Jadwiga’s declaration hung in the air, a challenge flung from the battlements. Below, Witek Głowacz’s face contorted, a flush rising beneath the smudged charcoal on his cheeks. A murmur rippled through the mob. They had expected a whimpering hostage, not a defiant guardian. The flambeaux wavered. Olgierd, standing a pace behind Jadwiga, stared at her profile, his expression unreadable in the flickering light from below. The scent of pine resin and damp earth, carried on the night wind, filled the silence that followed her words. Then, one of the villagers, an older woman with a shawl pulled tight around her head, shouted, “She’s bewitched, Witek! Can’t you see? The beast has her under his spell!” Witek, seizing the new angle, puffed out his chest. “Exactly! She speaks his foul words! Back, you demon! We’ll free her from your clutches, even if we must burn this cursed place to ash!” His words lacked their earlier conviction, however, and the mob’s enthusiasm had noticeably cooled. They were superstitious, not suicidal. To contend with Jadwiga, who had already demonstrated a disquieting talent for weaponizing household amenities, was one thing. To contend with a lord who transformed into a beast, *and* his unnervingly calm apprentice, felt like an entirely different, far less appealing proposition. Olgierd watched the indecision spread, a slow contagion, through the crowd. He turned to Jadwiga, his voice a low growl. “You should have let them try. I could have—” “No,” Jadwiga interrupted, not even glancing at him. “A prolonged engagement would inevitably lead to further damage to the manor’s exterior. The masonry work on the lower eastern wall is already compromised.” She paused, listening to the wavering shouts below. “They will disperse eventually. Their resolve is contingent on perceived weakness. Your transformation would only confirm their preconceived notions, complicating future negotiations.” She didn’t wait for his reply, already turning from the battlement. “Now, about that signet ring.” Olgierd blinked, following her as she descended the winding stairs. “The ring? Now? After… after that?” “Timely action prevents accumulation of future tasks,” Jadwiga stated, already halfway down the second flight. “The portrait depicted a unique item. Locating it is the logical next step.” She headed towards the manor’s older, forgotten sections, where the air grew cooler and the scent of dust mingled with something metallic and damp. They found Grzegorz in the servants’ hall, busy mopping up the water that had seeped in from the earlier rock attack. He looked up, startled, his eyes darting between Olgierd and Jadwiga. “My Lord! Miss Jadwiga! I thought… the mob…?” “They’re considering their options,” Jadwiga said, her tone flat. “Less urgent than the current task. We require access to the family crypt.” Grzegorz’s brow furrowed. “The crypt, Miss? At this hour? It is… not advisable. The air is stagnant, the paths treacherous. And there are… legends. Old whispers of restless spirits.” He wrung out his mop with unusual force, a nervous habit. “Restless spirits pose less of a logistical challenge than a missing heirloom crucial to a curse-breaking operation,” Jadwiga retorted, unmoved. “Do you possess the key, or must we locate it?” Grzegorz hesitated, then sighed, retrieving a heavy iron key from a hook beside the pantry door. “It is through the old wine cellar, My Lord. Be mindful of the steps; they are uneven.” His reluctance, almost a plea, was clear in his voice, but Jadwiga only nodded, taking the key. His subtle efforts to dissuade her only solidified her resolve. The majordomo’s discomfort was a data point. The descent into the crypt was a journey into cold, quiet gloom. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ancient stone and decay. The wine cellar, abandoned decades ago, led to a narrow, arching passage. Dust motes danced in the sparse light from Olgierd’s magically ignited orb, a small sphere of pale blue luminescence he held aloft. The crypt itself was a sprawling, subterranean labyrinth of alcoves and niches, each holding a sarcophagus or a stone slab commemorating a forgotten noble. Generations of Olgierd’s ancestors lay entombed here, their names eroded by time and disinterest. “I imagine this is rather… familiar territory for you,” Olgierd observed, his voice hushed, echoing slightly off the cold walls. He watched Jadwiga move with an uncanny ease through the maze of death, her steps sure, her gaze dissecting each inscription. Jadwiga ran a gloved finger over a weathered carving of a winged beast. “My apprenticeship with Old Man Bogdan taught me the practicalities of eternal rest. A