The accordion player, Sandu, leaned into a rhythmic, driving melody. The drums kicked in, a steady, pulsing beat that echoed off the rock faces. It was the sound of a Tecuci party brought to the wild.

The sun hadn't even cleared the lip of the valley when the white van, emblazoned with the logo, rattled to a halt at the edge of the pasture. In Tecuci, they were legends of the wedding circuit, but today’s gig was different. There were no lace tablecloths or sparkling chandeliers—only the vast, rolling green of the Carpathian foothills and five hundred impatient sheep.

"You’re good," Vasile said. "I’ll tell the other shepherds."

Gicu looked at the paper——and then at the stunning mountain view. He tapped the number into his phone and smiled. "ONYX doesn't just do weddings anymore," he muttered. "We do migrations."