Petru Albescu sat by the hearth, his hands clasped tightly as he stared into the flames. The crackling fire cast flickering shadows across the dimly lit room, their restless dance mirroring the turmoil in his thoughts. For weeks now, a gnawing dread had settled over him, a sense of inevitability that he could not shake. The demons were preparing to eliminate him and his family; of that, he was certain.

He had pieced the truth together in fragments—a stray comment here, an unusual occurrence there. The evidence, though circumstantial, painted a grim picture. Many of the surrounding boyar families, once proud and influential in Dracula's domains, had met untimely ends. Some fell victim to tragic accidents, others vanished without a trace. Their lands were absorbed, their estates left to decay or handed over to Dracula’s loyal servants.

The Albescus, it seemed, were the last of their kind. Petru could not decide if this was a deliberate move by the vampire lord or a cruel twist of fate. Either way, it left his family exposed and isolated, an anomaly in a land now ruled almost entirely by Dracula's agents.

The village of Moreni had grown, absorbing the remnants of displaced serfs from other regions. Petru’s own domain now housed nearly a thousand souls, a number uncharacteristically large for such a minor boyar family to oversee. It was a curious arrangement. On the surface, it might seem like an elevation of status, but Petru knew better. This was not an honor; it was a burden—or worse, a trap.

He had observed the pattern with growing unease. The new arrivals were a mix of displaced peasants: men and women who were neither too strong nor too weak, neither too intelligent nor too bold. The sickly and the infirm were conspicuously absent, as were those who might be considered overly ambitious or clever. What’s more, the peasants were terrified, cowed into submission by years of fear and oppression. They were careful with their words, quick to bow their heads, and eager to report any hint of dissent. A land of snitches, Petru thought bitterly, engineered to enforce its own compliance.

It was as if the demons were breeding a specific kind of populace, selecting for traits that would ensure obedience and hard work without the risk of rebellion. The peasants were given just enough to survive but never to prosper. There was no famine, but neither was there abundance. It was a delicate balance, calculated to keep them too preoccupied with survival to dream of freedom.

The demons themselves—creatures like Barbat Dragomir—treated Petru with an air of contemptuous indifference. When they deigned to interact with him, it was with curt words and dismissive gestures. He was not a man to them, but an insect, tolerated only because he still served some unknown purpose.

Petru clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He could not allow himself to show fear, not in front of his family or his people. But inside, he felt a growing desperation. The Albescus had been spared thus far, but for how long? The other boyar families had thought themselves untouchable, too entrenched in their traditions and power to be swept away. They had been wrong, and now they were gone. What made him think his fate would be any different?

He thought back to his last encounter with Barbat Dragomir. It was early last spring when the demon general arrived unexpectedly in Moreni. Barbat had ridden into the fields where Petru and the serfs were hard at work, the hulking figure of the vampire astride a massive black warhorse. Yet even that enormous beast seemed diminished beneath Barbat’s towering frame, his presence commanding and oppressive.

Their conversation had been brief, focused on the year’s crops and the village's assigned quotas. Barbat’s tone was cold and dismissive, treating Petru more like an overseer than a boyar. But it was what Barbat said as he turned to leave that had seared itself into Petru’s memory.

Still seated high on his horse, Barbat had paused, fixing Petru with an icy, predatory gaze. “Your family should be grateful,” he rumbled, his deep voice carrying a weight of menace. “The Lord allows you to remain here, in his grace. He is a being who cherishes loyalty above all—loyalty that was mostly denied him in his mortal life. The Albescus were truly loyal, and he remembers and honors your family to this day... in his own way.”

Barbat leaned in, his towering frame casting a suffocating shadow over Petru as his voice dropped into a low, menacing growl. “If it were up to me, you and your family would meet the same end as the other worthless boyars—dead weight no longer fit for these lands. So, Petru, see to it that you and yours remain loyal. Faithful. Or you’ll discover just how swiftly his grace can vanish.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell, the menace in them undeniable. Barbat’s cold, predatory stare lingered for a moment longer before he turned his horse and rode away, leaving Petru rooted in place, his blood running cold.

Petru knew all too well that no one held more sway over Dracula than Barbat Dragomir. The towering, bear-like demon had been Vlad the Third’s most trusted general during his mortal reign, the iron fist that had enforced his infamous rule. Barbat had not only orchestrated the mass impalings that had seared Vlad’s name into history but had also been the first soul Dracula summoned back from the depths of Hell after rising as the undead prince of darkness.

Barbat’s loyalty was absolute, forged in blood and infernal fire. His counsel was revered, his strategies unassailable, and his will nearly as unyielding as Dracula’s own. If Barbat had his way, Petru knew, there would be no place for the Albescus in Dracula’s carefully constructed realm. The general had made that abundantly clear during their last encounter, his venomous words leaving no room for doubt.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Petru muttered to himself, his thoughts heavy with dread. He could almost feel the invisible noose tightening around his family’s necks, the inevitability of Barbat’s whispered poison reaching Dracula’s ear. The demon had far too much influence, and it was only a question of when—not if—Barbat would convince his master that the Albescus had outlived their usefulness.

