Introduction
In the wild heart of the Carpathian Mountains, where mists cling to pine-laden slopes and ancient stones whisper secrets, Romania’s oldest legends coil like roots beneath the earth. Among these, none stir the imagination quite like the tales of the Solomonari—a secret brotherhood of wizards whose power was said to shape the very sky above and whose bonds tied them not just to the people below, but to creatures of myth that soared above the peaks. It’s here, in this land where sunlight slips through tangled branches and thunder reverberates in hidden valleys, that the story of the Solomonari truly begins. Their name, murmured with awe or fear in shepherds’ huts and noble courts alike, signified mastery over forces both wondrous and terrifying. With staffs carved from lightning-struck trees and cloaks spun of mist and shadow, the Solomonari wandered the forests and mountains, guarding ancient knowledge and secrets passed down since time before memory. Yet their greatest wonder—and greatest burden—was their command over dragons: enormous, enigmatic beasts that slept beneath mountain lakes or coiled unseen in the storm clouds, awaiting the call of their wizard riders. To control the weather, to commune with dragons, to hold dominion over wind and rain—these gifts carried a cost. Not every Solomonar was born to their station; the brotherhood chose their own, seeking out children marked by a peculiar birth, a strange dream, or an uncanny ability to sense the moods of earth and sky. Those chosen vanished for years, returning—if they returned at all—changed and powerful, their eyes reflecting storms or the calm before them. But what did it mean to bear such knowledge? What did it mean to wield power that could bless a valley with rain or doom a village to drought? This is the story of Iacob, a humble shepherd’s son whose life was transformed the night a dragon’s shadow darkened his village, and whose journey would lead him into the heart of the Solomonari’s mysteries. It’s a tale of awe and fear, of friendship and sacrifice, and above all, of wisdom—the kind that endures like the mountains themselves, echoing long after the last storm has passed.
The Chosen of the Storm
Iacob was born on a night when thunder shook the mountains and rain battered the thatched roofs of his village, Dalbi?or. The midwife, an old woman with eyes as sharp as flint, declared he had come with the storm, and his mother, Ana, never forgot the strange mark shaped like a curling cloud that circled his left wrist. As Iacob grew, it became clear he was no ordinary child. He wandered the forests alone, speaking to ravens and watching clouds drift above the mountain ridges, predicting rain with uncanny accuracy. Villagers whispered that he was 'ursit de soarta'—fated by destiny—but his father dismissed such talk. 'He’s just a dreamer,' he’d say, watching his son gaze into the distance, fingers tracing shapes in the air as if drawing hidden runes.
But the dreams began when Iacob turned twelve: visions of a vast lake ringed by stone, a staff glowing in his hand, and a dragon with emerald eyes calling his name. These dreams left him shaken and silent. Then, one moonless night, as the village slept, a tremendous wind rose from the east. Lightning crackled through the darkness, and a roar—neither wholly animal nor wholly thunder—shook the valley. Those who dared to look saw a shadow, immense and serpentine, spiral above the church steeple before vanishing into the clouds. The next morning, two men in ragged cloaks appeared at Iacob’s door. Their eyes glinted with the green of moss and the steel of rain. Without a word, they beckoned, and though Ana wept, Iacob knew he had to follow. The villagers dared not interfere; everyone had heard the legends—when the Solomonari call, you don’t refuse.
The journey took Iacob deep into the Carpathians, higher than he’d ever climbed, through forests where the trees grew so thick the sun could barely pierce their crowns. The men spoke little, but when they did, their words carried weight. They told him of the Solomonari: men and women who’d mastered wind and water, who could summon rain or ride dragons into battle against darkness. He learned that dragons were not beasts to be tamed but ancient forces to be respected, their spirits entwined with the fate of the land. At last, after days of walking, they arrived at a hidden plateau where stone pillars rose in silent vigil. Here, Iacob would begin his training—and his true test would be survival.
Training among the Solomonari was nothing like Iacob had imagined. There were no classrooms or scrolls, only the raw world itself as teacher and trial. The elders—some as old as the pines, others with faces ageless as rain—set him to work before dawn, splitting logs by thought alone, shaping clouds with a whisper, or meditating for hours in icy streams until he could feel the pulse of water through stone. Failure brought no scolding, only silence and a chance to try again. Other apprentices were there too: Mara, fierce and clever, who could command foxes with a glance; Petru, who could summon wind to dry laundry or topple a sapling. Each carried a secret burden, each longed for acceptance. Iacob struggled most with patience. He wanted to know the dragons, to soar above the world and feel the freedom he’d glimpsed in his dreams. But the elders warned: 'The dragon chooses. Power without understanding destroys both rider and beast.'
One morning, while gathering herbs on the mountain slopes, Iacob heard a distant roar. The wind whipped about him, carrying the scent of lightning. As he climbed higher, he found himself at the edge of a glacial lake, the water dark and glassy. Across its surface, ripples formed though no wind stirred. Suddenly, from the depths emerged a massive, sinuous form—scales glimmering like wet stone, eyes bright as dawn. The dragon’s voice entered his mind, ancient and weary: 'Why do you seek me, child of storms?' Trembling, Iacob answered with the truth: 'To understand. To protect.' The dragon’s gaze pierced him, weighing heart and soul, then vanished beneath the water, leaving only silence and a sense of possibility.
The Brotherhood’s Secret and the Dragon’s Test
As weeks passed, Iacob’s bond with the land deepened. He learned the language of storms: how to read the wind’s secrets in the trembling leaves, how to coax rain from stubborn clouds by singing ancient words, how to still the thunder’s rage with a single gesture. The other apprentices became friends, each sharing stories of their lives before the Solomonari. Mara confessed she’d once stopped a wolf from attacking her family by staring it down until it slunk away; Petru said he heard the voice of rivers calling him home on moonlit nights. Iacob realized that every Solomonar carried scars—losses and gifts that set them apart.
