Vilk felt the hunger strike him with a force he had never known before.

  He knew its rhythm, had learned to sense it ahead of time — like a hunter reading the wind before a storm. Usually, he had warning enough to prepare, to keep the tension in check. But this time was different. Deeper. Stronger. Crueler.

  He needed more.

  The longer he waited, the more something inside him began to twist. The Hunger didn’t only call for blood — it seeped through his body, gnawed at his thoughts. It became something primal, blind, something that sowed within him a raw, rising fury. Pure hatred for everything weak, fragile, defenseless. A craving to tear, to annihilate, to dominate. It was darkness spreading inside him, slow and certain, like roots weaving through the earth.

  He left Jan’s estate without a sound, waking no one. Grym moved beside him like a shadow swallowed by the night. It was late, and the moonlight slid across the rooftops, laying long ribbons of silver over the cobblestones. Vilk crossed the courtyard, passed the guards — alert, yet blind to his presence. His steps were weightless, almost unreal, as if he didn’t walk the ground, but glided above it.

  The city greeted him with the rustle of night — narrow streets, damp courtyards, muffled echoes of voices behind shutters. The air was thick with smoke, moisture, and rot, but Vilk searched for something else: the scent of fear, corruption, human filth. He moved slowly, unhurried. Drifted through blind alleys, inhaling the sleeping city, feeling the pulse of sin beneath its skin.

  He could sense people even when unseen — knew where they slept, where they woke in sudden dread, where someone trembled alone in the dark. But they were not the ones he sought.

  He clenched his fists. Blood thundered in his temples. Each second of restraint felt like carrion rotting inside him, a foul weight he needed to cast out. The Hunger no longer whispered — it screamed, growled within him like a beast too long chained.

  And then he stopped. The corner of his mouth twitched as he caught the right scent.

  A narrow alley, leading to a forgotten square stinking of damp and decay. The shadows were thick; moonlight couldn’t reach past the walls slick with moisture. In the air — three heartbeats. Two heavy with drink and malice. One light, trembling — a woman’s.

  They moved. Vilk saw them before they saw him.

  Two men — drunk, filthy, smug — cornered a woman. One laughed quietly; the other’s knife gleamed faintly in the dark.

  Vilk followed them soundlessly, watching.

  Two men—drunk, filthy, brimming with swagger—were tormenting a small, slight woman. One of them laughed under his breath; in the other’s hand the edge of a knife caught the light. Vilk followed them soundlessly, watching.

  — Don’t pretend you don’t know why we’re dragging you in her e— one of them snarled, shoving her hard into the alley so that she struck the cold, damp wall with her back. — Everyone in Tarnów knows what you are—filthy whore, shameless, dishonorable.

  The second man let out a mocking laugh and stepped closer.

  — They say your pussy gets wet after a couple of nice words, — he taunted. — Should I be nice, or would you rather prefer it rough?

  The woman tried to pull away, but she was too weak. The second man grabbed her by the shoulders, pinning her in place. The first reached under her skirt and dragged the underwear, stuffing panties into her mouth to smother her cry. She began to sob, choking on the cloth.

  — Not so wet yet, but we’ll fix that soon enough — he spat, forcing his fingers upon her. The woman froze in terror, unable even to move. After a moment he yanked her to the ground, and the other man pinned her wrists to the dirt.

  — Maybe whores don’t deserve pleasure at all — the first man sneered, kneeling over her. — Maybe they should just serve—be used whenever anyone wants…

  He was about to get inside her when something hot and thick suddenly splattered across her face. For a moment she couldn’t understand what was happening—only when she realized it was blood did she fall into silent, breathless panic. Her eyes widened as she watched the attacker’s head being brutally pierced, spraying his brain across the wall.

  Vilk landed beside her like a shadow given form. He looked at the second man — who stumbled back, only to meet Grym’s bared teeth.

  — I see only one filthy whore left in here, — Vilk said coldly.

  The man tried to speak, to plead, but Vilk was already moving. One strike — swift, merciless — and it was done. Blood poured freely. Vilk pulled him close, then sank his teeth into the man’s neck, drinking deeply until the body went still.

  When it was over, silence cloaked the alley like a shroud. Grym fed quietly, methodically, erasing the traces.

  Vilk turned. The woman still lay on the ground, trembling — but not from fear. Her eyes were dry, emptied of life, filled instead with something far heavier: resignation. As if death and life were the same to her now.

