A guttural roar, far too close for the hour, ripped through the otherwise placid afternoon. Jadwiga, perched precariously on a wobbly stepladder in the grand foyer, meticulously scraping crusted grime from a tarnished candelabra, barely flinched. The brass stem, in a voice like grinding gears, had just offered a particularly unhelpful suggestion about using lye. She ignored both the ornament and the roar. The scraping continued. Another, more human shout followed the roar, this one distinct in its bravado. “Unhand her, fiend! Witek Głowacz has arrived to claim what is rightfully his!” Jadwiga sighed, a puff of dust escaping her lips. She recognized that particular blend of self-importance and nasal resonance. It was Witek, again. Her ‘sacrifice’ was proving to be less of a quiet, dignified exit and more of a protracted negotiation for a perpetually understaffed, cursed estate. She descended the ladder with economical movements, placing the brass branch gently on a drop cloth. Its gears whirred in a huff. Through the arched windows, she could see Witek, a stout figure in an ostentatious fur vest, standing at the edge of the sprawling, untamed gardens. He was brandishing a gleaming, if somewhat oversized, hunting knife. Behind him, the wrought-iron gates, usually locked and charmed against intrusion, hung ajar, one hinge groaning in protest. Lord Olgierd appeared moments later, not through a door, but as a blur of shadow coalescing into his human form in the archway leading to the conservatory. His face was a thundercloud, his dark eyes narrowed to slits. “Głowacz,” he hissed, the name a curse. “Indeed, Beast!” Witek bellowed, puffing out his chest. “I have come for Jadwiga! I know of your foul pacts and the poor girl’s unwilling servitude! She is meant for a good, honest man, not a… a garden ornament!” Olgierd’s aristocratic sneer twisted into something primal. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of pine and wet earth. Shadows stretched from him, elongating, distorting. His bones audibly cracked, joints displacing with wet snaps. His skin darkened, coarsened into a hide of deepest charcoal. Claws, black and sharp as obsidian shards, burst from his fingertips. His teeth elongated into wicked fangs, and his eyes, once pools of melancholic darkness, glowed with feral, emerald light. The transformation was swift, a fluid horror, and in moments, the man was gone, replaced by the towering, monstrous Gloomfang. The Beast let out another deafening roar, a sound that vibrated through the manor’s very foundations. It coiled, a massive, muscular shadow against the afternoon sun, then lunged towards Witek, a blur of predatory speed. Witek, for all his bluster, yelped, stumbling backward. He recovered quickly, however, raising his knife with a defiant yell and bracing for a charge. The Beast, ignoring the puny blade, swiped a massive claw, tearing through a thorny rose trellis and sending a shower of crimson petals into the air. “Run, girl! I’ll draw its attention!” Witek cried, sounding less like a hero and more like a panicked rabbit. He darted between overgrown, gnarled topiary, the Beast thundering after him. The chase was a wrecking ball through the manicured chaos of the gardens. Centuries-old urns shattered, their terracotta shards scattering. Prize-winning hydrangeas were trampled into muddy pulp. A priceless marble nymph statue, holding a chipped ewer, lost its head to a stray tail lash. Jadwiga watched, unimpressed. Her candelabra was still dirty. “This is inefficient,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. The Beast’s roars and Witek’s frantic shouts were causing the already precarious plaster in the hall to shed fine dust onto her freshly scraped floorboards. She located a small, brass panel disguised as a coat-of-arms on the wall near the main entrance. She had discovered it that morning, intrigued by the faint magical hum emanating from it. She ran a finger along its intricate engravings, noting the depictions of water nymphs and flowing conduits. Her eyes scanned for a specific rune, one she’d glimpsed in a dusty tome about archaic plumbing systems in the library. There. A spiraling glyph, almost hidden beneath a tarnished patina. She pressed the glyph firmly. A low, rhythmic thrum resonated through the floor. Outside, in the gardens, a series of moss-covered gargoyles, hitherto mere decorative elements, began to stir. Water spurted from their mouths, not a gentle stream, but powerful, high-pressure jets, arcing across the ruined landscape. The enchanted sprinkler system, long dormant, roared to life. Witek, mid-leap over a particularly large patch of trampled foxglove, was caught