Life in the mountains was both harsh and beautiful. The elders insisted on humility and self-control. 'We serve the balance,' they reminded. 'Our magic is for all, not for ourselves.' The apprentices learned how to listen to the heartbeat of stone, how to sense the hidden tremors beneath earth that foretold landslides or quakes. They studied the ancient contract between humans and dragons: a pact of mutual respect, forged in forgotten times, meant to safeguard both nature and civilization from chaos.
Finally, Iacob’s day of reckoning arrived. At dawn, the elders led him to the sacred plateau. Mist clung to the grass, and the sky churned with ominous clouds. The oldest among them, Master Ilie, placed a staff in Iacob’s hands—a length of black wood veined with silver. 'You must face the dragon alone,' Ilie intoned. 'Not as master or slave, but as equal.' The other apprentices watched from afar, silent and tense.
Iacob entered the glen and called out—not with his voice, but with his soul. The air shimmered, and the emerald dragon emerged from the mist, vast wings unfurling with a sound like distant thunder. Its eyes held storms and centuries. 'You seek to ride the wind,' it spoke within his mind. 'But do you understand its burden? To ride a dragon is to become part of the world’s memory—its joys and sorrows, its pain and hope.'
The trial was not of strength but of heart. The dragon conjured visions: a village parched by drought, crops withering; a river flooding, sweeping homes away; a mighty storm, beautiful but deadly, tearing forests apart. 'Could you choose who receives rain and who goes without?' the dragon asked. 'Would you accept hatred from those who blame you for their suffering?' Iacob wept at the images—the weight of every choice pressed upon him. Yet he stood firm, remembering his mother’s kindness, his village’s laughter, the beauty in every sunrise after rain. 'I would try,' he said at last. 'Not as a god, but as a servant.'
The dragon nodded, its gaze softening. 'Then let us fly.' With a rush of wind and light, Iacob found himself astride the dragon’s neck, the world unfurling below. They soared above forests and rivers, through storms and sunlight, until Iacob could feel the pulse of the land through every beat of his heart. When they landed, the elders bowed low. Iacob had become a true Solomonar—not because he commanded power, but because he understood its cost.
The Storm Riders and the Shadow Over the Village
In the months that followed, Iacob grew into his role. He and his dragon—whom he named Fulger, meaning 'Lightning'—became inseparable. Together they patrolled the skies, watching for signs of imbalance: a disease sweeping through livestock, a forest dying from blight, a drought threatening to crack the earth. The Solomonari worked in secret, their presence known only by rumors: a sudden downpour saving crops, a gentle fog shielding travelers from wolves. Yet every act was weighed with caution. Too much rain could bring mudslides; too little could starve entire valleys.
One autumn, word reached the Solomonari of trouble near Dalbi?or. The villagers, frightened by months of unseasonal storms and failed harvests, had turned against each other, blaming strangers and witches for their misfortune. Iacob’s heart ached for his home. Master Ilie cautioned him: 'Our duty is to the balance, not to personal ties.' But Mara and Petru, now trusted companions, urged him to seek the truth. That night, Iacob slipped away with Fulger, soaring through midnight clouds toward his village.
From above, Dalbi?or looked forlorn—roofs battered by wind, fields churned to mud. In the square, angry voices rose as villagers accused Ana, Iacob’s own mother, of cursing the valley. A mob gathered with torches. Iacob landed Fulger beyond the tree line and approached on foot, cloaked in magic. He saw the fear in his mother’s eyes, the desperation in her neighbors’ faces. No Solomonari could intervene openly, but Iacob’s love for his family outweighed every rule.
He called forth Fulger with a silent plea. The dragon appeared above the village, wings outstretched, lightning flickering along its scales. The mob fell silent in awe and terror. Iacob stepped into the square, staff glowing. He spoke gently: 'You suffer because the balance is broken—not by witchcraft, but by greed. The forests have been cut too deeply; the rivers poisoned by careless hands.' He called rain to cleanse the earth, gentle and warm, and summoned winds to clear the fields. Fulger circled above, reminding all that forces greater than anger watched over them.
In the days that followed, peace returned. The villagers rebuilt together, and suspicion gave way to gratitude. Yet Iacob knew he’d crossed a line. When he returned to the plateau, Master Ilie waited, his expression grave. 'You acted from love,' he said, 'but every choice leaves a mark.' As punishment—and as penance—Iacob was tasked with tending a dying forest alone for an entire season, learning humility anew.
The months of solitude changed Iacob. He listened to birdsong and wind, healed wounded trees, and spoke with foxes and bears. In time, the forest flourished again. When he returned, he found Mara and Petru waiting with Fulger. The elders welcomed him back—not as a chastened apprentice, but as a Solomonar who understood both power and compassion.
Conclusion
The legend of the Solomonari endures in the mists and valleys of Romania—a reminder that true wisdom is not in wielding power, but in respecting its limits. Iacob’s journey from humble shepherd’s son to dragon rider taught him that magic is a covenant: with the land, with its creatures, and with every beating human heart. The brotherhood continues its watch over mountains and fields, their signs found in unexpected rain, sudden thunder, or a flicker of green in the eyes of passing strangers. Some say that when storms gather in the Carpathians, it is the Solomonari riding their dragons across the sky, safeguarding the world’s fragile harmony. And if you listen closely on stormy nights, you might hear the whisper of wings and remember that wisdom—like the mountains—stands steadfast against all storms.
