A Song from the Court
Nicolae turned the corner and entered the Sfatului Square, its ancient charm marred by soldiers standing in uneasy clumps beneath gas-lit lamps. Their rifles glimmered in the muted glow, and yet their eyes darted nervously toward the council’s mansion that towered over the square. In this new age of chaos, allegiances were shifting like sand under a storm.
Behind the mansion’s thick oak doors, the elite of Romania argued fiercely, their voices rising like dueling symphonies. Pushing past the guards, Nicolae entered without a word. He belonged here, uninvited but unchallenged. The council chamber reeked of cigar smoke and sweat, and when Nicolae stepped onto the marble floor with wet boots, silence rippled like a stone dropped into still water.
At the head of the table sat General Teodor Georgescu, the once-obscure candidate whose inexplicable rise to prominence had cast him either as a people’s hero or Russia’s puppet. The general was a hulking man in his early fifties, with a face like weathered bark and eyes stained with suspicion. His uniform, a deep crimson edged with gold, was both pristine and intimidating, but it was his voice that held the room in a stranglehold.
"Dragoș," he rasped, gesturing to an empty chair. "You’re late."
"There’s no lateness when you deal in absolutes," Nicolae replied coolly, shedding his coat and revealing a navy doublet and trousers embroidered with subtle black threads. His pistol, holstered at his side, gleamed faintly under the chandelier’s light. "But I’m here, General. That should be enough."
The Widow’s Warning
The council’s arguments resumed quickly, as Nicolae leaned back in his chair and fingered the edge of his black gloves. Whispers from the room hinted at factions. The coups, the rumors of Russian funding, the deep fractures within Romania... it was no different than the assignments that had kept his coffers full in the shadowed years of the last regime.
But this was no ordinary commission. The stakes extended not just across the forests of Transylvania, but across the breadth of Europe’s political battlefield. Georgescu’s presidency, should it be reinstated with parliamentary force, would break Romania’s alliances—and that was precisely what Moscow dreamed of. For every Russian pawn moved closer to the Carpathians, Europe trembled further.
"Your move, Dragoș," the General said sharply. "We’ve all read the Widow’s Warning."
Nicolae arched an eyebrow, obscuring his intrigue. The Widow's Warning—an intercepted communique from Tatiana Sergeyeva, the Russian diplomat-turned-spymistress—had been vague yet chilling. She had spoken of "the Iron Songbird," an enigmatic figure who would turn Europe's chessboard upside down. Was it Georgescu? A traitor among his generals? Or was it yet another piece in Russia’s game?
"The Widow," Nicolae said slowly, choosing his words like a swordsman testing an opponent, "wants us to mistrust each other. It's not a warning; it's a wedge."
Scrutiny in the Shadows
The chamber erupted again. Accusations flew. Nicolae stood, retreating to the vast balcony to let the cold air steep into his skin. From here, he could see the Black Church, its spire stretching defiantly into the night sky. Beyond it, the mountains stood like jagged sentinels, indifferent to the squabbles of men. He removed a cigarette from an inner pocket and lit it with a match, watching as the smoke mingled with the mist. As he turned to leave, he caught the faintest glimpse of movement from the rooftop beyond the square.
A sniper.
Nicolae dropped the cigarette to the stones, stamping it out. His boots clicked with intent as he crossed the hall, heading straight for Georgescu.
"We have company," he whispered, his tone as sharp as a dagger, before gesturing discreetly toward the balcony. "Who works the rooftops in a downpour?"
The General's face hardened, and in an instant, commands were barked. Soldiers spilled into the square like vinegar into oil, and the assassin’s bold escape began. Nicolae followed into the rain, his hand on the grip of his pistol as he pursued the shadow leaping across Brașov's rooftops.
A Dance of Betrayals
Lightning tore across the sky, illuminating his prey—a wiry figure in black with a crimson sash. By the time Nicolae tracked the runner to the edge of the Black Church gardens, he was drenched, his coat weighing on him like an iron shroud. The chase ended as blades were drawn—a duel punctuated by clashing steel and the tempest’s roar.
But the assassin hesitated before plunging their blade, and Nicolae saw their face in that brief moment: it was no faceless Russian operative. It was the widow herself—Tatiana Sergeyeva.
She fled into the storm, but she had left him far richer than before—not in coin, but in knowledge. The Iron Songbird was no myth, and the Widow's cryptic games pointed to a deeper truth. Someone within the council. Someone among Georgescu’s closest allies. Someone who could destroy Romania from within.
Nicolae absently touched the hilt of his sword as he gazed back toward the council mansion. The real war had only just begun, and its battlefield would be deception, not honor. For every move on the chessboard, he was ready to counter with two of his own.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Red Strings Mystery in Romania
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