The Glimmer-Pool’s surface swirled, reflecting only Runa’s own pallid face, stretched taut with a fear she rarely allowed herself. Asta's fingers pinched into Runa's sleeve, hard as flint. Gintaras knew. Volkov knew. The game was no longer confined to the shadows of Svarog’s Perch; it had burst into the open, directly challenging the viper at court. “We must move, child,” Asta rasped, her grip tightening. “Now. Before they send another hound like Jonas.” “Move where?” Runa managed, her voice thin. “To the beast? The one they want dead?” Asta’s gaze was sharp, unwavering. “To the cure. It is the only place left.” The hours that followed felt like a blur of desperate motion. Runa spent the morning with Asta, poring over ancient, yellowed parchments, their cryptic symbols and faded ink offering no immediate answers. The groundskeeper spoke of the Ironwood’s deep magic, of binding rites and ancient bloodlines, but Runa’s mind kept replaying Gintaras’s smirk. It wasn’t just the curse they fought now; it was a deliberate, cunning enemy. When the afternoon sun, weak and watery, finally filtered through the high, grimy windows of the main hall, Alvydas emerged from his chambers, looking haggard. His eyes, though still clouded with a residual bewilderment, held a spark of his inherent gentleness. He clutched his head, running a hand through his perpetually disheveled dark hair. “Asta, my head aches so,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost childlike. He looked at Runa, a question in his gaze, as if trying to place her. “Lord Alvydas,” Runa began, forcing a calm she didn't feel. “Asta believes we might find answers in your family’s private library. The one on the third level, facing the northern peaks.” Alvydas blinked, then a faint memory seemed to stir. “My lady mother… she spent much time there. But I haven’t been allowed inside for years. Asta keeps it locked.” Asta produced a heavy, ornate key from a pouch at her waist. “The time for secrets is past, my lord. We need to understand what binds you.” The library was a revelation. It was not merely a room but a vast, echoing labyrinth of shelves, choked with the dust of ages. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the stained-glass windows, casting dim, shifting patterns across countless leather-bound tomes. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and forgotten knowledge. Runa, usually pragmatic, felt a strange awe. “She sought solace here,” Alvydas said, his voice hushed as they stepped into the quiet expanse. He ran a hand over the spines of books, a wistful expression on his face. “She believed stories held power.” Runa moved to a tall, spiral shelf, pulling down a slim volume. Its pages crumbled slightly at her touch. “Asta mentioned something about the curse being tied to your bloodline. Perhaps we should look for histories, family records.” They worked in silence, the only sounds the rustle of pages and the soft thud of books being replaced. Runa, nimble and quick-witted, navigated the stacks with a purpose that belied her unfamiliarity with the place. Alvydas, meanwhile, seemed to rediscover parts of his past in the forgotten collection. He paused often, his fingers tracing titles, a quiet sadness in his eyes. “This isn’t just about breaking a curse, is it?” Alvydas asked, his voice low, catching Runa off guard. He was looking at a shelf filled with children’s fables, his expression distant. “It’s about understanding who I am, even if it’s a monster.” Runa stopped, a forgotten chronicle in her hand. The raw vulnerability in his tone struck a chord. “It’s about making sure your brother doesn’t steal everything you are, Alvydas,” she stated, her voice firm. “It’s about reclaiming your life.” He met her gaze, and for a fleeting instant, the heavy mantle of his curse seemed to lift, revealing the gentle, earnest man beneath. A warmth, as subtle as dust motes dancing in a sunbeam, settled between them. Hours passed. Runa, frustrated, finally pushed a heavy tome back into its slot, startling Alvydas. “There’s nothing here about curses, specific hexes, or even your lineage beyond a few dry rolls. It’s all philosophy and old war treaties.” Alvydas, who had been studying a section dedicated to Velemir’s ancient flora, looked up. “She had a secret place. A small compartment behind the portrait of the first Lord of Svarog’s Perch. She kept things… private.” Runa’s eyes lit up. “Where is it?” Alvydas led her to a narrow corridor, barely wide enough for two people, lined with more portraits. At the very end hung a massive, imposing painting of a stern-faced man in iron armor. Runa ran her hands along the wall behind it, feeling for an irregularity. Nothing. Alvydas, however, reached up and pressed a specific knot in the carved frame. With a soft click, a section of the wall beside the portrait recessed, revealing a shallow, hidden niche. Inside, tucked away, was a single, leather-bound diary. Its cover was unadorned, save for a single, stylized sigil of a raven’s wing. Alvydas reached for it, his fingers brushing against Runa’s as she too reached out, a spark of unexpected heat passing between them. He pulled his hand back quickly, a flush creeping up his neck, his eyes darting away as if embarrassed by the simple contact. Runa ignored the blush, her attention fixed on the slim volume. She cracked it open. The elegant script belonged to the late mistress of the hold. The first entries spoke of the joyous birth of her twin sons, Alvydas and Gintaras. But then, the tone shifted. The words grew darker, more frantic. *“The shadow… it grows with the full moon. Gintaras… he pulls at Alvydas, a hunger I cannot name. The midwife spoke of the ‘Blood Moon transfer’ when the second-born twin consumes the essence of the first, a primal exchange of power. I dismissed it as old wives’ tales. But the changes in my gentle Alvydas… the nightmares… the shifting forms…”* Runa’s breath caught. “Shadow twin… Blood Moon transfer…” she read aloud, her voice hushed. “The second-born twin consumes the essence of the first…” Alvydas leaned closer, his brow furrowed in horror as he read over her shoulder. “Gintaras… he’s the second born. He was born minutes after me.” “This isn’t just a curse, Alvydas. It’s deliberate. She suspected it.” Runa turned another leaf. The entries grew frantic, detailing Alvydas’s early transformations, the attempts to hide him, the hunt for a counter-charm. The last entry was stark, just three words: *“The Blood Moon rises.”* They spent the rest of the afternoon poring over the pages, heads close together. The sun dipped below the jagged peaks, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges, as the shadows in the library lengthened. Night fell, bringing with it the familiar, chilling transformation. This time, Runa faced the beast not with avoidance, but armed with the pages. She waited in the antechamber, the volume clutched in her hands, pulse thudding against her ribs. The beast emerged, its lumbering form filling the doorway, its glowing eyes fixing on her. Its growls were deeper tonight, more guttural, as if sensing a shift in her demeanor. “Alvydas,” Runa said, her voice clear, surprisingly steady. “Your name is Alvydas.” The beast paused, one massive paw lifted mid-step. A low snarl rumbled in its chest, but it didn’t advance. Its head tilted, as if trying to decipher the sound. Runa took a step closer, opening the binding. “She wrote this. She loved you. She knew what Gintaras was doing.” She began to read, voice steady, reciting the warnings about the 'shadow twin' and the stolen essence. As Runa spoke, the beast stilled completely. Its massive body seemed to coil, its glowing eyes narrowing. For a bare, breathless instant, a faint spark, a raw recognition, seemed to flash deep within the unnatural light of its gaze. A single, almost human sound, a pained whimper, escaped its throat. Then, with a sudden, violent lurch, the beast threw its head back and let out a tortured shriek. Its immense body convulsed, muscles knotting and spasming. Searing spasms wracked its form, as if an unseen claw tore through its sinew. The beast crashed against the stone wall, howling, its recognition immediately gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated agony. The curse was fighting back. It was actively resisting any attempt to reach the man trapped within.

Threads of Memory