The wind, sharp as a whetted blade, tore through Vija’s worn tunic, carrying the reek of peat smoke and the faint, coppery tang of the blood-pit. Mud, thick and grasping, sucked at her boots with every step towards the settlement's central hearth, where Audrius the Elder stood, a silhouette against the guttering firelight. Around them, the huddle of Kirnavas folk, faces gaunt and eyes sunken, watched without a word, their breaths pluming white in the pre-dawn cold. Juris, small and shivering, clutched her hand, his cough a thin, reedy sound that tore at Vija’s chest more than the wind ever could. His skin was pale, almost translucent, a stark contrast to the grime that perpetually clung to the rest of them. “She goes,” Audrius’s voice, rough as splintered timber, cut through the quiet. His gaze, calculating and devoid of warmth, fixed on Vija. “Vija Kante offers herself to the black fortress. A fair exchange for the blight averted this moon.” Vija tightened her grip on Juris’s fingers, an unspoken parting. Her throat felt tight, a knot of desperation and something colder, something she’d learned to bury deep. The Vesmenian Empire had taught her many things, but above all, it had taught her survival, and the cost of weakness. Juris was her weakness, her only truth left in a world of lies. “I go,” Vija confirmed, her voice steady, though a tremor ran through Juris’s small frame. She knelt, pulling him into a tight embrace, burying her face in his thin hair. The scent of woodsmoke and childhood, of the few good memories she still possessed. “Be strong, little wolf.” Audrius cleared his throat, a sound like gravel shifting. “A moment, Kante.” He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her and Juris. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, held a glimmer of something Vija recognized: triumph. “There is… a detail.” Vija’s spine stiffened. Nothing about Audrius was ever simple, ever without a barbed hook. “What detail?” “Juris, your brother,” Audrius began, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. “His health, as you know, is… delicate. The settlement's river herbs are unique. Potent. Without them, his sickness, the wheezing in his chest, it worsens. Rapidly.” Vija pushed away from Juris, her mind racing, the cold certainty of a trap snapping into place. “What are you saying?” “He stays,” Audrius stated, his voice flat, final. “As is tradition. A guarantee of your… continued cooperation. Should you fail to appease the lord of the Citadel, or attempt to flee, the herbs will cease. The river will run dry for him. A pity, that.” Vija stared at Audrius, cold shock turning instantly to scalding fury. Her nails bit deep into her palms. This wasn't a sacrifice; it was a leash. Juris, her only reason for fighting, was now her permanent anchor. The ruthless pragmatism she’d honed told her to kill Audrius where he stood, but the sight of Juris, his face etched with confusion and fear, held her back. He was a frail sapling, easily broken. “You would make him a hostage?” Vija’s voice was a low growl, barely audible above the wind’s whine. “A safeguard,” Audrius corrected, unperturbed. “For Kirnavas's survival. And yours, Kante. You wouldn’t want to fail, would you? Not with your brother’s life depending on your… resourcefulness.” He gave a curt nod to two burly men, who stepped forward and hauled Juris from her side. Juris whimpered, reaching for her, mouth open in soundless panic. Vija watched him go, teeth grating behind shut lips. The bitter taste of betrayal filled her mouth. She had volunteered to die, but this… this was worse than death. This was perpetual torment. Her goal, Stasys’s freedom, now twisted into a desperate, terrifying game where Juris’s life was the ultimate prize and pawn. Bound by rough cord, Vija was dragged through the mud, away from the smoking hearth and the quiet crowd. The path grew steeper, leading through a blighted forest where skeletal trees clawed at the bruised sky. The Grieze Citadel loomed in the distance, a jagged crown of black stone and petrified wood against the dawn’s bruised purple, a monument to a forgotten age of terror. Its walls seemed to drink the light, radiating a cold, oppressive aura that seeped into Vija’s bones. They reached the colossal gates, iron rusted to a weeping orange, engraved with symbols of forgotten sorrow. The guards, faceless shadows, unbarred them with a groan that echoed like a dying breath. Pushed inside, Vija stumbled into an inner courtyard, vast and overgrown. Twisted vines choked weathered statues, and the wind sang a mournful dirge through broken arches. The sheer scale of the place was overwhelming, a labyrinth designed to swallow hope. Her escorts shoved her through a massive, splintered door, into what must have been the grand hall. It was a cavernous space, dust motes dancing in the meager light filtering through grimy, arched windows. Petals of black stone lay scattered across the floor, remnants of some old vault collapse. She was released, the ropes falling from her wrists, a perverse freedom. The gates slammed shut behind her, the sound a thunderclap that vibrated through the very stones. And then she heard it. A low snarl, not quite animal, not quite human. It vibrated through the air, stirring the dust. From the deep shadows beneath a crumbling gallery, a creature emerged. It was colossal, its fur a matted, dark grey, its form a grotesque parody of a man, stooped but with immense, knotted limbs. Its eyes, though, were what caught her. They burned an eerie, feral amber, fueled by pure, unreasoning hunger. This was the cursed lord of the Grieze Citadel, Stasys Varnelis. The beast stalked towards her, each heavy tread shaking the very floor. Its breath, hot and foul, washed over her. Vija stood her ground, her training kicking in. Every instinct screamed to flee, to fight, but she held still, assessing. This creature was formidable, far beyond anything she’d faced in the Empire’s sterile training rooms. It circled her, its growls deepening, a predatory dance. It moved with a terrifying grace for its bulk, circling her with the raw cunning of a predator measuring flesh before the strike. It lunged. Not with a roar, but with a guttural, almost mournful sound. Vija dodged, a blur of motion, rolling under its outstretched claw. The beast crashed into the wall behind her, sending a shower of cracked plaster to the floor. She scrambled back, adrenaline a searing fire in her veins. It cornered her against a massive, intricately carved fireplace, its amber eyes fixed on hers. She could feel the heat radiating from its body, the raw power it contained. It was an apex predator, and she was trapped. As the first slivers of dawn light pierced the high windows, painting the hall in weak, ethereal hues, the beast faltered. A shudder, violent and involuntary, racked its massive frame. Its growls softened, became whimpers. The wild glare in its eyes waned, then died out. It crumpled to the ground, a heap of matted fur and muscle, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Vija watched, frozen, as the last vestiges of darkness clung to its form. Then, the transformation began. The matted fur receded, melting into skin. The monstrous claws shortened, became human hands. The grotesque snarl of a snout softened, revealing a jawline, then a mouth, a nose, a brow. The colossal form shrank, shedding its beastly bulk. Within moments, where a terrifying monster had lain, now lay a man. Naked, unmoving, covered in streaks of blood that were not her own, and a network of old, brutal scars. Stasys Varnelis. Not a beast to be killed, but a human, vulnerable and utterly unconscious. Vija stared, her mind reeling. Her training had prepared her to face monsters, to dispatch them with ruthless efficiency. This… this was a man. Her fingers twitched, an old instinct to strike, to end the threat, warring with a sudden, bewildering empathy. He was a victim, just like her. A different cage, but a cage nonetheless. A whisper, dry as rustling papyrus, scraped through the stillness. Vija spun around. From the deepest shadow beneath the grand staircase, a figure emerged. It was tall, impossibly thin, clad in tattered fabric that drank the gloom. Its head was a smooth, obsidian-like sphere with no discernible features save for two pinpricks of light that glowed with strange cunning. The Seneschal. Its voice grated like grinding stone on stone, worn and weary. “The toll is paid. The cage is yours.”

The Price of Blood