Octavia Grigore/Background/1680-1685

Octavia leaned back. Above her, the crescent moon climbed the velvet sky, its silver scythe casting pale fire across the vineyard. For a long moment she said nothing, listening to the wind sift through the leaves.

“In the years that followed my sire’s brutal claim, Wallachia altered beyond recognition. The Ottoman yoke tightened its iron grip, strangling every flicker of freedom from the land. I watched from the shadows as village after village fell silent, their wooden fences rotting, their fields left to scrub and bramble. Independence slipped away inch by bitter inch, like water forced through clenched fingers.”

She stroked the crimson fur at her shoulder, each gesture deliberate, weighted by memory. “My sire cared nothing for such details. He schemed only for his own gain. But in my heart I felt each fresh wound to the land as keenly as if it had been inflicted upon my own flesh. Strange, to crave allegiance to a place that no longer belonged to you. For I belonged to the night now, to blood and hunger—yet Wallachia was my heritage. Its soil, my birthright.”

Octavia turned her head, and in her pale eyes I saw a flicker of something like tenderness—an emotion as foreign to her as warmth in winter. “Escape became my single, desperate need. The halls of my family's manor became too close, too stifling. Courtly intrigues gnawed at my mind like rats in a granary—betrayals veiled in polite smiles, rivals circling one another like wolves sniffing out weakness. I could no longer abide their endless whispers.”

She rose, moving to the veranda’s edge, leaning against the bannister. “So I retreated into the wilds. Beneath the ancient oaks of the Carpathians and across the ragged slopes of the Făgăraș, I wandered as much as I could. In the forest’s hush, my thoughts fell silent. The air smelled of damp earth and pine resin, and each unnecessary breath felt like freedom.”

Her voice dropped to a hushed reverence. “There, I discovered truths no human tongue could speak. I heard wisdom murmured by birch and beech, found counsel in the glimmer of starlit streams. Wolves shared their lessons without a word: move without fear, hunt with purpose, respect the pack as family, and yield only when to do otherwise means destruction. I watched a family of them for many nights—silent sentinels in the dark—learning the effortless grace of their ways.”

A smile, ironic and faint, curved her lips. “They became my companions, my confidants. I would lie hidden beneath bramble and leaf, listening to their breath and their howls. In that chorus I heard a song of belonging, a reminder of the world before grief and bloodshed turned my heart to stone. Eventually, I even learned to take their shape, running along with them through the mountain forests.”

Octavia closed her eyes and sighed wistfully. “Wallachia’s wild places offered sanctuary when the mortal cities and Cainite courts alike felt like traps. They were timeless. They judged no one and demanded nothing but respect. In their company, I tasted a freedom I thought forever lost.”

Her lids lifted, revealing eyes clear and unblinking. “Yet the wilderness is no simple refuge. One moonlit eve, Ottoman patrols swept through the uplands, torches bobbing in a smug parade of dominance. Another night, one of my sire's rivals hunted me through the glades, his laughter ringing like a blade. I learned to slip through shadows and brush, to vanish like smoke on the breeze.”

Octavia frowned, her posture straightening with resolve. “It was in those desperate flights that I forged my true creed: loyalty is a luxury, but survival is an imperative. Walls crumble, crowns fall, but a will tempered by adversity endures. Wallachia was dying beneath the conqueror’s heel, and my sire sat blind on his throne of bones, lost in his own ravenous dreams of power and cruelty.”

Her voice grew firm, measured like a hammer forging steel. “I, too, would plan my rise. I studied the land, traced the hidden paths through mountain passes and forest mists. I learned which rivers swelled in spring, which ridges concealed holy shrines. I prepared, patiently, for the moment when I could strike a path to freedom. I knew I could never truly belong to the land of mortals again—but neither would I remain bound to the madness that claimed my father.”

Octavia stepped back, the moonlight revealing her profile—regal, austere, and unyielding. “Those forests taught me to let go of the past: the shattered manor, the charred memories, my monstrous father who murdered my mother. In that letting go I found the strength to endure—and, at last, to escape.”

She sank into silence again, as though the night itself had drawn its veil. Around us, the vineyard lay hushed beneath the stars, bearing witness to a soul forged in horror and shaped by the wilderness, determined to seize a destiny beyond sorrow and blood.