Solomonari are race of wizard strigoi that rode zmeu. These wizards are identified by their blood red hair. Rumored to be vampires, they are much more than that. Solomonari have been considered bringers of punishment to the wicked, laying curses in retribution. They are most feared as stormbringers, riding balar and zmeu to rain hail upon those farmers who have displeased them. The wizards work blood magic and make pacts with spirits and animals. Their school, known as The Dark School, was also known in distant lands as Scholomance. The school took in foundlings, usually moroi viu. From these children, one in ten may have the chance to become a Solomonari wizard themself. The others meet varying fates.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  “What does it mean?” Dragos blurted, though he didn’t actually want to know. He wanted the damn dragon to lie to him and tell him it meant nothing.

  The monster’s face, so like his own, twisted with a hint of disgust. “You’re not that stupid. You know what it means. Contact with the world of spirits has marked you, and if you’re lucky you’ll continue to change until you’re one of them.”

  “A blood mage. Solomonari.” Dragos murmured.

  The darker reflection of himself nodded with a cheerfulness Dragos was sure he’d never felt in his life. “Yes.”

  “A master of elements… How can I learn that? ?oloman?? is gone!” A surge of feeling hit. Anger, resentment. How dare they let their mountain fortress burn down and leave him to his fate?

  “Solomonari, or a grimoire. Or you could just go mad, or be consumed by power and become a typical striga like your lady friend over there,” Zgavra quipped.

  Dragos never wanted to punch him so badly. With his talons. He imagined it, but it didn’t make him feel better. He stood there, jaw clenching, and stared at the monster.

  “She’s terrified. In spite of everything that’s happened, she still speaks like a human, so we’ll treat her like one. If I can gather some starlace, she might stay stable,” Dragos said, scowling at the young man before him. “I’m going to.”

  “I’m not crazy,” Chinhua’s voice agreed from beneath the tarp.

  Dragos pointed at the canvas as evidence, glaring at Zgavra as if daring it to say something different. The monster rolled its eyes and grabbed Dragos by the shoulders, steering him away from the barn and out into the vile sunshine. “Fine. Let’s discuss our plans.”

  They returned to the coolness of the burdei. Dragos returned to the vaguely mildew-scented bed and eased down onto the bed. Zgavra shifted an empty barrel over to sit at the table, where the scarred face of the peddler’s box greeted him. The monster flipped one of the latches.

  “Hey!” Dragos sat right back up, arm giving pins and needles. The one the revenant had touched.

  “I’m not a thief,” Zgavra scoffed, and undid the other latches in quick succession. It pulled out Dragos's journal and a stick of charcoal.

  Dragos's upper lip twitched in a half a sneer. “Then what are you doing?”

  “Adding notes. Find a Solomonar master. Dragos is on the verge of a turn, and it is paramount to his survival. Immortality and mastery of the elements has a steep price and a rigorous path. Period.” The monster put the charcoal down. “As for the other thing… let’s talk about how to clean up your mess.”

  “It’s not my mess, I just wandered into it,” Dragos protested, falling back onto the bed. He didn’t have the energy to fight the dragon. He knew he sounded like a petulant child, and disliked it.

  Zgavra huffed, “It became yours.”

  That was a fact the albstrig? couldn’t deny. They made their plans, and after, Dragos rested but did not sleep. Instead of ruminating over the shattered path of his life, he focused on what they’d do.

  When the sun’s last rays glimmered on the horizon, the door creaked open. Chinhua stepped in, raking fingers through her hair. Her warm golden skin had taken on a pallor, and her eyes were sunken, as if she hadn’t slept since he last saw her. Dragos sat up and swung his legs down, rubbing his bandaged feet together awkwardly. The wounds itched.

  “Do you want tea?” He asked, his shoulder lifting in an awkward shrug. What could he say? His mind was still grasping at wisps of thought when she sat down beside him.

  “I want your warmth,” she murmured.

  Zgavra, flipping through Dragos's journal at the table, looked up. A flicker of orange lit its warm brown gaze. Dragos shook his head at the monster, who rolled his eyes at him for what was going on the fourth time that day.

  “Here.” Dragos offered her the blanket he’d been lying on, shifting to let her sit and put it over her shoulders.

