Jonas descended the winding stone steps, the torchlight casting his long frame in stark relief against the damp, ancient walls. The lord’s chambers were on the second floor, the library just below. He moved with practiced stealth through the dimly lit corridors, his hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. The air grew colder as he neared the lower levels, the scent of earth and old stone mingling with something else—a faint, metallic tang. He paused near the kitchen entrance, his gaze sweeping over the various refuse bins. It wasn’t a scent of blood, but something manufactured, something from the court. His eyes landed on a discarded clay jug, partially hidden behind a stack of firewood. It was a common shape for wine, but too elegant for the fortress’s usual provisions. He retrieved it, turning the vessel in his gloved hands. The clay was smooth, cool, and a distinct, intricate seal was pressed into its base – the stylized gryphon rampant of the Grand Duke’s personal vintner. A chill, sharper than the dungeon air, prickled his skin. The Vorkolak was supposedly a mindless beast, a creature of instinct and fury. Such a beast did not receive care packages from court. Such a beast did not delicately pour poisoned wine from a sealed jug. This was no act of a monster. This was human treachery. His stride became purposeful, his brow set in a grim line. He found Asta in the root cellar, sorting dried herbs by the pale glow of a lantern. Her gnarled hands moved with surprising speed, her face a roadmap of ancient sorrows. “Asta,” he stated, his voice devoid of its usual pomp, its edge sharpened by suspicion. He held up the clay jug, its gryphon seal glinting in the meager light. “This came from court. It contained a slow-acting toxin. How did it come to be here?” Asta’s movements stilled. She looked at the jug, then at Jonas, her ancient eyes piercing. “You are more observant than your posturing suggests, Captain.” “Answer me, old woman,” Jonas pressed, stepping closer. “My orders were to hunt a monster. But this… this is no monster’s work. This is the calculated cruelty of a man. If the Vorkolak is truly the lord, as the villagers claim, then who sent this? And why?” Asta slowly straightened, leaning on a rough-hewn table. “The answers are not simple, young Jonas, nor are they for the faint of heart. You have seen Lord Alvydas with your own eyes, have you not? The man, gentle and confused by day, the beast by night. This curse, it gnaws at his mind, stripping him of his memories, his very self.” Jonas pressed his fingers against the stone table edge. “The curse… it is real then? And the beast… is him?” He remembered the way Runa had looked at the lord, the quiet protectiveness. It made a terrible, twisted sense. “Aye, real as the winter snows,” Asta confirmed. “And the man who sent that poisoned jug… he is Gintaras. Lord Alvydas’s identical twin brother. The one who now sits on the ducal throne, impersonating his suffering kinsman.” A twin. An impostor. His thoughts turned back through court rumors, dismissed oddities, and hushed tales about the ‘ailing’ Lord Alvydas. It was all a lie, a meticulously crafted deception. His mission, his honor, his very understanding of loyalty, shattered around him. “Gintaras…” he mumbled, the name a bitter taste on his tongue. He had served the Grand Duke, believing him to be the true lord, believing he served justice. “He hunts his own brother? He seeks to murder him to solidify his usurpation?” Asta nodded gravely. “He does. And the curse, it nears its culmination. The Blood Moon is less than a fortnight hence. If it is not broken by then, Alvydas will be lost forever, a mindless beast, and Gintaras’s deceit will become undeniable truth.” Jonas paced the confined cellar, his thoughts a whirlwind. He had sworn an oath to the crown, to the true lord. This was a treason of the highest order, an affront to the very fabric of the kingdom. His hunt for a beast had become a hunt for a traitor, a far more dangerous quarry. “Runa Vaidis,” he said, looking at Asta, a new understanding dawning in his eyes. “She knows all this. She is not a captive, but… a collaborator.” “She is his caretaker,” Asta corrected gently. “And his last hope. She seeks to break the curse and expose the impostor. A dangerous ambition for a village girl, but she has a quick mind and a resilient spirit.” Jonas stopped pacing. The implications were staggering. If he exposed Gintaras, he would be challenging the Grand Duke himself, risking his position, his life, everything he had built. But the alternative – allowing a rightful lord to perish, a kingdom to be ruled by a fraud – was unthinkable to a man of his strict principles. He might have been pompous, even conceited, but he was no villain. He took a deep, steadying breath. “What do you need? What can I do?” Asta’s lips curved into a rare, faint smile. “You, Captain, have keen eyes and the ear of the court. You can be our eyes and ears in return. You can send word of Gintaras’s movements, his plans. You can deflect suspicion from this place. And when the time comes, you can be our blade.” The decision was made. His path had twisted, but his purpose remained: justice. “Consider it done,” Jonas said, his voice firm, resolute. “Tell Runa. We will speak.” Later that day, Jonas found Runa in the outer courtyard, inspecting the battlements with a critical eye, as if she owned every stone. Asta had already spoken to her, and Runa met his gaze without surprise, a hint of something unreadable in her emerald eyes. They spoke in hushed tones near a crumbling guard tower, away from prying ears, exchanging information, plotting the first cautious steps of their fragile alliance. From the high window of his private chamber, Alvydas watched them. The captain, tall in polished armor, leaned in close to Runa, his head tilted as he listened intently. Runa, usually so guarded, seemed to speak freely, her gestures animated. A strange, unfamiliar constriction tightened in Alvydas’s chest. He remembered Runa’s hand in his, the soft brush of her skin, the surprising comfort he felt in her presence. He remembered the look in her eyes as she spoke his name to the beast. Yet now, she stood with another, her laughter – soft, almost unheard – carried faintly on the wind. The knight was strong, capable, everything Alvydas, in his cursed state, was not. A shadow, darker than any from the Ironwood, crossed his face.

A Knight's Suspicion