When Kire finally returned to the human world, it was unrecognizable.

Each step away from his isolated cabin brought some new and inexplicable change, starting with the automobile that had been waiting for him at the bottom of the road. The sleek large-wheeled vehicle was a far cry from the military truck that had brought him to his exile, as was the road they had travelled to get back into the city: what had once been a treacherous dirt path carved precariously into the rocky mountainside had become a smooth paved highway snaking down into the valley. Within an hour, the flickering lights of Sibiu came into view.

Not a word had been said since he had followed the two Covinus members into the auto and down the mountain, and none were exchanged now as they drove past the industrial buildings and into the old town towards his apartment on Strada Azilului. At least here the cobbled streets and densely packed houses had remained relatively the same. After a little while, they found a place on the narrow street to park--it seemed everyone owned an auto nowadays, he noted--and he stepped out into the cool spring night, the glow of the streetlights giving his already pale skin a sickly yellow tint. The wind carried with it the scents of smoked pork from a nearby kitchen, kerosene, and the wet stench of the Cibin river, intermingled with the faint pervasive smell that was unique to large groups of humans. Faintly he could hear the sounds of other people in the buildings nearby, along with hints of music from the restaurant the next street over and the sound of automobile tires bouncing on the cobblestones.

After so long alone in the Fagaras, it was almost too much.

"Nice night to go hunting." The Quaestor's voice cut through Kire's fog of overstimulation, drawing his attention back to her. "If you like, I can show you a good spot near the Bridge of Lies, where tourists tend to wander off in pairs. You can take one, I'll take the other..." Her dark eyes glinted with mischief as she smiled at him.

"Thank you, Quaestor Ozlem, but I think it best if I spent tonight settling in." His tone was polite, but distant; he'd never had a fondness for those that regarded feeding as a sport.

"Suit yourself." The Quaestor shrugged, then handed him a thick envelope from the glove box of the auto. "Courtesy of the Scriptorium."

Kire opened the envelope and peered inside, surprised to see so many papers. "Perhaps not all of these are necessary--"

"Oh it's more than just identification." The Arbiter, a stout man with a mop of fiery red hair, dropped Kire's trunk on the cobblestones before handing Kire a set of keys and what looked like a small radio receiver. "There should also be instructions for this in there."

"And what is this, exactly?" He turned it over in his hands, noting the screen and the odd number pad with tiny letters on each button.

"It's a wireless telephone." From the Arbiter's tone, he was clearly enjoying Kire's puzzlement.

"You can expect to receive a call from me in the next few weeks," said the Quaestor, getting back into the vehicle. "If you need anything, Governor Martinovic is still in the same place by the Church of St. Francis." She lowered the window as the Arbiter closed her door and got in, leaning out towards Kire as the engines hummed to life. "Enjoy your Bacchanalia, Mr. Jarkeiwicz--do try not to get caught killing anyone if you can help it." With that they drove down the narrow alleyway and out of sight, leaving him as alone as one could be in a city full of people.

He waited until the auto blended in with the sound of others on the main street nearby before unlocking the gate and carrying his trunk across the tiny courtyard and to his apartment. Although the Medieval building was relatively the same, he noted several small differences that reinforced his absence--the landing, which had once been crowded with potted plants, now housed a single wrought-iron table and two chairs; the railing had been repainted; the once pervasive scent of Milu, the landlord's tomcat, had been replaced by that of a different cat he did not recognize. As he unlocked the door on the second floor with the new keys, he wondered if he should be feeling sadness, or relief, or anything at all.

Like the rest of the building, his apartment was both immediately familiar and subtly different. Although the furniture was the same set he had chosen when he had first moved in, most of the appliances had been replaced with modern versions of the same. Someone had recently come in to clean as well, considering the lack of dust and the fresh linens on the bed. Even the small pantry had been restocked. Among the sundries he found a bottle of vodka, which he took to the kitchen table along with his favorite shotglass from the cupboard. He filled the little crystal cup to the brim, then knocked it back in one go, thumping the glass back onto the heavy wood with a dull clunk and feeling just as empty.

Although most others would revel in the chance to indulge themselves with abandon for their allotted year, Kire had no such desire to do so. The past seventy years of hunting striga in the forest as punishment had given him ample time to reflect on his centuries of life in faithful service to the group that had taken him from his family and his country. To be given what amounted to a mere blink in time of carefully supervised "freedom", only to be brought back into the fold and forced into his old position as a tool for their own machinations--it was akin to a dog being allowed to roam free in a yard for an afternoon before being muzzled and chained up once again.

The mere idea of it made him sick to his stomach.