  He looked into her eyes — and hesitated.

  — You’re not afraid, — he said softly, almost surprised.

  Her voice came faintly, hollow, stripped of emotion.

  — I’m only afraid it will never end. That it will always be the same.

  Vilk froze. The words struck him like an echo — of himself, long ago.

  — What’s your name? — he asked.

  — Jagna, — she whispered, tears finally breaking free.

  He crouched beside her, meeting her gaze.

  Something inside him stirred — words he had never spoken, coming unbidden, as if whispered by Sika herself:

  — You’re worth more than all of them, — he said quietly. — Walk with your head high. Most people in this world aren’t worth the dirt they stand on. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re less.

  They sat in silence for a moment. The woman slowly found her breath again. Vilk drew a dagger from his belt and held it out to her — cool, solid.

  — Keep it. Never let anyone hurt you again. Remember tonight — not for what they did, but because someone saw more in you than just flesh.

  He rose, signaled to Grym. Together they gathered the remains — bones no one would miss — and carried them into the woods. Vilk spat on the ground, stacking stones above what was left. Only then did the calm return.

  Dawn was heavy.

  The air was thick with damp and chill that crept beneath the skin, leaving behind a faint, unpleasant tingling. The city was waking — the ring of a hammer on anvil somewhere far off, the muffled hum from taverns, the last shadows retreating down narrow streets.

  Vilk neared Jan’s estate, the weight of the night still pressing on his shoulders. Grym padded beside him, silent, alert, muscles still tense from the hunt. The blood in Vilk’s veins had cooled, but unease lingered. The Hunger was quiet — for now — but its echo remained.

  He stopped by the high wall, breathing slowly. Memories pulsed behind his eyes: warm blood down his throat, the crunch of bone in Grym’s jaws, the wide, terrified eyes of the dying. He should have felt satisfaction — but instead, a remnant of rage still clung to him like a second skin.

  That was new. The hunger usually slept after a kill. This time it had left an aftertaste.

  He crossed the gate and stepped inside. Morning light spilled through the windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

  Sika was already awake. She sat at the table with a cup in her hands, watching him enter. There was something in her gaze - more than curiosity. A quiet, knowing weight, as if she already guessed what he had done.

  She didn’t ask immediately, but he felt her eyes on him as he pulled off his cloak and ran a hand along his neck, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders.

  — You’re back, — she said at last, too calmly.

  Vilk didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted across the room, searching for something to feign interest in.

  — I couldn’t sleep, — he said flatly.

  Sika raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She took a slow sip, then set the cup down.

  — You’re different, — she said softly but firmly.

  He flinched, didn’t look at her. His hand tightened on his belt.

  — You’re wrong.

  — I only say what I see, — she replied, leaning back in her chair. — And what I feel.

  The silence stretched — thick, heavy. Then Vilk moved toward the hearth, pretending not to hear.

  — By the way, — he said, striving for a neutral tone, — I met that girl we talked about in town.

  Sika tilted her head, intrigued.

  — The quiet one? — she asked with a faint smirk. — You didn’t—

  — Jagna, — he interrupted sharply. — Her name’s Jagna. And no. I saved her.

  Sika stared at him for a moment, then smiled faintly.

  — So you’re a hero now, — she murmured with quiet irony. — Never thought I’d see the day.

  Vilk shrugged, turning back to the fire. He had the strange feeling that it was Sika who was changing him — more than he cared to admit.

  — We leave today, — he said, changing the subject. — Jan will want to see us off.

  Sika nodded but kept her eyes on him. She knew he was hiding something — and knew he’d tell her only when he was ready.

  — Fine, — she said simply. — I’ll pack.

  Vilk inclined his head and climbed the stairs to wash and prepare. The tension didn’t fade. The Hunger was gone, but another emptiness remained — one he couldn’t name. Maybe it wasn’t about the hunt. Maybe it was about what he was becoming.

  He could feel time slipping away. The air itself carried the weight of parting, though he refused to dwell on it.

  Sika busied herself with her pack — few belongings, all practical. They were travelers, long used to owning little. The horses waited in the courtyard, ready.

  Vilk stood at the window, watching Jan below — speaking softly with a servant, overseeing the preparations. The morning was crisp and clear, perfect for travel.

