The silver key bit into Zorya’s palm. She had no time to consider her new bargain, only the agony tearing through Kazimir. His body buckled, a guttural roar ripping from his throat, not quite human, not yet fully beast. His face elongated, features blurring into something more predatory, more feral. Bone stretched, tendons tightened, and dark fur, coarse as a winter forest, erupted across his skin. His fingers, once slender and scarred, thickened, nails extending into blunt, obsidian claws. The transformation was swift, horrifying, and complete. He lurched towards the hidden passage, a dark, hulking shadow, and disappeared into the cavernous maw of the fireplace. Zorya, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, scrambled towards the heavy oak door. The monstrous howls from outside the manor had grown louder, closer. They were a chorus of anticipation, a prelude to the hunt. Her fingers fumbled for the iron bolt, thick as her wrist, sliding it into place with a desperate, metallic shriek. Just as the heavy thud of the bolt settled, a tremendous crash reverberated through the wood. The door shuddered, a splintered furrow gouging the oak near the hearth. A claw, thick and black, wider than her hand, had raked through the seasoned timber in raw, immediate fury. Zorya stumbled back, cold sweat dampening her hairline. From the floors below, a clang of steel and a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the silence. “The Volkov line ends tonight, Anja!” Borislav. He was inside. Zorya's gaze darted around the grand study, searching for any sign of escape. The windows were too high, the doors too sturdy. She was trapped. She heard heavy boots ascending the grand staircase, rhythmic and menacing. The hall door swung open, revealing Anja, her face a mask of placid calm, betraying nothing of the chaos. Behind her, Commander Borislav strode in, his silver-plated breastplate gleaming under the dim light of the chandeliers. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, swept across the opulent room, lingering on Zorya before settling on Anja. “Anja,” Borislav’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble. “Where is he?” Anja curtsied, her movements slow and deliberate. “Commander Borislav. A pleasure as always. Lord Kazimir is, regrettably, indisposed. He retired early, citing a recurring malady.” Borislav scoffed, a humorless sound. “A malady, you say? The same affliction that claimed his father? The same sickness that drew my men to this estate tonight, following a rather specific tip?” He turned his full attention to Zorya, his gaze piercing. “And who is this, Anja? A new maid? Or has the Lord Volkov finally found himself a suitable consort to replace his last unfortunate conquest?” His words were laced with an icy disdain that made Zorya’s skin prickle. Zorya bristled. “I am neither,” she snapped, her voice sharp despite the tremor in her hands. “I am merely a… guest.” Borislav's lip curled. “A guest who picks locks and scales walls, I presume. Your kind is well-known, little thief.” He took a step closer to Zorya, his presence overwhelming. “Perhaps you can enlighten me. Did you see anything peculiar? Any… changes in the Lord of this decaying pile of stone?” Zorya met his gaze, refusing to flinch. “I saw only dust and neglect. Lord Volkov was most displeased with my… presence.” She slid her hand into her tunic pocket, feeling the crinkle of the stolen Warden order. Her fingers sought out the edge of the parchment, pulling it out just enough to be seen. With a practiced flick, she let it fall onto a small, intricately carved side table, nestled between a forgotten teacup and a stack of antique scrolls. Anja stepped forward, subtly positioning herself between Zorya and Borislav. “Commander, I assure you, Lord Kazimir is merely unwell. He has kept to his chambers since dusk. This manor holds no secrets that would concern your noble order.” Borislav’s eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking to the table Zorya had just approached. He noticed the parchment. His expression hardened as he picked it up, his thumb tracing the familiar seal. “A patrol report from the Gryphon’s Pass,” he murmured, his voice laced with suspicion. “This was supposed to be delivered to my personal archives. How did it come to be here?” Zorya shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Perhaps the wind carried it in? This place is full of drafts.” Borislav ignored her, his eyes scanning the report’s contents. “A significant increase in rogue beast activity in the western Glades. A new trail leading towards the Veridian Mire.” He looked up, his suspicion momentarily shifting. “Anja, I would advise you to speak plainly. My patience wears thin. I remember the night his father… the night the curse took him. I remember the stench of his madness, the screams from this very manor. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what the Volkov name means to this land, or to me.” His knuckles whitened around the paper. “He ruined my family, Anja. He killed my sister.” Anja remained impassive, her voice steady. “Commander, the manor holds no one but myself and the Lord, who is indisposed. I beg you to spare us your accusations. My loyalty is to the Volkov line, as it always has been. Your concerns are valid, but misplaced here tonight.” Borislav stared at them for a long, tense moment, his gaze shifting between Anja’s stoic face and Zorya’s defiant eyes. He looked toward the study entrance, the faint, fresh splintering of the paneling barely visible in the shadows. He saw no direct proof, only a well-spun tale and a conveniently found dispatch. He finally let out a frustrated sigh. “Very well. My men will continue their perimeter sweep. But know this, Anja: I will be back. The beast cannot hide forever.” He gave Zorya one last, contemptuous look, then turned and strode from the room, his heavy boots thudding down the grand staircase. Silence settled over the room like soot. Zorya blew out a ragged breath. She looked at Anja, who remained by the door, her shoulders slumped slightly in the aftermath. “He killed his sister?” Zorya asked, her voice hushed. “Kazimir’s father… what exactly did he do?”

The Rules of the Hunt