Romania, 1389

For thirty days he slept, buried under the overturned weeds and rocks. Thirty nights passed with the stars crossing over his grave, the light trickling through clusters of thorny dead tree limbs.

In this time, the body lay inches under the ground, eyes wide but sightless, face sallow and shocked. No worms or hissing bugs came to defile his flesh or rot his freezing skin, so the only thing marring his still and beautiful form was a dried patch of blood. Blood from a broken skull on the back of his head, beaten in by one lucky rock.

With the exception of mere spurts of blood flow, the nights were long and the body was still.

The days passed slowly indeed.

Above the ground, another form was sleeping on the grave, with eyes stained and visage torn. Her heart y...

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