate, noticing she was playing with a matchbox in her hand.
“Streichholzschächtelchen.”
“Wow! What is that?” She laughed, and others joined in. I pointed to what she held.
“Matchbox.”
Some tried to repeat it, twisting their tongues and laughing.
I relaxed a little more, and Daciana commented:
“Good thing you speak Romanian, or you’d be mute here! No one would understand a thing!”
“Only Viktor,” Cezar added. “He knows a few languages. And he listens to German songs.”
“I’ve had a few centuries to learn,” he joked, his gaze turning to me again.
“I’m over 480 and only know the language I was born with!” Daciana shrugged.
“You speak German?” I gathered the courage to ask him.
“Quite well. I started taking an interest in it a few decades ago.”
I wanted to ask more, but another topic came up, and the musicians began to play a soft, gentle melody. The children cheered, dancing as if it were something lively, running around the fire while their parents told them to calm down.
I paid attention to the rhythm. It really did sound like something a gypsy would play, which was common. Much of the musical influence in that country came from the Romani. I was filled again with longing for my father, wondering what it would have been like to attend a typical celebration with him. We had never gone to one together.
If I had arrived there at that moment, not knowing anyone, I would never have said they were werewolves. The idea I had from movies was that they became wild and savage on full moon nights, attacking animals and people—not gathering, listening to local songs, with a table full of food nearby.
I smiled at that thought, and Daciana grew curious:
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me!”
“Just thinking you have some things in common with gypsies.”
“Do you? Give an example.”
I adjusted the long skirt of my dress over my folded legs, placing the mug on the ground.
“That rhythm. We like flutes, guitars, violins, cimbalom, and tambourines. But our music is a bit more lively.”
“That’s easy to fix!” Florian, who had overheard, called to the musicians: “Can you liven it up? Something that makes people want to dance.”