Journal Entry 78

26.09.2026

Jonas sat next to me, staring at the notes in front of him.

13 §175 Cob 13

“What am I supposed to make of this, Ian?”

“I should ask you the same,” I replied.

“13? What—a baker’s dozen? Cob? Corn on the cob? How were you able to decipher the first two lines?”

“Jonas, it took time. You need to think of these lines as riddles or clues. Whoever wrote that letter is playing a game, and someone is watching the both of us. How else do you explain the hourglass with blood-red sand that was brought to our table in Lithuania?”

I looked down at the notes.

“Think, Jonas. This line has perplexed me from the beginning. I honestly do not know what to make of it.”

“Do not fret, Ian. We have time, or at least I believe we do. Nothing has transpired since we left Vilnius.”

“That does not make me feel better, Jonas. It feels like the calm before the storm. I cannot go through this again. We lost our wives. My children were almost killed. And now we are once again being tormented by some sick individual—or individuals.”

Moments after our brief conversation, I broke down. The strength I had summoned from the depths of my soul gave way in front of my King. Nothing I did could prevent my emotional collapse.

Jonas wrapped his arms around me and held me as I cried. I cried for my family, my country, and my King.

I later woke with Jonas lying beside me, my pillowcase still damp with tears.

When I turned to look at him, he smiled.

“Nobody will hurt you again. That is my solemn promise as your King.”

His words gave me comfort as I drifted back to sleep.

Late this evening, I was awakened by a thought. Or was it a dream?

I quietly left the bedroom, returned to the table, and looked again at the notes we had written.

One thing I knew for certain: Line Three was not about food.

Line Three was about death.