Petru clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he paced the room. The Albescus had survived by sheer will and devotion for generations, enduring the yoke of their cursed lord and his hellish minions. But loyalty, it seemed, was no longer enough. Barbat would see them eradicated, their lands swallowed into Dracula’s growing dominion, their name erased from the earth.

The thought left a bitter taste in Petru’s mouth. He couldn’t afford to sit idly by and wait for the inevitable. If Barbat succeeded—if his family was to be destroyed—then perhaps Petru could act first, forcing fate’s hand. He owed it to his family, even if the odds were slim that the Star of Enoch was truly in Dârvaș. That the chapel might still stand, that the stone could still be hidden there—it was a desperate hope, but it was all he had.

Determined, Petru took a knife and carefully cut the pages about the Star of Enoch, along with the drawing, from the back of the Skotádi Sophia. He tucked the fragile sheets into another book for safekeeping. The rest of the book he wrapped tightly in rags and slipped into a rucksack.

Later, when the village was quiet and prying eyes were fewer, Petru made his way to the old church. With the rucksack slung over his back, he entered the old structure. The air inside was damp and heavy, the faint scent of mildew and decay clinging to the stone walls. He moved quickly, heading straight for the altar.

Mihai’s words echoed in his mind as he knelt and felt beneath the altar. His fingers brushed against the edge of a hidden cavity, just as Mihai had described. With some effort, he forced the book into the concealed space, making sure it was securely hidden.

Satisfied, Petru stood and brushed the dust from his hands. He glanced around once more before hastily exiting the church, the now-empty rucksack still on his back. Even if someone had seen him enter, he doubted they could guess what he had done within. The Skotádi Sophia was hidden once more, and for the first time in what felt like years, Petru felt a faint glimmer of hope.

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It had been about a month since the three young men—Vasile Dumitru, Mihai Dumitru, and Nicolae Stanescu—had brought Petru the book, Skotádi Sophia. The boys were the key to recovering the artifact, the Star of Enoch, if it still existed. However, the danger was clear: for Petru to go looking for it himself would draw too much attention. Too many eyes in the village were eager to report his movements to Dracula's men. The slightest misstep could doom not only him but also his family.

Determined but cautious, Petru resolved to act through the young men. They were less likely to arouse suspicion, and their youthful boldness made them ideal for the perilous task ahead. With this in mind, Petru discreetly sought out Vasile, the eldest of the three and known for his carefree demeanor.

He found Vasile outside his mother’s modest house, sitting on a low stool near the doorway. A small grindstone lay in his hand as he sharpened the curved blade of a hand scythe. The rhythmic scrape of metal on stone filled the air, and Vasile’s face was marked by an unusual seriousness for someone of his typically lighthearted nature. Perhaps the ominous events of recent weeks had sobered even him.

“Vasile,” Petru called softly, stepping closer. The young man looked up, startled, and quickly rose to his feet, bowing his head in deference.

“My lord,” Vasile said, wiping his hands on his tunic. “How can I serve you?”

Petru glanced around to ensure no one was watching. The village was quiet, but one could never be too careful. Lowering his voice, he said, “I need you to gather your brother Mihai and your friend Nicolae Stanescu. Tell no one else. Meet me in the back of my stables before sundown.”

Vasile’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded without hesitation. “Is it something dangerous?”

Petru’s expression hardened. “If anyone asks, you are helping me with a small task. Say no more than that. The less you know until the time comes, the safer you will be.”

Vasile hesitated for only a moment before nodding again. “Understood, my lord. I’ll find them right away.”

Petru placed a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Good. And Vasile… make sure no one follows you. Be careful.”

Vasile’s carefree grin returned briefly. “I’m always careful,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual levity. He wiped the blade clean and set the scythe aside, soon he disappeared into the narrow lane leading toward the village square.

Petru watched him go, his chest tight with unease. He had no choice but to involve these boys, but the risk was heavy. If anything happened to them, their blood would be on his hands. Shaking off the dark thoughts, Petru turned and made his way back to his stables. There, amidst the scent of hay and the soft snorts of his horses, he waited, the weight of his plan pressing down on him like a storm cloud.

It was about an hour before sundown when Vasile arrived at the stables with Mihai and Nicolae in tow. Vasile called out softly, “My lord Albescu, we’re here.”

A faint rustling came from the shadows at the rear of the stables, followed by Petru’s low voice. “Come to the back.”

The three young men exchanged uncertain glances before walking toward the secluded section of the stables. Tools and farming implements lined the walls, their edges glinting faintly in the dim light. At the far end, a wooden table stood illuminated by the flickering glow of a large candle. Petru was there, his back to the boys, his shoulders tense as he bent over the table. Several pages of parchment, scattered lay before him.

