Runa scrambled back, her boots skidding on the cold flagstones. The beast thrashed, a guttural roar tearing from its throat, echoing through the shadowed chamber. Its immense claws gouged deep furrows in the ancient stone wall, sending chips of rock scattering. The unnatural light in its eyes flared, then dimmed, replaced by a dull, tormented glaze. It collapsed, a heavy, shuddering heap of muscle and fur, whimpering softly. The air thrummed with residual pain, a raw, primal anguish that settled deep in Runa's chest. She waited, pulse hammering in her ears, until the beast’s ragged breaths settled into sleep. Her hand still clutched Alvydas’s mother’s journal, its worn leather cover a small comfort. The cursed thing had felt something, a recognition, before the pain had consumed it. The affliction operated with vicious malice, fighting to keep Alvydas trapped as a jailer within his own skin. “Asta?” Runa whispered into the gloom. “What just happened?” The groundskeeper emerged from the shadows, her face a web of deep lines, her gaze fixed on the slumbering beast. “The curse resists, child. It tightens its hold when the man within stirs. The closer you come to him, the harder it fights. But it felt you. It felt the truth of his mother’s words.” She paused, her eyes grave. “We have less than a fortnight, Runa. The Blood Moon is a dance of thirteen nights. This next one… it will be the last. If Alvydas is not freed by then, the Vorkolak will become his only face. Forever.” Forever. The word lodged like cold lead beneath her ribs. She had sworn this was only a mark, a route to safety. But watching the beast suffer, seeing that fleeting spark of Alvydas’s soul, it clawed at something deeper than her self-preservation. Justice, perhaps. For the gentle lord, for his mother, for herself. Just then, the outer bell of Svarog’s Perch tolled, a single, resonant clang that vibrated through the stone. Asta’s head snapped up. “A supply cart. Unexpected.” A frown creased her brow. “Gintaras has been unnerved by our looking glass, hasn’t he? Now he sends gifts.” Her voice was laced with bitter sarcasm. Later that morning, as the weak light of dawn bled through the arrow slits, Runa found Asta scrutinizing a wooden crate in the kitchen. Inside, nestled in straw, were sacks of grain, dried venison, and an elegant glass flagon of ruby-red wine, sealed with a wax crest. The crest bore the stylized raven of the Grand Duke’s house. Gintaras’s raven. “A care package from the benevolent twin,” Asta mumbled, turning the vessel slowly in her gnarled hands. “How kind.” Runa leaned closer. The dark glass gleamed richly under the kitchen tallow. But something about it pricked at her senses. Years spent on the back alleys of Oprisha, learning to spot a rigged game or a poisoned draught, had sharpened her instincts. The wax seal, while intact, seemed a shade too fresh, too perfect, as if applied by a hand accustomed to precision, not hurried expediency. And the scent… a faint, almost imperceptible metallic tang beneath the sweet grape. “Let me,” Runa said, reaching for the flagon. Asta gave her a sharp look but relinquished it. Runa held it up to the dim light, rotating it slowly. “See that?” she pointed to a barely visible seam running along the neck, just beneath the seal. “A double seal. They opened it, added something, then smoothed it over.” She uncorked it with practiced ease, sniffing deeply. The metallic tang was stronger now, subtle, but there. “This isn’t just wine. It’s a slow death.” Asta’s eyes narrowed, a cold fury replacing her usual calm. “Volkov’s work. A slow-acting distillate of belladonna root, perhaps. Not enough to kill outright, but to weaken, to dull the mind, to ensure the Vorkolak’s hold is complete, even if Alvydas were to somehow return to lucidity during the Blood Moon.” She slammed her fist on the table. “That viper. He means to finish him, quietly, so the realm remains ignorant.” The rage that coiled in Runa was unfamiliar, sharp, and intensely personal. This was no longer just about survival, no mere game played against highborn thieves. This was a direct assault on the fragile, kind man who struggled within the beast. Gintaras was not merely stealing a seat; he was murdering his own blood, quiet and slow. The thought twisted her gut. Justice. Revenge. “We need to dispose of this,” Runa declared, her voice low and steady. “And make sure Gintaras thinks we drank it.” That afternoon, Alvydas sat in the library, tracing patterns on the spines of ancient books, a pensive cast to his features. He looked pale, almost translucent in the filtered light. The memory of the previous night’s torment, even if he didn’t consciously recall it, seemed to linger in the deep shadows beneath his eyes. Runa approached him, carrying a goblet filled with fresh water. “You look tired, my Lord,” she said softly, sitting opposite him. “A long night?” He offered a weak smile. “I often feel… restless after the moon wanes. As if I’ve run a great distance without moving an inch.” He paused, then his gaze met hers, raw and vulnerable. “My dreams are fragmented. I see shadows, hear screams, but they vanish with the dawn. Yet, I feel… a profound unease. As if something precious is slipping away.” He picked up a discarded quill, turning it over in his fingers. “And then there’s Gintaras. Sending gifts. This vintage…” He gestured toward the emptied glass on a distant shelf, refilled with well-water. “It tastes of malice.” Runa watched him, her heart aching. To know his twin craved his destruction while Alvydas merely sensed the malice without proof—it cut deeper than any physical hex. “It is a mockery,” Runa said, her voice firm, deciding to risk a small truth. “He sent it because he knows we're watching. He means to ensure you never recover.” Alvydas’s hand, holding the quill, trembled. His eyes, usually so gentle, filled with a crushing sorrow. “Does he truly despise me that much?” His voice was barely a whisper. “He blames me for Father’s death, I know. But to… to wish me gone entirely?” He looked away, then back at Runa, a stark vulnerability in his gaze that pierced her carefully constructed cynicism. “You… you don’t look at me with pity. Or disgust. You just… see me.” He reached across the table, his hand hesitant, then rested his fingers lightly over hers. His touch was warm, an unexpected comfort. “I feel… more myself with you, Runa, than I have in years. Even in these moments of uncertainty, I feel… anchored. As if you remind me of who I am, even when I forget.” His quiet admission pierced through her customary defenses. For a moment, her usual quick retort failed her. She found herself simply looking into his eyes, feeling the warmth of his hand, a connection blooming in the quiet library that felt both terrifying and profoundly right. High above, on the crumbling battlements of Svarog’s Perch, Knight-Captain Jonas shivered, despite the heavy wool of his cloak. The wind howled through the gaps in the crenellations, carrying with it the scent of pine and distant snow. He was supposed to be searching for signs of the Vorkolak, but his gaze kept drifting down to the library window, where he’d glimpsed a flash of movement. He had seen Runa beside the reclusive lord, yet their posture showed neither fear nor distance. There was an intimacy in their posture, a shared confidence in their gazes, that pricked at his curiosity. He leaned closer, trying to discern the low murmur of their voices, watching as Alvydas reached for Runa's hand, a tender gesture that spoke volumes. Jonas’s brow furrowed. Runa Vaidis was no simple village girl, and certainly no mere captive. She was something far more deeply entangled in the mysteries of this wretched place, and in the fate of its cursed lord, than he had ever imagined.

The Poisoned Goblet