The courtyard became a tempest of raw power and desperate fury. Runa pressed flat against a moss-slicked wall, wincing with each thud of splintering wood and tearing hide. The transformed lord tore through the yard as a whirlwind of claw and muscle, moving with a predator’s precision. Gintaras’s elite guards, clad in their gleaming mail, were no match. A shield splintered, a man cried out, flung against the rough stone like a discarded rag doll. The beast’s roars were not random; they were a language of defiance, a challenge thrown at the man who had abandoned it to darkness.
From the corner of her eye, Runa saw Jonas. He wasn’t engaged in the melee. While Gintaras stood transfixed, a snarl of disbelief twisting his handsome features, Jonas moved with purpose. He threaded through the chaos, his movements swift and low, like a hunting stoat. His target was not a sentry, but Gintaras’s prized steed, tethered near the main gate. The horse, a magnificent black destrier, whickered nervously, shying from the escalating violence.
Jonas reached the animal, his hand already fumbling with the leather straps of the saddlebags. He worked quickly, his gaze darting between the unfolding battle and the saddle. A moment later, he yanked free a thick, rolled parchment tied with a crimson ribbon, and a sheaf of letters bound with simple twine. He didn’t even bother to hide them, holding them aloft as he strode deliberately towards the edge of the fray, where a small cluster of Gintaras’s men, terrified and disoriented, were trying to regroup.
“Hold!” Jonas’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the din. “Look upon your true master’s treachery!”
The remaining retainers, their faces streaked with grime, hesitated. The creature, sensing the shift, backed off a pace, amber eyes fixing on Jonas, then on Gintaras.
Jonas unrolled the parchment with a theatrical snap. “This is a royal decree, signed by ‘Alvydas’ – your liege lord!” He flung it open, the heavy wax seal of the Velemir throne prominent. “It commands the immediate destruction of Svarog’s Perch, the very bulwark against the northern incursions! It condemns this territory, your homes, your families, to the northern raiders, all to silence a bothersome truth!”
A murmur of shock rippled through the men. One grizzled veteran, his mail dented, squinted at the document. “That seal… it is real.”
“And these,” Jonas continued, brandishing the letters, “are the negotiations with the Northern Clans, ceding the borderlands, offering tribute for their silence regarding Lord Alvydas’s ‘sudden illness’ and replacement.” He threw the letters at their feet. “Gintaras sells you out! He trades your lands, your security, for an easy ascension! He cares nothing for Velemir, only for the crown on his own head!”
The words settled into a heavy quiet. The guards exchanged uneasy glances, lowered pike tips scraping the flagstones. The horned beast stood three paces from Runa, ribs expanding on ragged drags of air, a rumble vibrating deep in its chest as its gaze locked onto Gintaras.
Gintaras’s composure fractured into bare fury. He stood exposed before his own retinue, outflanked by a hedge-knight’s theft.
“Lies!” Gintaras shrieked, his voice cracking with a desperate fury. “Slander! You’re all fools! He is a madman, a beast! They conspire against me!” He lunged, not at Jonas, nor at the beast, but at Runa. She had been too focused on the unfolding drama, too relieved by Jonas’s quick thinking. She saw the glint of the blade in his hand just as he closed the distance. A cold, hard arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against his armored form. Steel pressed tight against the side of her neck, cold against the sweat on her collar.
“Back! All of you, back!” Gintaras roared, twisting his body to shield himself with Runa. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, darted between the Vorkolak, now frozen in a posture of terrifying stillness, and Jonas, whose face had gone pale with alarm. The remaining retainers, caught between the creature, their exposed commander, and the hostage, lowered their weapons.
The creature let out a low rasp, a sound closer to a wounded groan than anything beastly. Its massive paws tensed, claws extended, but it did not move. It couldn’t. Gintaras knew this.
“If I cannot have the lordship,” Gintaras snarled, his breath hot against Runa’s ear, “then I will at least have this! Your pet! Your little pet who made you weak, Alvydas!” He dragged Runa backward, his grip punishing, the knife biting deeper into her skin. A thin line of heat trickled down her collarbone. “You will watch her die! You will watch your only friend bleed out before that curse claims what little mind you have left!”
He pulled her through the main keep entrance, past the bewildered eyes of the remaining staff, and deeper into the labyrinthine depths of Svarog’s Perch. Alvydas followed, a stalking shadow, heavy pads silent across the flagstones. Gintaras knew where he was going. He dragged Runa past forgotten storerooms and crumbling stairwells, her feet stumbling, until they reached the heavy, iron-bound door. It was the entrance to the magically-warded ritual chamber, the very heart of the curse, where the last vestiges of Alvydas’s human self still clung to existence. He shoved the door open with a boot, hauling Runa over the threshold, steel never leaving her skin.