body is merely a complex arrangement of organic matter, requiring specific handling to achieve optimal preservation and presentation.” She paused, then added, “Less complex than the financial records of this estate, certainly.” Olgierd shuddered. “You speak of it as if… as if it were a carpentry project.” “It is, in essence, a form of skilled labor,” she confirmed, turning to another sarcophagus. “The goal is to mitigate the inevitable entropy. Decay is inefficient. Untidy.” “Did it… never bother you? The quietude? The finality?” His orb cast long, dancing shadows, making the carved faces on the tombs seem to leer. Jadwiga turned from a dusty plinth, her eyes scanning the names. “Botherance is an emotional response, an impediment to logical problem-solving. A cadaver presents a series of challenges: internal gas buildup, rigor mortis, discoloration. Each requires a specific, practiced solution. Emotions would only hinder the process.” She walked further, deeper into the crypt’s winding passages. “Old Man Bogdan used to say, ‘The dead are the easiest clients. They don’t complain about the bill, and their requests are rarely unreasonable.’ He preferred them to the living.” Olgierd was quiet for a moment, absorbing her words, the stark, practical honesty of them. “And you? Do you prefer the dead?” She stopped before a sarcophagus larger than the others, adorned with a faded crest, a coiled serpent devouring its own tail. “They are predictable. Less prone to irrationality. Now, this must be it. Lord Kazimierz IV, the Ancestor of the Starfall Curse.” She knelt, examining the lid. It was ancient, heavy, made of a dark, veined stone. But her gaze immediately fixated on the subtle gouges near the seam, the faint but distinct scrape marks on the stone, as if a lever had been applied with considerable force. The dust pattern, too, was disturbed in a way that spoke of recent interference. “It has been opened,” she stated, her voice devoid of inflection, but the words carried a cold certainty. Olgierd knelt beside her, his expression tightening. “Opened? But… who would desecrate a crypt?” Jadwiga didn’t reply immediately. She ran her hand along the edge of the lid, confirming her suspicion. The seal was broken, not by time, but by force. She rose, her gaze sweeping the crypt floor, then the surrounding alcoves. Her eyes narrowed on a faint impression in the dust, a boot print, too large and sturdy for Grzegorz’s worn slippers. “The ring,” she murmured. “It’s gone.” “Gone?” Olgierd’s voice was a whisper of disbelief. “But why? What purpose…?” Jadwiga was already moving, her attention caught by a barely perceptible draft, a current of air that didn't belong in the stagnant crypt. It emanated from behind a particularly unassuming stone slab, one that appeared to be part of the wall itself. She pressed against it, then ran her fingers along a thin seam, finding a hidden latch. With a soft click, the slab swung inward, revealing a narrow, dark passage. “A hidden chamber,” Olgierd breathed, his hand on her shoulder. “My ancestors were fond of secrets.” Inside, the air was even colder, colder than the crypt itself. A small, wooden desk stood against one wall, cluttered with objects. Jadwiga’s eyes immediately fell upon a stack of parchment, secured with a wax seal. She picked up the top letter. The handwriting was neat, precise, and achingly familiar. It was Grzegorz’s hand. The recipient’s name, scrawled on the back, made her stomach clench with an unfamiliar sensation: *To W. Głowacz, Hunter of Mokradla*. She scanned the contents, her gaze moving rapidly over the elegant script. Each paragraph was a careful chronicle of Olgierd’s transformations, his melancholic moods, his moments of weakness. And then, the plan. *“The Lord’s suffering grows unbearable. The Gloomfang consumes him, body and spirit. I believe, with a heavy heart, that the only true mercy would be to end his tormented existence. With the arrival of the new ‘sacrifice,’ a distraction will be at hand. We must act decisively during the next celestial alignment. A clean, swift stroke to free him from this unending torment. For his own good, he must be euthanized.”* Euthanized. For his own good. The quiet manner of Grzegorz, his diligent service, his evasions by the pantry door—it all aligned into a precise, calculated design. This wasn’t just a servant feeding information; this was a calculated, cold-blooded plot to murder Olgierd. A faint scraping sound echoed from the main crypt, growing louder. The distinct rhythm of an old man’s shuffling footsteps, approaching the entrance to their hidden chamber. Grzegorz. He was coming.

Secrets in the Sepulcher