  Chinhua leaned against him, fingers curling around his. The chill of earth on a fall night settled there in the form of her small hands. She murmured, “So warm.”

  A cup of steaming tea appeared under her nose, clenched in Zgavra’s hand. Same long fingers that Dragos had, though darker, unaffected by a curse. Dragos hated this new image it wore. He hoped it tired of it, soon. All he could see was what he should have been when he looked at it. If not for the birth-curse, he’d be what Zgavra was.

  Maybe it was the monster’s point, though what it meant by it, he wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t interested in playing its stupid mind games. Still, he was relieved when she let go of him to take the cup.

  “Chinhua,” Dragos began and paused. He swallowed. What do you say to someone in this situation? What can you say?

  Her gaze raised over the cup, and she lowered it. Listening to his hesitance.

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  “You’ve been touched by darkness. I can’t fix that, can’t change it, but I can ease it, maybe.”

  “How do you know all this Ju–Dragos?” Her irises had darkened from the curse. Black motes stirred like dust disturbed and drifted around her, unseeable to average sight. His were not average.

  “I was raised in ?oloman??.”

  Her eyes bulged, and if she hadn’t swallowed her tea, he probably would have been wearing it. “What? The school of forbidden magics? The blackest arts?”

  The irony of a striga shifting away from him wasn’t lost. His cynical smirk came and went quickly. “That’s not quite true. Folktales like to make us out as ghosts that steal babies. The Solomonari only took moroi viu.”

  Children without souls, they were called, and often left to die or treated terribly enough that death was the result, anyhow. Also, not entirely true. He had a soul.

  “You’re Solomonari?” Her hips shifted further away. She leaned back, but she hadn’t run from him. At least, not yet.

  “Uh,” He flicked a glance at Zgavra, who had propped its boots up on the table, back to the wall. The smile on its face was one of sublime joy. Labagiu.

  He shook his head, though, if the red streak hidden under the rest of his tangled hair was any indication, he might be. One day. If he didn’t die first. “Just one of the students. I spent my whole life in study, learning the ways of the cel?lalt t?ram and the beings that live there. How they affect us and our world. That’s why I think I can help you.”

  A flicker of hope shone in her eyes. She tasted her tea again and sighed. “It’s gone cold.”

  Dragos took the cup from her. She’d already sucked all the heat from it; the simple clay vessel was as chilly as a gravestone. He frowned into the herbal liquid’s shimmering depths.

  “I need…” Chinhua’s voice trailed off as she looked at him. Something shone in the corners of her eyes. “I want to do unspeakable things to you, Dragos. It’s like hunger, like—”

  The instinct to give her anything leapt forth, and he nodded, reaching for her hand. The cup fell to the floor, though he didn’t remember letting go of it. Zgavra’s throat cleared loudly. When he glanced at the monster wearing his skin, it was on its feet, fists clenched, gaze trained on Chinhua.

  “Oh,” Chinhua murmured, a sad smile tugging at her lips. She lifted Dragos's hand to them and left an icy kiss burning on his fingers. Just as quickly, she rose. “I think I know what to do.”

  “Don’t leave,” Dragos murmured. Selfishly, he wanted her to stay. Foolishly, he yearned for her to kiss him again. Wisely, he stayed where he was.

  “I’ll be back. I can hear animals in the forest… I’ll be back,” she repeated herself as her ghostly quiet footsteps took her to the door. It creaked. She was gone.

  Dragos rubbed his knuckles in his eyes. A moment later, he was disgusted with himself. He pointed at Zgavra before it said anything; he could see it opening its mouth already.

  “Shut up. I know she almost charmed me. She doesn’t mean it.”

  “It’s the nature of her curse, Dragos. You can’t fight against nature. May as well scream at clouds to stop raining,” the zmeu said, then smirked. “Though, you’ll be able to. Maybe.”

  “Yes, yes, if I don’t die. I get it,” Dragos growled. He flopped back onto the bed, crossed his arms over his chest, and shut his eyes.

  Near dawn, the soft creak of the door and the strong scent of blood opened them again. Zgavra had dissipated, but he could feel the creature lingering nearby. The shadows bulged with its presence. Dragos rose on his elbows and stared.

