The aged sheet music felt like a burning brand in Ilona’s hand. *Eleonóra*. The name repeated, a tolling bell in her mind. So close to her own, a distorted reflection. The melody, Zsigmond’s raw grief, the star-shaped mark on her shoulder – threads weaving into a pattern too intricate for coincidence. She couldn’t stay. The manor, usually a solace in its quiet decay, now felt like a cage of forgotten truths. Ilona needed answers, and only one person held them. She left the music room, the paper still clutched tight, and hurried through the familiar, echoing halls. The walk to the village was a blur of mist and urgent footsteps. Her fingers curled hard into the rag paper, the ink biting into her palm. Csilla’s small cottage glowed with the warm light of a hearth fire, a stark contrast to the manor’s perpetual gloom. Ilona pushed open the weathered door without knocking, her composure thin. Csilla sat at her table, meticulously grinding herbs in a stone mortar. Her eyes, ancient and weary, lifted slowly to Ilona’s face, betraying no surprise. “You know,” Ilona stated, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady. She held out the sheet music, the title ‘Eleonóra’s Lament’ stark against the yellowed paper. “You knew about this. About the lullaby. About my name.” Csilla’s gaze flickered to the music, then to Ilona’s intense stare. “Some things are best left undisturbed, child.” Her voice was raspy, laced with an old sorrow. “Undisturbed?” Ilona’s voice rose, a surge of desperation cutting through her usual politeness. “Zsigmond is trapped! He broke a vase at the sound of this song, his grief a living thing. And the locket I found… the woman in the portrait looks just like me. And the mark, Csilla! The star-shaped mark on my shoulder, the one you saw. Tell me what you know!” Csilla slowly put down her pestle. A deep sigh escaped her, drawn out and dry. She pushed a ceramic cup of spiced tea across the table toward Ilona. “Sit, child. There is much to tell, and little time left.” Ilona ignored the tea, remaining standing, her eyes fixed on the elder. “Start with Eleonóra.” Csilla’s gaze softened, a profound regret etched into every line of her face. “Eleonóra was the first mistress of Varad Manor, centuries ago. A woman of boundless kindness, much like yourself. She fell in love with Lord Zsigmond, long before the curse took hold. When the blight first manifested, twisting him into something monstrous, it was her unwavering love, her gentle shelter, that… tethered his humanity. And when she died, trying to find a cure for him, a fragment of her soul, her essence, remained bound to the manor, waiting. Waiting for the chance to return.” Csilla met Ilona’s gaze directly. “You are Eleonóra, Ilona. Reborn. That is why Zsigmond sees you as human, even in his cursed form. He recognizes her soul, your soul, within you.” The words settled into the small room like soot. Ilona swayed, her hand reaching for the back of a chair to steady herself. Reincarnation. It was a concept whispered in hushed village tales, never truly believed. Yet, everything suddenly clicked into place: the deja vu in the library, the locket, the lullaby, Zsigmond’s reactions. It was too much to comprehend, yet undeniably true. “But… but why keep it from me?” Ilona whispered, her voice barely audible. A knot of betrayal tightened in her chest. “Why let me fumble in the dark? Why let me try to help him without knowing this?” Csilla’s eyes brimmed with tears, reflecting the flickering firelight. “Because I made a terrible mistake once, Eleonóra. A mistake that cost you your first life. I followed the ancient lore, believed in the old ways, that ‘willing welcome’ would break the curse. But I was wrong. Terribly, catastrophically wrong.” Her voice broke, a raw sound of anguish. “Eleonóra’s boundless love, her *embracing* of Zsigmond in his beastly form, did not break the curse. It solidified it. It gave it power. It bound him forever to the manor, and to that monstrous shape. Her loving touch, her gentle words, her unconditional devotion… they were the very threads that wove the curse’s unbreakable prison around him.” Ilona stared, horror blooming in her chest, cold and sharp. Her breath seized. “No,” she breathed, the single word a desperate plea. Everything she had done, every moment of kindness, every attempt to understand and accept Zsigmond… it had only made things worse. She had been unwittingly tightening the chains, strengthening the monster, condemning the man she had come to care for. “The curse feeds on that acceptance,” Csilla continued, her voice heavy with guilt. “It thrives on the purity of Eleonóra’s spirit, of *your* spirit. That’s why you’re drawn to the manor, why you feel its pull. It’s tethered to you, Ilona. It’s tethered to *her*.” Ilona felt a chilling dread seep into her bones. Her goal, so clear only moments ago—to accept Zsigmond, to find a way for others to see his humanity—now lay shattered at her feet. It wasn’t acceptance he needed; it was something else entirely. Something new, something unknown, something that would defy the very nature of the curse. The realization pressed down on her, suffocating. Her father’s lung-rot, the map of the Gloomwood, the money to cure him… all seemed so distant, so trivial now. Zsigmond, the man whose kind eyes had haunted her dreams, was suffering because of her, because of *Eleonóra*. She turned abruptly, without another word, and fled the cottage. The mist outside was thick, swirling around her like a shroud. She ran, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, the terrifying truth screaming in her mind. She ran back towards Varad Manor, the gothic structure now looming in the fog like a hungry beast, not just holding Zsigmond captive, but now, it seemed, waiting for her. She pushed through the great oak doors, the familiar silence of the entrance hall a stark contrast to the storm raging within her. The air crackled with a sudden, unseen energy. A low rumble vibrated through the flagstones, growing quickly into a violent tremor that shook the ancient walls. Dust rained down from the high ceilings, and relics clattered on their pedestals. A sharp, splintering crack echoed from the far end of the hall. Then another. The stone floor buckled, and from the cracks, thick, gnarled vines, black as night and edged with wicked, gleaming spikes, erupted with explosive force. They lashed out like venomous serpents, tearing through woven hangings, shattering suits of armor, and twisting around the massive oak doors, sealing them shut with an unyielding grip. More vines burst from the walls, snaking upwards, twisting around archways, creating a living, writhing cage. The entire manor groaned, a terrible, desperate sound. The curse was no longer passive; it was awake, and it was actively trapping her inside.

The Lie in the Lore