The firelight cast shadows across his face. "Eugen served Lucian his own daughters—
roasted on silver platters. Garnished with vegetables and a savory sauce. Herbs upon their skin."
He tapped the Roman numeral III on my coin. "That inscription—it marks Sofia, the youngest.
Your likeness." My soup suddenly tasted bitter. I focused on Egon’s voice.

"Lucian screamed that night. Legend has it he forged these coins from his daughters' silver serving platters
and engraved them with the last thoughts his daughters had held.
Eugen’s victory feast became Lucian’s curse—a curse destined to ensure short lives for
Lucian’s female descendants. Yet these three coins were meant to offer protection
to the next owner—to the girl—protection his own daughters never had."

He raised his glass; the plum brandy gleamed like blood in the firelight.
Egon’s final words: "The protection works only for a girl with a pure heart."
Outside, the wind howled against the ancient stones like a grieving father.
The coin burned against my skin—a ghostly relic.
Sofia. The name echoed in my mind.

I thought of my grandmother’s warning. Did my face mirror hers? Was
my blighted future born of this ancient atrocity? Egon studied me with a sharp
gaze, sensing my fear. He hadn’t hesitated while recounting the horror; his
tone carried the grim certainty of a storyteller—an account, not a myth.
The tavern guests murmured softly; in the dim light, their faces were unreadable to me.

A grim older man briefly met my gaze;
his eyes darted to my wrist before he turned away and crossed himself. The
air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, mingled with the rich, fatty aroma of
roasting meat. My stomach turned.


My fingers brushed the coin necklace around my neck. Sofia. The name echoed within me with icy
tension. Yet another weight pressed against my thigh—the second
silver chain, deep in my pocket. Grandma’s box had held two coins: the Roman numerals III
and II.

My trembling fingers traced the outline of the coin bearing the Roman numeral II,
hidden beneath the denim. Was it Anja? Or Tanja? Why had Grandma given me *both*?
The protection was meant for a girl with a pure heart—but my desires
were anything but pure.

The face of the roasted woman flashed behind my eyelids—not
with horror, but with that telltale heat rising deep within me again.
Egon leaned back, his dark eyes fixed on mine. The firelight from
the hearth danced in them, reflecting not just flames but also an unsettling
understanding.

He hadn’t so much as blinked at the story of cannibalistic feasts and orgies;
he had recounted them with the chilling familiarity of a man who had
studied more than mere legends. My cheeks burned. My breath caught—not
just from fear, but from the dark thrill coursing through my veins.

Dolcett. The forbidden fantasies I had discovered—and indulged in—alone in my room.
The shameful arousal stirred within me by the image of my exposed body in the picture.
Had he seen it?

The flash of realization in his gaze, the slight tilt of his head—yes.
He saw the glint in my eyes, the telltale flush creeping up my neck and deepening across my face.
His awareness was not merely clinical; it was passionate. It was intimate.

A shadow fell across our table. We both started, abruptly torn from the dark intimacy of our shared secrets.
An older man stood before us, wrapped in a heavy black wool coat.
His face was deeply lined, weather-beaten like the stone walls of the tavern itself.

His gaze, sharp and penetrating, darted between Egon and me,
lingering on my neck where the silver chain gleamed.
He leaned forward, his voice a low, barely audible rasp rising above
the crackle of the fire and the murmur of conversation.

"Have you tasted the wine?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Egon’s half-empty glass of *țuică*.
"And the food?" His gesture encompassed the cooling bowls of *ciorbă de burtă*; the rich broth glistened with grease.
Egon stiffened, his hand instinctively gripping his glass.
"Yes," he replied curtly; a hint of alarm extinguished his earlier intensity.
"The innkeeper brought it. He said it was a gift."

The older man’s weather-beaten face darkened.
His gaze darted toward the shadowy bar area,
where the innkeeper stood wiping down a pitcher.
His gaze was fixed unwaveringly on us.

“A gift?” The old man spat the word out like poison. “Poisoned food and poisoned drinks. Slow-acting,
insidious. It paralyzes you, leaves you defenseless. They know you have the coins, and they want the girl.”

His urgent whisper cut through the smoky air. “You have thirty minutes—maybe less. Get out.
*Now*!” Before Egon could reply, a scream rang out from the kitchen—a panicked scream. A life-threatening one.