  He didn’t move until he heard Jan’s steps on the stairs. The old man appeared in the doorway, leaning on his cane, his face calm, his eyes watchful.

  — Everything ready? — he asked.

  — Yes, — Vilk replied, still looking out. — We’re leaving soon.

  Jan nodded, then glanced at Sika tightening the straps on her bag. For a moment he said nothing, gathering his thoughts.

  — I don’t know if you two truly know what you’re doing, — he said at last. — But I hope you find what you’re meant to.

  Vilk didn’t answer. His hand tightened on his belt, feeling something still holding him here — though he couldn’t name what. He was ready to go, but unsure if he was leaving as someone changed, or merely someone moving on.

  — We’re not looking for anything, — he said dryly. — We’re going where we belong.

  Sika glanced at him briefly but stayed silent. Jan sighed softly, straightening.

  — The road won’t be kind, — he said. — But you know that. We’ll stay in touch. I’m not a man of big words. Just… take care of yourselves.

  Vilk finally turned to him, nodded once. Enough.

  Jan’s eyes softened — with understanding, perhaps, or fatigue.

  Then came footsteps — another presence.

  Jaroslav.

  The young man appeared quietly, almost ghostlike, and stopped a few steps away. There was no uncertainty in his face — none of the hesitation others showed around Vilk. There was something in his gaze that made Vilk pause for a fraction longer than he meant to.

  — Thank you for your time, — Jaroslav said softly. — I have a feeling we’ll meet again.

  A strange silence followed. Vilk studied him, remembering how the boy fought, how he moved. People said he was blind.

  Jaros?aw smiled faintly, as if hearing the thought.

  — Yes, — he said again, quieter now. — I can see you. Clearly.

  Vilk frowned, but before he could speak, the boy added,

  — Remember: the light always finds us. Sometimes where we least expect it.

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left.

  Vilk watched him go, then stepped toward the door. Sika lifted her pack and passed Jan in silence, stepping into the courtyard. Vilk followed, Grym padding behind.

  The gates opened wide for them. The small cart creaked, the horses started forward at an easy pace.

  Vilk didn’t look back.

  *

  The road wound gently through wide fields and groves where young leaves shimmered in the sunlight like dew on grass. Spring had gathered colour — trees in bloom scattered their sweet scent, and the warm wind brushed through the meadows, carrying with it the promise of summer. The sky was a deep, translucent blue, streaked with only a few pale threads of cloud.

  Vilk rode beside Sika in silence, allowing himself a rare pause — a moment’s distance from the thoughts that usually filled his head.

  The journey passed quietly. Their horses moved with sure rhythm, accustomed to long roads, while the leather saddlebags swayed softly with every step. They carried little — only what was necessary. Vilk had never liked useless weight, and Sika shared his view. Everything they truly needed fit in their hands and in their minds.

  The unease creeping through their thoughts was almost invisible. It wasn’t fear — rather a quiet reserve, a subtle tension bound to what awaited them in that cursed place. Both had lived through things most people couldn’t imagine. They had seen death, touched it, breathed it. They did not expect this place to be worse than what they had already survived.

  — It can’t be that bad, — Sika said, breaking the silence. Her voice was calm, almost amused, though beneath the lightness lingered caution.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Vilk glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She rode easily, confidently — but he saw that even she didn’t fully believe her own words.

  — We’ve seen worse, — he said after a moment, shrugging. — Houses aren’t monsters.

  Sika gave a short, soft laugh.

  — And yet people curse them. Not without reason.

  — People curse many things they don’t understand.

  For a while she rode in silence, eyes fixed on the faint hills ahead. The road grew narrower, the trees thicker. Vilk could feel the change in the air — the land, though still beautiful, carried a muted, secret weight. Through the branches, the outlines of the estate emerged in the distance.

  Sika saw it too.

  — You think it’s just legend? — she asked, nodding toward the shape of the buildings.

  Vilk didn’t answer right away. He narrowed his eyes, as though trying to glimpse something hidden beyond the distance.

  — We’ll find out soon enough, — he murmured.

  As they drew nearer, the silence became palpable. The usual spring chatter of birds was gone. The wind stilled, and though the sun still bathed the courtyard in light, it felt duller, muted. The horses stopped at the edge of the yard, snorting softly, ears twitching. Vilk looked at Sika, but she had already dismounted, studying the manor.