  Chinhua’s face and chest was splattered with gore. Her clothing was saturated with blood, still dripping with every step she took. Dragos looked up at the nightmare she’d become as she smiled at him as sweetly as when they’d wandered the forest together.

  “I’m back. It’s almost dawn. I’m going back to the barn,” she said softly, her gaze shifting about, looking for Zgavra.

  Dragos caught a flicker of orange beneath the table.

  “Do you feel better?” he asked, swallowing against the nerves that welled up. He’d faced many things at this point of his life, but no other Unspoken had this particular edge of discomfort. Perhaps because he’d known her before she was a monster.

  “Much,” she nodded. With a wiggle of bloody fingers, she drifted back out the door.

  “Futui.” Dragos exhaled the word, sinking from his half-raised position.

  From the corners of the room, the zmeu murmured, “Like we planned?”

  “Yes,” Dragos replied, scrubbing his face with the palms of his hands. Still, he lay there a moment to let his heart calm before getting up.

  They flew over the primeval forest that spanned the foothills and then up into the Aluta Pass. Dragos had forgotten how exhilarating flight was, wind tearing at his lungs, stinging his eyes, the whip of Zgavra’s thick mane leaving stinging welts on his forearms. He didn’t care. The world never looked so majestic as it did from above. It sprawled forever onwards, lush and green, the snowcaps shining in the sun.

  Dazzling sunlight was not as difficult to bear as the day before. Whatever the revenants did, it was healing. New scars added to his scoured soul. Oh well.

  The simple joy of flight dulled when they circled over the well where his brand-new friends had died terrifying deaths. The Umbregrin had receded, whatever disturbed its currents no longer did. The well was still, though a new body lay nearby it. Grimly, Dragos looked down, as the zmeu’s sinuous body spiraled over the site.

  “Fire?” Its voice was gleeful.

  “Yes,” Dragos replied. His emotions were dulled as he watched the first gout of dragon’s breath singe the evergreens. Should he have felt more? Tragedy was so commonplace in his life, he struggled to feel more than a twinge of regret.

  The zmeu circled the area, spitting fire and something thick that kept burning despite the living trees. Over and over it breathed, until the wellstones cracked in the inferno. Hot wind rose, making his feet sweat. The scent of hot stone and balsam carried a hint of burning flesh.

  “That’s enough. Come back tomorrow and do it again.” Dragos said, leaning against the creature’s neck.

  “And now?” It asked, catching what he hadn’t said.

  “Leave me close to the Um?r. I’ve got to collect starlace.”

  “By yourself? What if—”

  “Someone has to watch over Chinhua while I’m gone. It has to be you,” Dragos said, cutting off protest. “This takes time, and you can’t get that close to the Zioruluc. You’re of the Umbre.”

  “I don’t like it,” Zgavra said, its long tail snapping against the wind. Even so, its head turned toward the Spineback and the depression beyond it where, deep beneath the earth, the spirit rivers converged.

  “Me either,” Dragos murmured to himself. So much could go wrong, that close to where the spirit rivers flowed. He’d never been there alone before.

  Death wasn’t the worst of what could happen.

  ?oloman??: The Dark School, where Solomonari take moroi viu to learn their ways. It rests in the bowels of the Spineback Mountain, not far from the Embrace.

  Solomonari: A race of wizard strigoi that rode zmeu. Legend has it they worked blood magic and made pacts with demons and animals. Their school, known as The Dark School, was also known in distant lands as Scholomance.

  Burdei: A type of pit-house or half-dug out shelter, combining sod house and log cabin build concepts.

  Albstrig?: White witch. Barn owl. A pale ghost or evil spirit.

  Strigoi: All manner of creatures with wounded souls. It could refer to the undead, to witches, or ghosts, depending on the context.

  Labagiu: Wanker

  Umbregrin: The spirit river of darkness and entropy. Without balance, it can cause overwhelming despair, blindness, madness, and terrible decay. The dark spirit river. Like the concept of yin and yang, The Umbregrin is the yin spirit river, which balances the pulse of the world.

  Um?r: the elbow, nexus, locus, whirlpool of power.

  Umbre: Shadow.