“He killed his sister?” Zorya asked, her voice hushed. “Kazimir’s father… what exactly did he do?”
Anja moved to the heavily draped window, pulling back a corner of the velvet to peer out into the pre-dawn gloom. The manor’s sprawling grounds were empty, the last of Borislav’s men melting into the distant trees. “It was before my time as head housekeeper, but the tale is etched into these walls,” Anja said, her voice raspy. “The late lord, Kazimir’s sire, was a man consumed by the blight. He sought to break it through… extreme means. He believed sacrificing an innocent, or perhaps forcing a ritual, would suffice.”
Zorya’s stomach churned. “What kind of sacrifice?”
“The Volkovs have long held vaults of forbidden relics. He acquired an artifact, they say—a silver glass that promised to reverse any affliction if a pure heart was offered willingly,” Anja continued, her gaze fixed on the fading darkness outside. “Borislav’s sister, Lyudmila, was a kitchen maid here then. Young, kind, and devout. She was also betrothed to a rising Warden captain – Borislav himself.”
“And he used her?” Zorya asked.
Anja sighed, a sound like dry leaves scattering. “She vanished. The Wardens, led by Borislav, stormed the manor. The old lord claimed she fled. He never produced a body, never explained her disappearance. Borislav swore revenge on the bloodline, convinced the patriarch had taken her life in some dark ritual. He believes all Volkovs are beasts, and that Kazimir merely inherited his elder's rot.” She let the velvet fall, plunging the corner of the library back into shadow.
“So Borislav believes Kazimir inherited the old lord's depravity, not just the curse.” Zorya folded her arms across her chest. “That explains the hatred.”
A low thud from the grand hall outside the library startled them. Anja’s head snapped up, her stare sharp and alert. Another thud, heavier this time, followed by a muffled groan. Anja didn’t wait. She moved with surprising speed, pulling open the library door and disappearing into the dimness of the main hall.
Zorya hesitated for only a moment, then followed. The hall was a vast, echoing space, the morning light just beginning to filter through the stained-glass windows, painting fractured colours across the polished marble floor. Near the foot of the grand staircase, a crumpled form lay sprawled. Kazimir.
He was human again, naked save for the tattered remnants of what might have been breeches. His skin, usually pale, was slick with sweat and grime, and a fresh, ugly gash marred his left side, just above the hip bone. The wound wept sluggishly, its edges blackened, as if something had burned him from the inside out. He shuddered, a rattling breath escaping his lips.
Anja was already kneeling beside him, her gnarled fingers pressing against his neck to check his pulse. “Silver,” she murmured, her voice tight with concern. “A blade, or a bolt. He must have crossed paths with the Wardens.”
Zorya felt a perverse flicker of satisfaction. The monster had been wounded. But seeing him now, not the cold, calculating lord, nor the terrifying beast, but a broken, bleeding man, a different sensation began to prickle at her: a reluctant empathy. He looked small, vulnerable, utterly unlike the man who had trapped her in this gilded cage.
“Help me get him to the study,” Anja commanded, her voice cutting through Zorya’s thoughts. “Carefully.”
Together, they managed to haul Kazimir’s heavy, inert form into the study. The familiar scent of old parchment and dust filled Zorya’s nostrils. They laid him on the worn leather divan near the cold hearth, his head lolling to the side. His breathing was shallow, his skin clammy.
“We need to clean this,” Anja said, gesturing to the wound. “And something for the fever. Silver burns deep.” She hurried off, presumably to the kitchen or storerooms, leaving Zorya alone with the prone lord.
Zorya stared at the gash. It was a vicious thing, ragged and angry. She noticed other scars now, too. Faint, silvery lines crisscrossed his torso and limbs – older injuries, long healed, but still visible. They were subtle, almost blending with his skin, but in the harsh morning light, they stood out, a map of past battles.
He groaned, stirring slightly. His eyes fluttered open, dark and unfocused, then fixed on her. “Zorya,” he rasped, his voice raw. “The… the curse. Any injury… sustained as the beast… it remains. Permanent.” He choked on a breath, a spasm running through his body. “A constant reminder.”
His words explained the older scars. Each mark charted a night of violence, of hunting or being hunted under the canopy. The cold, precise lord was also a canvas of pain, etched with the memory of his other self. The image of the beast, all fang and claw, superimposed itself over the vulnerable man on the divan.
“We need clean cloths, hot water, and a poultice,” Anja called from the doorway, returning with a basin of steaming water and a bundle of dried herbs. “There’s a linen cabinet in the corridor, two doors down on the right. Be quick.”
Zorya nodded, grateful for the distraction. She left the study, the sounds of Anja fussing over Kazimir fading behind her. The corridor was narrow and dark, lined with old, heavy chests. She found the cabinet, its polished wood gleaming faintly in the sliver of light from a distant window. She opened it, revealing stacks of aged, faintly lavender-scented linens.
As she reached for a stack, her fingers brushed against something hard and leather-bound, tucked behind a folded blanket. Curious, she pulled it out. It was a small, ornate journal, its cover embossed with a faded symbol of a crescent moon cradling a single, stylized flower. It felt old, delicate. A faint, almost floral scent clung to it.
She flipped it open. The handwriting was elegant, flowing, in a language she recognized as an older dialect of Khavylian, used by the gentry. The first page bore a name: *Miroslava Volkov*. Kazimir’s mother.
She scanned a random entry. *“The Silverblood, it runs true, yet the heart remains untouched. A cage of bone and fury, yearning for release. But not by force, never by force. The legends speak of true acceptance, a bond forged not by fear, but by sight beyond the veil of flesh.”*
Another page: *“He seeks only a kiss, a manipulation. He does not understand. The willing heart, the unconditional love… they are not things to be engineered, but discovered. My poor husband, blind to the true path, consumed by his own desperation. If only he saw beyond the monstrous form, to the suffering within.”*
The words resonated with a strange power. *Unconditional love. Willing heart. Not by force.* This wasn’t just a curse; it was a test. And Kazimir, with his calculating nature, was failing it, just as his father had.
She tucked the journal under her arm and gathered a generous pile of linens. As she re-entered the study, Anja was carefully cleaning Kazimir’s wound, her brow furrowed in concentration. The basin water was already tinged red. Kazimir’s teeth were gritted, a low moan escaping him.
“Here are the linens,” Zorya said, depositing them on a nearby table. She placed the journal discreetly next to them, hoping Anja wouldn’t notice it. She watched Anja work, the meticulous care she showed the lord, a man she had just accused of repeating his father’s mistakes. The old woman truly cared for him.
Kazimir thrashed suddenly, his eyes still closed. His hand shot out, surprisingly strong, and clamped around Zorya’s wrist. His grip was tight, almost painful. His eyes flickered open again, unfocused and glazed with fever. He pulled her closer, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.
“Elena…” he whispered, his voice barely audible, thick with delirium. “Elena… is that you?”