  The building stood as it had — tall stone walls, veiled in ivy, wooden balconies, a steep roof casting long shadows across the cobbles. The front door hung slightly open, as if someone had been waiting, as if the house knew they had returned.

  Vilk dismounted, a faint shiver running across his back. It wasn’t fear — he had nothing left to fear, not after everything — but there was a subtle unease, the kind that came from standing over a body still warm from life.

  — We’ve had worse shelters, — Sika murmured, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.

  Grym was first to step onto the stone stair. The dog was tense, fur bristling, though silent — only watching the doorway with sharp stillness. Vilk laid a hand on the latch and pressed down slowly. The wood gave without resistance; the door opened with a quiet creak, revealing a half-lit interior.

  The air inside was cool, holding the echo of old days. Damp mixed with something harder to name — the scent of aged wood, dust, and something else besides. Something faintly familiar, like mold but deeper, a note that settled uneasily in the gut.

  Sika stepped closer, her movements light but steady. She ran her hand along the frame, then looked at Vilk.

  — Well, — she said with a faint smile, — looks like we live here now.

  Vilk entered first. The house gave no answer — but he thought he heard something stir in the dark, just beyond the reach of sight.

  The gloom wasn’t complete. Morning sun pierced through the shutters, falling in narrow beams that caught the dust. They took a few steps into the hall. The wood creaked beneath his boots — not the tired groan of rot, but something else, almost responsive.

  Sika followed, her hand trailing the rail of the staircase. The wood was cold beneath her fingers, the carved patterns rough and worn.

  — It’s strangely quiet, — she said.

  Vilk nodded but didn’t speak. There was no sound from outside, no wind, no whisper of the house itself. It wasn’t ordinary silence — it was silence that listened.

  He touched one of the frames. It was cool, faintly damp — as though the wood itself drew in the air.

  — Something’s here, — he murmured. It wasn’t a question.

  Sika turned toward him, but before she could answer, she caught something from the corner of her eye. On the wall where the light streamed in, the carvings seemed to waver — shifting ever so slightly. She frowned, stepped closer, and the illusion vanished.

  — Did that— — she began, but stopped.

  Vilk followed her gaze but saw nothing but still wooden patterns, dulled by dust.

  — Imagination, — he said softly, though without conviction.

  Grym moved in slow circles, sniffing. His fur was still raised, yet he made no sound, only gliding across the floor, alert to something they could not yet perceive.

  Sika shrugged and moved on, peering into the side rooms. The interior was spacious — high ceilings, the remnants of old grandeur: carved mouldings, cracked mirrors, worn furniture still bearing traces of past splendour.

  But there was something else.

  On a table thick with dust, a single handprint. Fresh, clear.

  Vilk approached, frowning. A splinter of wood stirred in a draft — though no window was open.

  Sika stepped back.

  — Maybe it wasn’t as empty as we thought, — she whispered.

  Vilk’s hand closed around the hilt of his knife.

  The house wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

  Sika leaned against the doorframe of the main hall, her eyes travelling over the flaking plaster, the cracked beams, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of rot and forgotten wood.

  She ran her fingers along a dresser, leaving a clean trace in the dust.

  — You know this will be hell, right? — she called toward Vilk, who was just returning from a side room.

  He looked at her and shrugged.

  — I know. That’s why I called for Jegor and Viktor. They should arrive tomorrow or the next day.

  Sika raised an eyebrow.

  — You’re serious?

  — Dead serious. You’ll be the mind, they’ll be the hands. We’ll find them a place to sleep, and they’ll start clearing this up. At least enough so we don’t choke on the stench.

  Sika ran a hand through her hair, assessing the chaos around her. She knew he was right, yet the task still seemed impossible — taming this ruin would take weeks, maybe months.

  — We need beds, linens, something. We can’t sleep on the floor till this place is tamed, — she said finally.

  Vilk looked around.

  — We’ll find something that can be repaired, or at least aired out. If not… we’ll get what we need in town.

  Sika sighed and moved on to the next room. Pale light seeped through torn curtains, glinting off broken furniture. Much of it was beyond saving — chairs splintered, tables barely holding together — but some things might yet survive.

  — Let’s start with cleaning, — she said. — We’ll see after that.

  They worked in silence for a time. Vilk watched her carefully.

