Danuta waited until the last echo of Verian’s footsteps faded entirely, until the silence of the West Wing pressed in, thick and suffocating. The full moon was tonight. Every fiber of her being screamed to flee this wing, to forget the terrible words she’d read, the chilling threats she’d overheard. But the chronicle’s truth, the image of Ziven’s tormented eyes in the garden, the raw fear she’d seen in him after the beast vanished – it all locked into place. The scattered pieces had settled into a stark, protective certainty. She had to save him. Not for Alek, not for duty, but for the man whose quiet sorrow had somehow woven itself into her own spirit. She found Ziven in the main hall, pacing before the grand fireplace, a book clutched in his hand but unread. His dark hair was slightly dishevelled, his shoulders hunched. The moonlight, already beginning to spill through the tall windows, cast stark shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He looked like a man haunted, even before she spoke. “Ziven,” she began, her voice a little steadier than she felt. He started, the book nearly slipping from his grasp, his gaze snapping to hers. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a flicker of apprehension. She took a deep breath, the chill in the air doing little to cool the fire building within her. “I know about the curse,” she stated, the words cutting through the stillness. She watched, unflinching, as his face drained of color. The last vestige of his composure fractured. He stumbled back a step, leaning heavily against the mantelpiece, his hand going to his forehead as if to ward off a blow. “How… how could you possibly know?” His voice was a strained whisper, barely audible above the crackle of the fire. “The West Wing. The chronicle. I found it,” she explained, her voice softening slightly at the sight of his profound distress. “And I saw you in the gardens, Ziven. That night. I saw the beast.” He flinched as if struck, his eyes closing for a long moment. When they opened, they were filled with a raw, agonizing shame. “Danuta,” he breathed, his voice rough with despair. “You shouldn’t have come here. You shouldn’t have seen. It’s… it’s a blight. A monstrosity.” He pushed away from the mantel, beginning to pace again, a frantic energy radiating from him. “My ancestors, they paid a terrible price for a broken pact with the ancient spirits of the Kresnik Peaks. Every full moon, the bloodline is afflicted. Transformed. My father, my grandfather… they all succumbed. And now, me.” He paused, turning to face her, his gaze pleading. “I barricade myself away, in the deepest part of the West Wing. I have to. For your safety. For the safety of everyone in this castle.” He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting around the hall as if expecting to see the moon already at its zenith. “The beast… it knows no reason. It is hunger. It is rage. It is everything I despise about myself, unleashed.” “Galina gave me a key,” Danuta interjected quietly, holding up the small, ornate iron key. “She told me some doors are locked for my protection, not yours. I thought she meant from you. But she meant the truth. The key to the chronicle.” She took a step closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He laughed, a short, bitter sound devoid of mirth. “Tell you, my Duchess? What was I to say? ‘Welcome to Kresnik Spire, where your husband turns into a savage monster once a month’? Do you think any woman would stay? Would any sane person not flee in terror?” He stopped pacing, his shoulders sagging. “I wanted you to be safe. Far away from this place, from *me*. But the arrangement… my family’s duty… and then, when you arrived, you were so… kind. So utterly unlike what I expected.” His gaze met hers, and in their depths, she saw a vulnerability so profound it stole her breath. “I tried to keep my distance. To be cold, to push you away. Because I knew the danger I posed. But you… you looked at me, Danuta. Not with fear, not with disgust, but with an acceptance I’ve never known. You spoke to me in the library, your voice like a balm, and I… I found myself drawn to you. Despite everything, I found myself hoping. Hoping for a life I could never have. Hoping for *you*.” His voice cracked on the last word, the admission hanging heavy in the air between them. A strange, fierce warmth blossomed in Danuta’s chest. The confession, born of shame and desperation, ignited something within her. Her goal, once a stark duty to Alek, to her family, now burned with a new, potent fire. She loved him. This man, broken and cursed, who thought himself a monster, had found a way into her heart. And she would not let him face this alone. “Stay away,” he pleaded, his hands reaching out as if to physically push her back, then dropping abruptly. “Please, for your own good. When the moon rises, you must lock yourself away. Forget what you’ve seen. Forget what I’ve said. The beast will not remember. It will only destroy.” “No,” Danuta said, her voice firm, unwavering. She stepped closer, closing the distance between them. “I will not stay away.” She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing his. He flinched, but she held on, intertwining their fingers. “I am your wife, Ziven. And I will not abandon you.” The declaration seemed to shatter the last of his resistance. He squeezed her hand, his eyes closing again, a single tear tracking a path down his cheek. He opened his eyes, a flicker of desperate hope mixing with the torment. “You do not see the full extent of the danger,” he whispered. “You cannot save me. There is no cure. Only… the chronicle. It speaks of a sacrifice. A willing death, from one who loves the afflicted, to break the curse forever.” Danuta knew. She had read those words. And as she looked into his pained eyes, she knew the choice she would make. But not yet. Not like this. She would find another way. She *had* to. A low groan rumbled from deep within Ziven’s chest, a sound that was not entirely human. He gasped, pulling his hand away from hers, clutching at his head. His body began to tremble, his shoulders hunching further, his spine curving. His stare locked onto hers, strained and horrified. “It’s starting,” he choked out, his voice already deepening, growing hoarse. “You must go! Now!” He stumbled towards the West Wing, a desperate urgency in his movements. Danuta watched as his frame seemed to stretch, his knuckles thickening and fingers elongating. He reached the heavy, reinforced door, wrestling with the bolts, his efforts clumsy as his body began to distort. He slammed the door shut behind him with a final, guttural roar that was already more animal than man. The sound of heavy chains rattling, then a thud, confirmed his self-imprisonment. Danuta knew she had mere moments. Her gaze fell upon the intricate, bone-hilted hunting blade displayed in a glass case on the wall, an ancient trophy from one of the Radomir ancestors. It felt impossibly heavy in her hand, its polished blade reflecting the rising moonlight. This was the only weapon she could trust, the only hope she held. She heard the frantic barks of hunting hounds, the distant shouts of men. Verian. He was here. She raced towards the West Wing, her every muscle tense. The sounds intensified: splintering wood, the clang of steel, Verian’s triumphant bellow cutting through the night. “The beast is cornered! No mercy!” Danuta burst into the gallery leading to the West Wing just as the main door to Ziven’s chamber groaned, the last bolt giving way. She saw the monstrous silhouette inside, immense and terrifying, its eyes glowing with a feral, emerald light. A low snarl tore from its throat, a sound of pure, unbridled fury. It was larger, more formidable than she remembered from the garden, a creature of nightmare. Without hesitation, Danuta strode forward, the silver dagger gripped tight in her hand. The monstrous wolf-form of Ziven turned its massive head towards her, its snarling lips pulling back to reveal razor-sharp teeth. Just as the heavy door to the chamber splintered open, revealing Verian Orlov and his armed men pouring into the gallery, Danuta stood before the snarling beast, her back to the intruders and her focus entirely on her husband. The polished steel glinted in the moonlight.

The First Full Moon