And yet what else could be done? He could see no good way to break free from the iron collar the Covinus had placed around his neck. The emptiness inside of him began to fill with a vague sense of dread at the realization that despite the facsimile of control he had been given, he had never truly had any agency over his own life. Except, perhaps, whether to keep living it.

His eyes drifted over to the eastern-facing window, which looked onto the landing and out over the courtyard below. It would be such a simple thing to open the curtain and pull up a chair to watch the sunrise, putting a decisive end to his purgatory. He had considered doing such a thing before, of feeling the warmth of the sunshine on his skin flare into the blistering heat that would burn away his body and release his soul from its suffering. He was already damned, both by what he had become and what he had been forced to do, and when one was so far from the grace of God, even life felt more akin to death. And yet every time he had stood at the edge of the dawn, he found it impossible to follow through with his own demise, although he could not fathom why, just as he could not fathom how he knew with certainty that he would be unable to do it tonight.

Still, it would be remiss of him not to try.

He grabbed the vodka off the table and walked out onto the landing outside his apartment, placing the bottle on the railing and pulling a small tin out of his pocket. There was still a while yet before the first light, and the cool spring night had gone unusually still--a perfect time for a final smoke. With practiced ease, he rolled the last of his tobacco ration into several cigarettes and lined them up on the railing, lighting the first one with a match and supplementing his drags with swigs from the bottle.

He was halfway through both the bottle and the cigarettes when the door next to his apartment opened.

"Long day?" The man was stout and square-faced, with short cropped silver hair.

"One could say that." He took another swig from the bottle--he was in no mood for conversation.

"At the rate you're going, it's going to be a short night." His dark eyes flicked to the bottle and then back to Kire, the crow's feet around the edges deepening slightly.

"Not nearly short enough."

"There's a nice bar nearby, maybe you can go there and pass the time, make some new friends."

He shook his head slightly. "I prefer to be alone."

"Well, surely you'll not mind if I have a smoke at least?" The man pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and lit one, leaning over the railing next to Kire.

"Go ahead." It didn't matter to him either way.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Kire." He took another swig of vodka, and after a moment, offered it to his neighbor. "And yours?"

"Vladimir." He took the offered drink, then placed the bottle back on the railing. "You look just like him, you know."

Kire blinked, caught off guard at the statement. "Like who?"

"Like Mr. Jarkeiwicz." He nodded to Kire's apartment. "He used to live in that apartment, when I was a small child. If I were a superstitious man, I'd say you were his moroi." Smoke curled from his nostrils as he laughed.

"Perhaps I am." Kire picked up another cigarette off the railing, using the butt of the previous one to light it.

"Moroi don't drink vodka," he countered, picking up the bottle and taking another swig. "Or smoke cigarettes."

Despite himself, Kire smiled slightly. "I'm his grandson," he decided. That seemed like an appropriate explanation.

Vladimir nodded sagely. "You must have been close."

"And what makes you say that?" asked Kire.

"You wouldn't have drunk half his bottle of vodka by yourself if you weren't." He put out his cigarette and flicked the butt over the railing. "You know, I have something you might be interested in--stay here a moment." He disappeared into his apartment, then returned with a small box. "I'm sure you're too young to remember, but during the Soviet occupation..." he shook his head. "When Mr. Jarkeiwicz disappeared so suddenly in the middle of the night, my mother, well, she took these for safekeeping, along with some letters he had gotten in the mail. She figured someone in his family might come back for these eventually--and it seems she was right." He handed the box to Kire. "Maybe you'll find something interesting about your bunicuţ in there, who knows."

After another cigarette and a few more swigs of vodka, Vladimir bid Kire good night, leaving him alone once more on the landing. He was still resolute to make this evening his last. But with each passing cigarette, his thoughts drifted more and more to the letters that his neighbor had mentioned. Everyone in the Covinus had known about his tribunal and subsequent exile. And what person in the Laity would in their right mind want to keep correspondence with a Quaestor? By the time the bottle was empty, his curiosity as to the letters had grown to the point of distraction, and he reluctantly made his way back inside, upending the contents of the box onto the kitchen table.

There was a small flicker of gratitude towards Vladimir's mother as some of his old personal effects--his pocket watch, his wedding ring, a silver rosary--tumbled out onto the wood. He put them aside, then turned his attention to the flurry of papers that had come with it, sorting through the pre-Soviet documents until he found what he was looking for.

There were two items, both postcards. The first, postmarked in 1951, came from New York; the second, from 1969, was from San Francisco, each one written with the same broad-nibbed fountain pen.

All thoughts of waiting the coming dawn disappeared from Kire's mind as he stared down at the postcards, both of which had the unmistakable sprawling signature of Johannes Lubbek.