Jadwiga Poleszuk considered the rusted spikes on the manor gate. They were dull, certainly, but still perfectly capable of impaling a careless limb. A minor inconvenience, she noted, for an estate meant to house an offering. Hers, specifically. She tugged the worn leather of her satchel, steadying the clattering bundle of bone saws and embalming tools. Not that she expected to need them for *herself*. The Starfall Curse promised a transformation, not a simple exsanguination. Still, one ought to be prepared for any eventuality, even a posthumous one. Wyrwidąb Manor loomed, a hulking silhouette against the bruise-purple twilight of Powrozie. Its gables clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers, and the wind, laden with the scent of damp earth and decay, whistled through shattered windowpanes. A perfect setting for her demise. And, she mentally added, for a thorough dusting and perhaps some structural reinforcement. She pushed open the massive, groaning oak doors. They moved with surprising ease, revealing a cavernous hall plunged into near-total darkness. Dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight piercing the gloom, like tiny, frantic ghosts. “Welcome, welcome, poor doomed soul!” A metallic voice, tinny and echoing, ripped through the silence. “Don’t mind the aesthetics. They’re meant to disorient. A classic Gloomfang strategy, really.” Jadwiga blinked, her gaze settling on a suit of tarnished plate armor standing sentinel beside a cobweb-draped hanging rug. Its helmet was slightly askew, and a single gauntlet dangled precariously. “If you’re seeking a swift exit,” the armor continued, its voice a theatrical whisper, “the secret passage is behind the third portrait on the left. Not the one with the dour-faced baron, the one with the suspiciously cheerful dog. Though, fair warning, it leads directly to the marsh, and the marsh-goblins are surprisingly fond of fresh meat. Especially doomed meat.” Jadwiga straightened her spine, her expression unreadable. “A marsh-goblin encounter would introduce unnecessary variables into my pre-arranged demise. Thank you, Borys, but I prefer to adhere to the initial parameters.” The armor, Borys, clanked faintly. “Ah. A purist. Rare these days. Most scream and try to scale the battlements. You’re… different.” “Logistics,” Jadwiga stated simply. “Screaming achieves little beyond throat strain. Scaling battlements risks a broken neck before the curse can properly activate. Both are inefficient.” Before Borys could offer more unsolicited advice, a figure emerged from the depths of the hall. He was tall, clad in surprisingly clean broadcloth, and possessed an air of profound, almost performative, melancholy. Lord Olgierd. “Ah, my latest… guest,” Olgierd intoned, his voice a rich baritone, dripping with despair. He ran a hand through his dark, artfully disheveled hair. “Another star falls from the firmament, another innocent soul offered to the hungering void. Do you feel it, child? The inexorable pull of fate? The chill embrace of the inevitable?” He spread his arms wide, a dramatic gesture meant to encompass the entire crumbling manor and the cosmic injustice of his situation. Jadwiga, however, wasn't contemplating the cosmos. “Lord Olgierd,” she interrupted, her voice flat, “I must draw your attention to a rather significant draft emanating from the eastern archway. The lintel appears to be compromised, possibly due to long-term water damage. If not addressed, the entire section could collapse, causing structural instability and a potential hazard during the celestial alignment.” Olgierd’s arms remained splayed in mid-air, his face a mask of bewildered indignation. His dramatic monologue had been derailed, not by fear, not by tears, but by… building code violations. “A draft?” he repeated, his voice rising in incredulity. “A *draft*? My dear girl, you are here to be consumed by an ancient, merciless curse! My very existence is a chronicle of sorrow and monstrous transformation! And you speak of… lintels?” “Structural integrity is paramount,” Jadwiga replied, unfazed. “A poorly maintained environment can hasten deterioration, potentially affecting the precise timing of the curse’s climax. We want this to be a clean, efficient procedure, do we not?” Olgierd stared at her, his jaw slack. The melancholic sheen in his eyes began to spark with genuine annoyance. His tailored shoulders tensed, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. “You seek efficiency?” Olgierd’s voice dropped, a dangerous edge replacing the despair. “Then let me demonstrate true inefficiency. The kind that rends flesh and shatters bone. The kind that makes even stone weep!” His form blurred. Cloth ripped, bones elongated with sickening cracks, and shadows pulsed outward. In moments, the elegant nobleman was gone, replaced by a towering, hulking beast. The Gloomfang. Its hide was the color of bruised plums, its claws like obsidian daggers, and its eyes, twin pits of swirling green mist, glowed with predatory hunger. It let out a guttural roar, a sound that vibrated through the very foundations of the manor, rattling the dust from the draperies. The creature’s massive head lowered, its jagged fangs bared in what was clearly intended to be a terrifying display. Jadwiga, however, merely tilted her head. “Your posture seems suboptimal,” she observed, completely calm. “Too much emphasis on the neck and shoulders. It creates an unnecessary strain on the lumbar region. For a creature of your… considerable mass, a more balanced stance would provide better stability and reduce the risk of long-term spinal issues.” The Gloomfang froze, mid-snarl. The green mist in its eyes swirled faster, as if in utter confusion. It looked from Jadwiga to its own massive, clawed feet, then back to Jadwiga. The roar died in its throat, replaced by a low, bewildered whimper. Slowly, painfully, the monstrous form began to recede. Shadows retracted, bones reknitted with soft squelches, and the velvet fabric reformed, albeit rumpled. Lord Olgierd stood before her once more, disheveled and breathing heavily, a flush creeping up his neck. He gestured wildly, his voice a choked gasp. “Why… why aren’t you screaming? Why aren’t you begging for your life? Why aren’t you cowering in terror like every other sacrificial lamb I’ve had the misfortune of encountering?!” Jadwiga met his gaze, utterly placid. “It seems an inefficient use of energy. Now, about the terms of this arrangement…”

A Matter of Logistics