Petru straightened as they approached, turning to face them. His expression was grave, his eyes shadowed with worry. He motioned for the young men to gather around the table.

“Thank you for coming,” he began, his voice hushed. “What I’m about to share with you must remain a secret, even from your families. Do you understand?”

The boys nodded, their youthful curiosity tempered by the seriousness of his tone. Petru gestured to the pages on the table. The flickering candlelight revealed intricate sketches and handwritten notes, a chaotic tangle of lines and symbols.

“This,” Petru said, tapping one of the pages, “is a map. A map that may lead to something very important. You brought me the Skotádi Sophia, and within its pages, I found references to a powerful artifact—the Star of Enoch.”

Mihai, who had remained silent until now, leaned closer. “The Star of Enoch? What is it?”

“A jewel of immense power,” Petru replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “It could save us. It could save my family… and yours. But to recover it is dangerous. That’s why I need the three of you.”

Nicolae frowned. “Why us, my lord? Surely you have others you can trust?”

Petru’s gaze hardened. “Because I cannot act openly. Too many are eager to curry favor with Dracula’s men. My every move is watched. But you… you are young, clever, and resourceful. If anyone can do this without drawing attention, it’s you three.”

The boys exchanged uneasy glances. Vasile, ever the bold one, finally spoke. “What do you need us to do?”

Petru picked up one of the sketches, his finger tracing a mark on the map. “In the depths of the forest lies an abandoned chapel, in a forgotten town called Dârvaș. Few dare to venture there—it’s a place steeped in superstition and shadow. But within that chapel, perhaps hidden beneath the floor or concealed nearby, there may lie the Star of Enoch.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “This might prove to be nothing more than a fool’s errand. There’s a chance you’ll find nothing at all. But if you do—if by some stroke of fortune, you come across the stone—I need you to bring it back to me.”

Petru leaned closer to the three young men, his voice low and measured. “Listen carefully. The place you’re heading to is not far, but it is treacherous. I cannot overstate the importance of caution.”

He pointed to a section of a new map of the forest he had drawn just for them, his finger hovering over a crude sketch of trees. “You’ll need to head east, past the village boundaries, toward the edge of the forest that lies between here and Dârvaș. At the edge of the forest, you’ll find a broken-down shack—it hasn’t been used in years. From there, you should see a faint path leading into the trees.”

Petru straightened, his sharp gaze shifting between the boys. “The path will lead you toward Dârvaș. If you keep a steady pace, it should take no more than an hour, perhaps two at most. Mark your path as you go—use stones, branches, whatever you can to ensure you can find your way back. Pay close attention to the shadows. As you enter the forest, break a branch to match the length of the shadow cast by one of your bodies. Carry it with you. When the shadow stretches more than four hand lengths beyond the stick, you’ll know roughly two hours have passed. He paused, his voice lowering. “The forest is ancient and treacherous. Many have entered its depths, only to never return.”

The boys exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of Petru’s words sinking in.

“If you do not come upon Dârvaș within two hours of entering the forest,” Petru continued, his tone stern, “turn around and come back. Do not wander further. And hear me well—if you see or come across any signs of the demonic, leave immediately. Do not linger, do not investigate, and do not try to be brave. Run.”

Mihai swallowed hard, his face pale. “Signs of the demonic… like what, my lord?”

Petru’s expression darkened. “You’ll know it when you see it. Unnatural markings, whispers in the wind, shadows that do not belong. Trust your instincts. If anything feels wrong, it likely is.”

Nicolae shifted uneasily but nodded. “We’ll be careful.”

Petru then gave them a detailed description of the Star of Enoch. The jewel was oval-shaped, with a milky white surface. “If you find what you believe to be the Star of Enoch, there’s a way to be certain. Place the stone in your hand. If it’s truly the Star, its surface will shift, slowly changing to show the colors of the rainbow. Only the Star will react in this way.”

He paused, letting his words sink in before speaking again. “One more thing. Tell no one about this, not even your mothers. Make an excuse for your absence—say you’re helping me with work in the fields or tending the horses. But do not share the true nature of this mission. The fewer who know, the safer we all will be.”

Vasile, ever the bold one, gave a sharp nod. “You can count on us, my lord. We’ll find it.”

Petru’s eyes softened for a moment, a flicker of gratitude breaking through his grave demeanor. “Thank you, Vasile. And thank you, all of you. This task is not without danger, but if we succeed… it could change everything.”

The three young men nodded in unison, their expressions a mix of determination and apprehension. Petru glanced at the candle on the table, its flame flickering as if in warning. “Go now, and may God watch over you.”

The boys turned and left the stables, their steps heavy with the weight of the mission ahead. Petru remained behind, staring down at the map, his thoughts a storm of hope and dread.