Thick boots trudged through the mud of Vâlcea, a forgotten village nestled between the jagged peaks of the Carpathians. Gabriel had arrived on a Vatican mission—sent not for glory, but because the threat was too old, too deep, to ignore. The locals whispered of a beast that stalked the woods, not of flesh and bone, but of shadow and hunger. And now, the man who knew the old things stood at the edge of the only tavern in town, its door creaking open to reveal a firelit room, a dozen weary faces, and the weight of fear.

Rain lashed the thatched roofs, and the air smelled of damp earth and smoke. The tavern, the Inn of the Weeping Oak, was the only warmth in the village. A few sunken eyes turned to the stranger as he entered—hollow, watchful. The room stilled, then resumed its low murmur. A woman clutched a wooden cross. A child stared, unblinking. A man in the corner muttered over a knife, his hands trembling.

Gabriel set down his cloak, revealing the black cassock beneath, the silver emblem of the Ordo Sanctus glinting in the firelight. He ordered tea—hot, bitter, warming. He sat at a corner table, listening. The villagers spoke in hushed tones of missing livestock, of howls that didn’t sound like wolves, of a figure seen at dusk—tall, shifting, with eyes that didn’t blink.

Outside, thunder cracked. A howl rose from the woods—long, guttural, and wrong.

The man from the Vatican took another sip. He had come to end it. But first, he had to understand what it was.