  — We need a plan.

  — And time, — she replied. — It’ll take weeks just to make it livable.

  — Then let’s focus, — he said, opening a wardrobe. Inside, beneath a layer of dust, he found old blankets and bedding.

  Sika grimaced.

  — This will be a long week.

  — Maybe two or three, — he said, tossing aside what was useless. — But at least we’ve got a start.

  The first hours passed in silence broken only by footsteps, the scrape of broom bristles, the thud of discarded junk. Dust rose around them like smoke, settling on their skin, catching in their throats.

  Vilk lifted a crate of rotted books and carried it aside. Sika was sorting through a chest of moldy papers, throwing them away one by one — until something caught her eye.

  — Vilk, look at this, — she said, holding up a small notebook. It was covered in dust, but the pages inside had endured. Leather-bound, the edges worn, the faded title nearly unreadable.

  Vilk took it, flipping a few pages. The handwriting was elegant and deliberate, though much of it blurred with time. Between fragments, words remained: “preparations,” “marriage,” “fear,” “he was here.”

  — Maybe we’ll find more, — he muttered, tucking the book into his belt.

  They kept working — but the atmosphere was changing.

  Sika carried a bundle of clothes into another room. When she returned, she stopped short, frowning.

  — Vilk… didn’t I just move that crate?

  Vilk looked to the box by the door — the same one he had moved earlier. He was certain of it.

  He said nothing, only walked closer, studying it. The dust around it was undisturbed — as though it had never been moved at all.

  Grym growled softly.

  Sika looked at Vilk, uneasy.

  — A draft? — she asked, though her tone betrayed doubt.

  — Not a draft, — Vilk said.

  The air grew heavier, thicker. Somewhere deep within the house, a quiet crack echoed — wood shifting after too long in stillness.

  Sika tightened the strap at her waist.

  — This house is toying with us, — she murmured.

  Vilk turned the notebook in his hands, opening it at random. Most of the ink had faded, but one line remained clear, untouched by time:

  “No one should enter where memories sleep.”

  For a long moment they both stared at the words before Vilk closed the book.

  — Maybe there was something here worse than what we’ve seen, — he said quietly.

  The day dragged on, fatigue settling deep into their muscles. They worked through the afternoon, and though the house began to look almost livable, something within it remained foreign — something that refused to yield.

  They worked in quiet, broken only by short exchanges and the occasional shared drink. The bottle passed between them, its warmth softening the weight of the day.

  — Tell me, Vilk, — Sika said, leaning against the doorway, a faint smile curling her lips. — Where exactly do you see future splendor in this wreck?

  Vilk looked up, one brow raised, then took a slow drink.

  — Somewhere here, — he said, glancing around. — Between the cobwebs and the rot. Imagination helps, doesn’t it? I thought you’d already planned it all.

  Sika rolled her eyes but didn’t hide her grin. There was something new in her look — not annoyance, but a flicker of excitement.

  On the walls, faint shifts appeared — textures seemed to ripple, as though the shadows moved out of rhythm with the light. Vilk didn’t notice, but Sika paused, sensing the change. She said nothing, letting the unease fade with the warmth of the drink.

  **

  When the sun finally yielded to dusk, washing the sky in fading streaks of crimson, Vilk drew a long breath.

  For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself a moment of relief.

  The manor no longer looked like mere ruin and dust — he could almost see a shadow of the future they might build here: clean rooms, voices echoing through the halls, light in the windows. For once, he didn’t feel only emptiness. Maybe — just maybe — this could work.

  He wanted to breathe. Just sit, feel the cool air on his skin, leave behind the suffocating weight of the house that had pressed on him all day. He took an old chair and a half-broken chest, then made his way to the courtyard.

  He sat at the edge of the fountain, near the entrance to the estate. Above him, the sky sank into darkness, still wearing the dim scar of day — a fading red wound that refused to close. The air was still and warm, carrying the scent of stone and damp. Vilk closed his eyes, listening to the silence.

  This was what life after everything was supposed to feel like: peace, ordinariness, a moment without struggle.

  And then the air changed.

  It came suddenly — like a string pulled taut and snapped.

  A chill that didn’t belong to this world.

  A gust of wind that wasn’t there.

  Gooseflesh rose on his neck; his muscles tensed instinctively.

  That feeling. He knew it.