square in the chest by a cold, forceful blast. He spluttered, losing his balance, and landed with an undignified splash in a recently excavated flowerbed, his fur vest instantly heavy with water. The Beast, too, was not spared. A torrent of water slammed into its massive flank, making its dark hide glisten. It roared, not in pain, but in sheer, utter indignation, shaking its enormous head, droplets flying like tiny diamonds. “Stop it, you fiend!” Witek shrieked, scrambling to his feet, dripping wet and shivering. “I’m trying to save her!” Jadwiga stepped out onto the porch, a picture of calm efficiency. “Your methods,” she stated, her voice clear and level over the hiss of the sprinklers, “are damaging the topsoil and eroding the foundations of the west gazebo. Furthermore, the noise is disturbing the library’s resident spectral librarian, who has just begun to organize the historical documents by chronological age.” She gestured vaguely towards the drenched, floundering hunter. “Your presence is causing unnecessary structural and ecological disruption.” The Beast, still being periodically doused, let out a frustrated growl, turning its glowing eyes towards Jadwiga. It looked less menacing now and more like a very large, very annoyed wet dog. Witek, seeing the Beast momentarily distracted, used the opportunity to make a soggy retreat. He splashed his way back towards the broken gates, slipping on a patch of mud. “This isn’t over, Beast! Or you, Jadwiga! I’ll be back! You haven’t seen the last of Witek Głowacz!” His voice faded, a pathetic, waterlogged threat, as he disappeared through the gates. Jadwiga watched him go, then methodically pressed the glyph again. The gargoyles ceased their assault, their stony visages returning to impassive silence. The Beast, now just damp and bristling, stood panting in the middle of the ruined garden, water dripping from its claws onto the muddy ground. It transformed back into Olgierd with a soft groan, the effort of reverting leaving him visibly shaken, his hair plastered to his forehead. “You… you turned on the sprinklers,” Olgierd said, his voice a low rumble of disbelief, looking at her as if she had grown a second head. “During a life-or-death struggle.” “It was hardly life-or-death for you, considering his hunting knife was barely suitable for skinning rabbits,” Jadwiga replied, retrieving a broom to sweep the dust from the foyer. “And the water pressure was entirely appropriate for dispersing a minor nuisance.” Later that evening, the manor hummed with a fragile peace. Olgierd, still nursing a bruised ego and a damp shirt, found Jadwiga in the grand drawing-room. The room was dimly lit by a crackling fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the enormous, antique wall-hanging that dominated one wall. It depicted a rather unfortunate-looking heraldic beast being speared by a surprisingly cheerful knight. Witek, in his chaotic escape, had managed to snag it with his knife, leaving a jagged tear across the beast's left wing. Jadwiga was meticulously mending the damage. Her nimble fingers, usually reserved for the grim precision of her mortician’s craft, now moved with an almost surgical delicacy, weaving threads of crimson and gold through the timeworn fabric. The tear, once an ugly gash, was steadily vanishing, the new stitches blending seamlessly with the old, restoring the winged creature’s dignity. The intricate work, the sheer patience required, was a stark contrast to the earlier chaos. Olgierd watched her for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her focused profile. The firelight flickered in her eyes, making them seem deeper, less purely analytical than usual. He cleared his throat, a gruff sound. “That needlework,” he began, his voice rougher than he intended, “is over three centuries old. My great-grandmother commissioned it.” Jadwiga didn’t look up. “The warp threads are surprisingly intact, considering its age. A simple cross-stitch will suffice for structural integrity, though a satin stitch will be needed for aesthetic continuity.” He pushed off the doorframe, taking a step closer. The scent of woodsmoke and old dust clung to him. “You… you helped me. With Głowacz.” He paused, searching for the right words, a rare hesitation for the dramatic lord. “Why?” Jadwiga’s needle paused, hovering above the griffin’s mended wing. She looked at the woven textile, then at her fingers, then back at the wool. Her expression remained unreadable, but for the first time since her arrival at Wyrwidąb Manor, she did not immediately offer a logical, pragmatic answer. She said nothing at all. The silence stretched, thick and unexpected.

An Unwanted Rescue