When the Mountain keeps Secrets

The Guardian’s Pact

Two days have passed since the climb to the fortress, but the memory is still lodged in me like a burr in wool.

No— not just the memory. The feeling.

The warmth of his hand at the small of my back.

The faint brush of mountain thyme on his breath.

The way his lips lingered on mine—not a clumsy, startled meeting, but something deliberate, something that felt as though he’d been carrying it in his pocket for years, waiting for the right moment to spend it.

And then he’d let go of my hand. Walked away. And not come back.

Not entirely true— I’d seen him, from a distance. At the well, with a bucket slung over his shoulder, speaking to the blacksmith’s son. Near the goat pens, tipping his head back in laughter at something I couldn’t hear. Each time, my chest tightened with the urge to call out, and each time I told myself no.

If Nonna Maria has noticed any of this, she’s keeping it to herself. But her eyes are sharp—sharper than her kitchen knives—and I’m sure she’s seen me glance toward the window more than the spinning wheel. She hasn’t spoken Matteo’s name, but she has kept me busy: chopping kindling, mending a torn hem, dusting the unreachable places on the rafters. Whenever my thoughts start to wander, she finds me something to carry, something to count.

This morning, the air feels… wrong.

Cold, yes, but not the usual mountain bite. There’s a metallic tang to it, like the taste of blood if you’ve bitten your lip too hard. Light leaks into my small bedroom in a dull grey spill, making everything look as though it’s been dusted with ash.

I hear voices outside. Not the bright chatter of women greeting each other on their way to the well, but low, tight murmurs.

I pull on my shawl and go into the main room. Nonna is standing at the window with her arms folded across her chest, her mouth a hard line. She’s watching something.

I come to stand beside her.

Three men are coming down the lane from the fortress path. They’re walking slowly, careful in their steps. Between them they carry a wool blanket stretched like a stretcher, something long and heavy wrapped inside. Dark droplets mark their trail in the dust—not quite red in this light, but I know what colour they’d be in the sun.

Villagers appear in doorways, some clutching shawls, others wiping their hands on aprons. They speak of bread prices, of whether the goats will kid early this year, but their eyes keep returning to the blanket.

“Sempre in tre…” Nonna mutters—always in threes—and presses her fingers hard into her breastbone in the sign of the cross.

“What is it?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer me. “Go and fetch rosemary from the garden. For the stew.”

It’s far too early for stew. But I don’t argue.

The garden is still wet from last night’s dew. I kneel to cut a sprig, and that’s when I hear them—two old women shuffling past the fence, speaking low but not low enough.

“—claw marks, she said.”

“On the chapel wall?”

“No, no. Near it. And the grass—pressed flat in a coil, like a snare.”

The other woman makes a sound between a cluck and a sigh. “Segni, all right. Mark my words, it’s starting again.”

They move on before I can ask what’s starting again.

When I bring the rosemary back inside, the men have already passed, taking their burden toward the far edge of the village. Whatever it is, it’s not to be left here.

By midday, the quiet has thickened. The few people on the lane keep their heads down. I’m helping Nonna strip dried thyme from its stems when a shadow falls across the doorway.

It’s him.

Matteo stands there, hat in his hands, hair mussed by the wind. He doesn’t smile the way he usually does. Something in his eyes is… contained.

“Walk with me?” he says.

I glance at Nonna, but she’s suddenly very interested in the thyme. I wrap my shawl tighter and step outside. His hand finds mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I let it stay there. Warm. Certain.

We take the ridge path. It’s colder here, the wind sharper. The grass underfoot is stiff with frost that lingers in the shade, crunching faintly with each step. Below us, the village looks smaller than ever—thin curls of smoke rising from chimneys, the roofs huddled against the mountain’s slope.

“They found a sheep this morning,” he says quietly. “Up near the chapel. Torn apart, but not eaten.”

A shiver creeps into my shoulders. “Wolves?”

He shakes his head. “Wolves don’t kill for nothing. And these… marks…” He glances at me, weighing his words. “In the grass nearby, there was a shape. A spiral. Perfect. Like someone pressed it down with the palm of a giant hand. Frost along the edges—but nowhere else.”

I think of the old women’s voices. “And claw marks?”

He nods. “Deep. Deeper than the last time.”

“The last time?”

He’s silent for a few steps, then says, “My nonno used to tell a story. Il Cacciatore Senza Ombra—the Hunter Without a Shadow. He roams the ridges in autumn, looking for prey. When he finds it, he circles it three times, pressing the grass into a spiral. Then he waits. The prey never sees him until it’s too late. The old folk say he has no shadow because he belongs to the mountain itself—born of its stone, its snow, its hunger.”

The wind moves over us like a whispering hand. I glance at him, but his face is unreadable.

We reach the little chapel before the fortress—its stone walls the colour of old bone, the roof heavy with lichen. The wooden door is dark and weathered, the iron hinges flecked with rust. Matteo pauses before it, his thumb brushing the edge of the doorframe, and looks at me.

“Inside?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not today.”

We step past it, and the view opens like the sky is suddenly wider. To the left, the fortress rises—white against the clouds, as if it grew there from the mountain itself. To the right, the Gran Sasso stretches away in folds of grey and blue, the peaks capped with the first hints of snow. Valleys ripple below us, deep and shadowed, as though hiding something vast.

He lets go of my hand to point at the slopes. “There’s another story,” he says. “Older than the Hunter Without a Shadow. My nonno called it Il Guardiano—the Guardian.”

I turn to him, and he studies me as though deciding how much to give away.

“They say he’s as old as the first stone laid on the fortress. A bear, but not like others. Larger, stronger… wiser. The people here believe he keeps the balance. But he has rules.”

He glances at me, and his voice lowers. “Three. Never harm a cub. Never whistle after sunset. And never take the blue flowers from the fortress walls.”

I think of the sprig of eryngium tucked into my shawl, placed there by Nonna’s hand two days ago. My fingers find it instinctively, its prickly leaves cool under my touch.

“What happens,” I ask, “if someone breaks all three?”

Matteo looks past me, toward the fortress, his jaw tightening. “The Guardian comes for them. And he doesn’t stop.”

For a moment, we stand in silence, the wind moving the edges of my shawl. I feel my pulse in my throat.

He steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “You believe me?”

I want to say I don’t know. But before I can answer, his hand is at my cheek, warm against the cold air, and then his lips are on mine. This kiss is nothing like the first—no measured patience, no sense of holding something back. It’s deeper, hungrier, like the mountain wind pulling at me, stealing my breath. My hand finds his shoulder, holding him there, not ready to let go.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “Vieni…” he murmurs—come. His thumb brushes my jaw, but then he straightens, the moment shuttered.

We walk on, my hand still in his, and though he says nothing more about the Guardian, the warmth of his kiss burns brighter in my thoughts than any fire.