  Though years had passed, it returned — unstoppable, inevitable.

  Thoughts scattered like ashes in a gust. The tension in the air thickened; the world sharpened, as if reality itself had been split in two.

  Vilk opened his eyes.

  Red.

  It tore open above him like a wound in the sky. The colours twisted in an unnatural rhythm — pulsing scarlet bands rippling through darkening clouds. The fountain water, clear only moments ago, had turned the shade of thick blood. The stained glass on the manor’s fa?ade glowed like a burning eye, its light clinging to his skin. The air smelled of ash and damp — heavy, oppressive — as though the place itself breathed his fear.

  Vilk didn’t move. His heart pounded so hard it drowned the world.

  Not fear — terror.

  That old, hated terror that crept back into his mind, spreading like poison.

  And then she spoke.

  — I see you’ve been… settling in.

  Her voice was velvet, but cold — the kind of cold that commands. It didn’t need to shout; its existence alone was enough.

  Vilk’s body locked, every nerve tightening. The primal dread — the one he knew too well — slithered into him like venom. He tried to draw breath, but it wasn’t his own. It was the cold air of fear itself.

  He looked up.

  She stood there — in her fire-red attire, her hair moving though there was no wind, as if it belonged to something greater than her.

  And in her hands… she held a shield.

  Black and crimson, reflecting light in ways that shouldn’t exist in this world. She turned it idly in her fingers, as if it were nothing more than glass.

  — So much time… — she sighed, her eyes filled with disdainful amusement. — Such power… and this is what you make of it? A decaying brothel and some broken little whore?

  Vilk’s jaw tightened, but no words came. Something inside him boiled — fear and burning rage tangled together.

  The Queen narrowed her eyes, tilting her head like someone studying spoiled meat.

  She never rushed. He had never been the one in control — not with her.

  She waited, letting the fear ripen.

  — So much time, — she whispered again, disappointment curling through her tone. — So much power, and you’ve learned nothing.

  Her gaze sliced through him like a blade. Vilk felt the fear pierce his chest, his throat tightening around it.

  — A crumbling brothel and a slave-girl? — her voice cut the air like a knife.

  His hands trembled, her presence wrapping around him like chains.

  — Is this all you’re capable of? — she smiled faintly. — How goes your search for redemption? Because I believe you’ve lost your way.

  It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a verdict.

  — I expected more.

  Vilk’s breath caught. Hatred — deep, animal, chained by terror — stirred awake. But fear held stronger.

  — You’ve been a very bad dog, she purred, drawing out the word. — You shouldn’t anchor your soul so carelessly… least of all in two bodies.

  Vilk shuddered.

  Her gaze flayed him alive. She knew. She knew everything.

  Something snapped inside his head.

  — I’m no damned dog! — he snarled, trying to seize control.

  But he didn’t have the chance.

  — SILENCE.

  The world shattered.

  Her voice wasn’t sound — it was a cataclysm. A shockwave tearing through existence.

  Vilk’s skull screamed; his thoughts split apart; his body felt crushed beneath an unseen weight.

  Then — a flash.

  The shield she had idly toyed with was suddenly firm in her grip, held with a grace that betrayed the violence it promised.

  She threw it — lightly, effortlessly, as though it weighed nothing.

  The blow came faster than sight.

  He realized what had happened only when his body was torn open.

  Pain exploded through him — raw, unbearable.

  His leg.

  A scream burst from his throat, wild and broken.

  He collapsed against the fountain, gasping, his blood splattering across the stones, mixing with the red water.

  The Queen stood motionless, her eyes gleaming in the half-light.

  — You are nothing, — she said, calm as death. — Nothing, to speak to me in that tone, mongrel.

  Then, as if nothing had happened, she continued,

  — Fragmenting a soul is costly work. But I suppose you’ve noticed.

  Something cracked again inside him. Vilk trembled. Every word she spoke was truth carved into his bones.

  — By the way, — her lips curved in a smile, — I brought you a gift. Your new sigil.

  He struggled to focus through the haze of pain.

  — What are you talking about… this soul—?

  The Queen looked at him one last time.

  — You must understand what you are… before you scatter into too many pieces.

  And she was gone.

  Vilk was alone. Then the pain came back.

  His scream echoed through the courtyard.

  Sika burst out of the building, her face pale with shock.

  — Vilk! What happened?!

