Kyrie stirred from his sleep, his eyes blinking open to the ethereal light of the full moon. Its soft glow cast a hazy light upon the landscape, revealing the silhouette of a caravan. He found himself surrounded by three women and a child; their forms bathed in moonlight. A man sat at the front, guiding the wagon through the winding roads.

As Kyrie took in his surroundings, he noticed the dozen other wagons that followed. The entire caravan, a troupe of traveling merchants, circus performers, and musicians, had journeyed from Serbia to this point. Kyrie's path had intersected with theirs about two days ago when they discovered him on the brink of death from hypothermia in the desolate Romanian countryside.

Though he should have been grateful for their intervention, Kyrie's thoughts were consumed by the enigmatic dream that had plagued his slumber. The images of two peculiar beasts lingered in his mind, their meaning eluding him.

One of the women, who had been dozing beside the child, awakened and fixed her gaze upon Kyrie. She spoke to the wagon driver in a language unfamiliar to him, her voice carrying a musical cadence that seemed soothing.

“I guess I never told you. The name’s Wesh and she’s Elisabeta.” The man turned to Kyrie.

"Are you alright?" the woman asked.

Kyrie nodded, a shiver coursing through his body. He rubbed his hair, his gloved hands providing little relief from the biting cold. He glanced at the boy, who had stirred from his slumber and was muttering unintelligibly. The mother swiftly chastised him, her palm landing on the boy's cheek. Though Kyrie couldn't comprehend the boy's words, he sensed the rudeness in his tone. After getting reprimanded by his mother, the child retreated into the comforting embrace of his black blanket. Elisabeta handed Kyrie a blue one as she noticed him quivering.

“Where are we?” He asked.

“About an hour from the border of the Principality of Moldavia,” the driver said.

With the caravan finally halting its progress after they crossed the border, the members of the troupe gathered around a crackling bonfire. Kyrie remained in the wagon; his gaze fixed upon the wintry landscape. The chill gnawed at his bones, but he was reluctant to join the circle. Instead, his attention turned to the largest wagon, where the chief and the matriarch resided.

The chief, a weathered man with wisps of gray hair, came out. His face was etched with the lines of a life well-lived, his eyes reflecting both wisdom and weariness. Kyrie wondered what stories he carried within, what trials he had faced in his nomadic lives. The elderly man joined the others at the campfire.

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As the night wore on, the air grew colder, and the wind whispered through the valley, carrying with it the scent of pine and frost. Kyrie's thoughts were consumed by the dream that had haunted him, the meaning just beyond his grasp. He longed for answers, for some semblance of understanding.

But for now, he was left with the cold embrace of the night, the flickering flames of the bonfire casting dancing shadows upon the snow-covered ground.

After a few minutes, the matriarch left her wagon. The woman, clad in garments reminiscent of Wesh's wife, approached Kyrie with a warm smile.

"Who are you?" she asked in Romanian, a language unfamiliar to Kyrie, though its melodic tones held a resemblance to Italian, a language he did speak.

Despite the language barrier, Kyrie understood the question and replied with his name, "I'm Kyrie."

"Come with me," she beckoned, her voice carrying a comforting air.

Kyrie went on his feet, his body shivering involuntarily from the cold. He followed the woman, his steps guided by curiosity. As they entered her wagon, warmth enveloped him, the result of the oil lamps that adorned the wooden ceiling. The room exuded a cozy ambiance, with a table adorned with a golden tablecloth and a crystal ball resting upon it.

Bookshelves lined the walls, a basket of neatly folded clothes sat in the corner, and a silver curtain veiled the windows, allowing only slivers of moonlight to filter through. Another curtain, this one a soft yellow, concealed the area where she and her husband slept.

The woman motioned for Kyrie to take a seat on one of the inviting wooden chairs. His gaze was drawn to the crystal ball, its surface reflecting the flickering glow of the oil lamps.

"A crystal ball?" Kyrie asked, his eyes filled with curiosity.

The woman chuckled, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "I know it may seem cliché, a Romani woman as a seer," she admitted. "But, indeed, I am a seer."

As she examined each strand of Kyrie's hair, her yellow eyes met his grayish ones.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed, her fingers scratching her chin in contemplation.

Curiosity piqued; Kyrie leaned forward. "What is it?"

"There is a curse upon you," she revealed, her voice concerned. "And, from what I see, it stretches back to the moment of your adoption."

"Adoption?" Kyrie asked. "How could you know I was adopted?"

The woman's gaze pierced through him, her eyes holding a depth of knowledge. "I have seen it in your eyes," she explained, her voice taking on a somber tone. "I have been seeing glimpses of you in my crystal ball for over ten years. When we found you, it was I who insisted that we help you."

Kyrie's brow furrowed as he absorbed her words. "You have seen me?

“And another man who resembles you?" She hummed. “Steve, was it?”

Kyrie couldn't believe what he was hearing. He stayed there, stunned, completely immobile, not uttering a single word.

The seer nodded slowly, her gaze drifting towards the ceiling as if searching for answers. "Yes, your doppelgänger," she confirmed, her voice filled with an air of mystery. "A mystical double we all possess."

A sudden stillness settled upon the room as the woman entered into a trance-like state, her eyes turning milky white. She recited a prayer, her words laced with an ancient power that resonated through in his ears. Moments passed, and then her eyes returned to their normal state. Then she reached into a drawer, retrieving a fresh deck of tarot cards, still in its pristine box.

"Shuffle them and put them into three piles. Then draw one," the seer instructed, her voice gentle yet commanding. "This way, I will not interfere."