The cavern was not an ordinary hall, but a gaping maw carved into the bedrock of the mountain, its ceiling a rough dome culminating in a narrow oculus. Moonlight, unnaturally vibrant and tinged with crimson, streamed through the opening, painting the bare stone walls in lurid shadows. The air hummed with a low thrum that vibrated in Runa’s teeth. Carved runes, faded with age but still potent, snaked across the floor, converging on a central dais. Alvydas, clad in bristling fur and claw, hesitated at the threshold, a guttural growl rumbling deep in his chest. His hackles raised in warning; he recognized the stale copper stink of the pit.
Gintaras yanked Runa onto the dais, her boots scraping the grit. The knife pressed hard beneath her jaw, opening the cut from the corridor. “Look around, little scavenger,” Gintaras sneered. “This is where it all began. This is where Mother tried to cure him. This is where you take his place.”
Runa’s mind raced, ignoring the sting of the blade. “What are you talking about? Save him from what?”
“The journal,” Gintaras said, the red moonlight mirrored on his irises. “Mother’s final secret. A cipher no scholar untangled, but I did. The wolf curse isn’t an ending, Runa. It’s a transfer. A burden passed to another host through blood.” He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “And tonight, under the Blood Moon, you will be its new vessel.”
The red light intensified, flooding the stone vault with a sickening glare. Above them, the full, swollen disc of the Blood Moon hung like a weeping eye in the sky, visible through the oculus. Runa could feel the shift in the air, a pressure building, like stone grinding on stone. The engravings on the floor flared, a spiderweb of crimson tracing ancient patterns.
Alvydas let out a pained roar, a sound that was more anguish than rage. He lunged forward, but an unseen ward flared into existence, throwing him back with concussive force. He slammed against the rock wall. The warding, Runa realized, remained active, forged to pin the beast inside rather than bar it from entering.
Gintaras’s free hand rose, palm outward, and he began to chant. His voice was low, rhythmic, a guttural language Runa didn't understand, yet its meaning was horrifyingly clear. The air grew colder, heavy with something ancient and predatory. The knife at Runa's throat vibrated, humming with the rising power.
“*Sarkys, Vylkas, Kraujas, Ugnis…*” Gintaras incanted, glaring down at her. Her blood on the steel gleamed, pulled toward the carved floor. Runa felt an icy thread pull at her ribs, seeking purchase through her skin.
Alvydas roared again, raking his claws against the ward, his forelegs shaking under the strain. His eyes, usually a burning amber in his cursed form, now held a bewildered, agonized humanity. He strained against the hex, against the ancient stones, clawing through his own madness for her.
“Alvydas!” Runa shouted over the chant. “Look at me! Remember who you are!”
The wolf's head whipped toward her, amber eyes locking onto hers. He pounded against the unseen boundary, striking sparks from thin air. His growl broke into a ragged gasp. The icy pull at Runa's chest slackened, disturbed by his frenzy.
Gintaras snarled, his cadence hitching. “Quiet, thief! The rite is nearly finished!” He leaned harder on the hilt, widening the cut along her throat.
“Your mother’s journal!” Runa screamed, hoping to pierce through the beast’s fog. “It spoke of a man, not a monster! It spoke of love!”
The beast convulsed. A sound like grinding slate tore from his throat. Fur rippled back into flesh like shadows receding before dawn; bones cracked and shortened beneath his hide. The amber in his eyes yielded to clear blue. His talons dulled into flat nails scraping the boundary, his elongated muzzle shrinking back into a jawline she knew.
He pulled himself apart by degrees, reversing the shape through sheer will.
As Gintaras reached the final verse and the magic tightened, the beast shattered, slumping into the pale, naked shoulders of Alvydas.
His bruised hands struck the boundary as he dropped to his knees. His gaze, lucid and sharp, locked onto Runa. The blue of his eyes burned with an intensity she had never seen, not even in his most vulnerable moments. It was the gaze of a man who had faced the abyss and pulled himself back, not for himself, but for her.
The magic surrounding Runa, deprived of its beastly anchor, buckled. The cold threads snapped away from her ribs, the floor carvings guttered out, and the boundary wall vanished into cold wind.
Alvydas shoved himself off the flagstones, limbs trembling from the sudden collapse of bone and muscle. He stumbled onto the dais, closing the distance between himself and his brother. His eyes never left Runa’s.
“You never gave up on me,” Alvydas said, his voice hoarse, raw with emotion, yet clear, undeniably his own. He reached for Runa, not with the intent of violence, but with a protective instinct so fierce it radiated from him. “I will not give up on you.”
Before Gintaras could tighten his grip on the hilt, Alvydas lunged with lingering predatory swiftness. His fingers clamped around his twin's wrist. One sharp wrench snapped the joint outward, sending the dagger clattering across the stones.
Alvydas held the grip fast, twisting Gintaras down until his brother's knees struck the dais with a sharp crack.
“You won’t harm her,” Alvydas stated, his voice a low growl that held the echo of his beastly form. “Not ever again.”
He flung Gintaras across the stone, leaving the usurper clutching a ruined wrist. Turning to Runa, Alvydas cupped her cheek, rough skin brushing the blood on her throat. He pulled her in, pressing his mouth against hers with fierce, trembling certainty. When he broke away, he scooped up the fallen dagger, turned on his heel, and stalked toward his brother.