  He glanced at her — then at himself.

  His leg was knitting back together.

  — Are you all right? — she asked, horrified by the sound she’d heard moments earlier.

  Black threads — like shadows — were weaving the wound closed, stitching flesh as if his body had never known death, never been torn apart.

  — It’s nothing. I tripped, — he said sharply, though his voice still trembled, his body shaking beneath the strain. He tried to hide it.

  Sika didn’t look convinced. She pointed toward the ground.

  — What is that?

  Vilk followed her gaze — to the shield.

  On its surface, the image of two beasts: one red, one black, locked in eternal combat, divided only by what they sought to devour — one the moon, the other the sun. Their bodies were flame and shadow, light and night, circling each other in endless, merciless balance.

  — A shield, — he said flatly. — Found it in the junk.

  — Are you sure you’re all right?

  — Yes… — he replied unconvincingly. — Let’s go inside. It’s getting dark.

  He looked once more at the spot where the Queen had stood.

  Only a faint trace of her remained — a shimmer of something unreal, slowly dissolving into the air.

  ***

  The manor grew quiet as night settled, but there was still work to be done.

  Sika refused to give in, though her eyelids were growing heavy. Vilk could see she was exhausted, but he also knew that if he let her, she’d keep going until she dropped. So they kept working.

  Vilk helped her carry out the remains of old furniture, break down rotted wardrobes, and stack what little could still be salvaged. The motion calmed him. After what had happened that day, he needed something physical — something to pull him out of his own head.

  But it wasn’t so simple.

  The unease still smoldered in him, like embers beneath ash.

  Hours had passed, yet the shadow of the Crimson Queen still hung over him — as if she had left behind more than pain, more than memory.

  All day he’d felt trapped. Every sound, every sudden movement brought back that same paralyzing dread. It wasn’t ordinary fear — it was something deeper, a grip around his mind that strangled any attempt to break free.

  Vilk never ran. Never.

  But today… today it felt as though his own body no longer belonged to him.

  He’d had no control. Not even the thought of resistance.

  If the Queen had wanted him dead, he would’ve died without so much as raising a hand. That thought cut deeper than pain — deeper than her voice, her eyes.

  How could she still make him feel so small?

  He clenched his jaw, not letting it show. Sika didn’t need to know. This was his burden — his problem. He would drown it, bury it. After all these years, he’d thought himself free of her.

  But it took only a moment, one word, one glance, to remind him of what he was.

  Nothing.

  His fingers tightened on the wooden chair he was lifting.

  No. Not now. Not anymore.

  — You think we’ll manage this in a few weeks? — Sika asked, wiping sweat from her brow with her sleeve.

  Vilk leaned against the doorframe, looking at her with weary eyes. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not now. Not ever.

  — We’ve got no choice.

  She gave a short snort of laughter, but didn’t reply. They worked a while longer, hauling boxes and sacks, until even she had to admit they’d done enough for one night.

  Vilk tossed the last piece of wood onto the pile and drew a deep breath. He felt a little better. Not well — but steadier.

  — Tomorrow I’m going to town with Jan, — he said. — Time to start sorting things out with the old torture hall.

  Sika glanced at him through narrowed eyes, studying him. He was tense. He hid it well, but she knew him too well not to notice.

  — You sure you can handle it?

  He rolled his eyes and said nothing. He wasn’t about to talk about it. She didn’t press.

  They gathered their tools and went back inside. Vilk could feel the tension tightening across his back and shoulders. He knew he should let go, focus on the next day — but the thoughts wouldn’t still. Every shadow in the corners seemed too thick, too present.

  He had no choice but to push it aside.

  The house was silent, the air heavy, dense. Vilk felt it — but ignored it. He was too tired to care.

  Sika glanced at Grym, who stretched lazily in the corner, his paws reaching forward.

  — You’ve got it easy, huh? — she muttered toward the dog. He didn’t so much as flick an ear.

  Vilk sat down heavily on the makeshift bedding and leaned his head against the wall. He could feel exhaustion slowly swallowing what was left of his tension. But he knew sleep wouldn’t bring rest.

  This was only the beginning.

  — Tomorrow we start a new chapter, — he said softly, more to himself than to her.

  Sika didn’t answer. She was already asleep.

  Vilk closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would ride to the city — and step once more into a world he no longer trusted.