The crimson-streaked slivers reflected the lamp’s dying glow across the flagstones. Kavira stared at the scatter of minerals, her marrow aching as though packed with frost. Less than a day. The words echoed through the silence of their small, borrowed room. Garek, still recounting the Watchmaster’s typical patrol routes, faltered, his gaze dropping from the intricate map to the floor. “Kavir?” His voice was a low rumble, laced with concern. “What in the Abyss…?” Kavira snatched up a tattered cloth, sweeping the evidence into her cupped palm, then crushing it. The sharp edges pricked her skin, but she barely registered the pain. “Just a particularly nasty cough,” she rasped, her voice thick with something more potent than phlegm. “The dust from the caverns, perhaps.” The lie felt thin, transparent as spun silica. She averted her gaze, not because of the lie, but because of the vulnerability it exposed. Garek looked at her with a steady focus that made her muscles contract. He took a single, cautious step forward. “You’re burning up,” he murmured, his palm hovering near her forehead. She recoiled, ribs jarring. Contact, especially now, felt like an unbearable intrusion. “I’m fine,” she snapped, her voice harsher than intended. “We have to finish this plan.” She gestured wildly at the parchment, her hand trembling. “The Watchmaster's office, the vault’s location…” He watched her, his expression drawn taut with conflicting alarm. “Kavir, you look… shattered.” That word, *shattered*, pierced through her carefully constructed defenses. She *was* shattered. Inside, her organs were fracturing, piece by piece. She just couldn’t show it. “I’m tired. The hunt took its toll.” She forced a dismissive wave. “A moment’s rest, then we continue.” He didn’t push, but his gaze lingered, heavy and disquieting. When he finally turned back to the map, tracing lines with his finger, Kavira knew he hadn't believed her. He was simply choosing not to challenge her. It was a subtle act of faith, or perhaps pity, that chafed at her skin. After Garek finally departed, leaving her with explicit instructions to rest, Kavira rose, her limbs stiff and protesting. Grit chirped from his perch on the windowsill, his ash-dark eyes fixed on her. He sensed the urgency, the desperation that coiled beneath her skin like a dying serpent. From a hidden pouch sewn into the lining of her worn tunic, she withdrew a small vial. The liquid within shimmered, a sickly, viscous green. It was an old high-peak remedy, meant for extreme frost, a brutal stimulant that would keep her lungs from seizing entirely. She uncorked it, the bitter scent of raw mountain herbs and something metallic stinging her nostrils. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, the burning in her throat already a memory, then brought the vial to her lips. The liquid was fire. It scorched her tongue, ripped down her esophagus, and settled in her chest like a live coal. Her eyes watered, a harsh gasp tearing from her lips. But as the agony receded, a faint tremor of relief followed. Her breathing, which had been shallow and ragged, deepened, though still punctuated by a faint, dry rattle. “To the baths, Grit,” she whispered, her voice still rough. “We need to be clear-headed for the vault.” The Karst Watch’s glacial runoffs were not a place for recreation. They were a necessary, brutal amenity for the initiates, fed by an underground river that snaked through the bedrock. Kavira had never used them, preferring the relative warmth of a basin and sponge in the barracks. But tonight, she craved the absolute, numbing cold, a shock to her failing body, a distraction from the inexorable creep of the glass. She moved through the silent corridors like a shadow, Grit a darker smudge against the stone walls, his movements as quiet as falling snow. The stimulant thrummed in her veins, an unpleasant, constant hum that kept the crystalline pain at bay, for now. Every few minutes, a phantom spasm in her lungs threatened to erupt, and she pressed her fist against her chest, willing it to pass. She found the entrance to the pools, a narrow, unadorned archway leading into a grotto of dripping stone. The air grew instantly colder, carrying the faint, clean scent of pure water and ancient rock. Light filtered in from a small, natural fissure high above, casting a faint, ethereal glow on the churning water below. The hollow was empty, as she expected. Most initiates avoided the runoffs unless strictly necessary, preferring the small, rationed warmth of the barrack washrooms. She shed her heavy boots, her tunic, and then, with a slow, deliberate movement, unraveled the tightly wound bindings across her chest. A shudder, half-cold, half-relief, coursed through her as her breasts, small but undeniable, were finally free. The illusion of Kavir, the hard-edged boy, began to melt away, replaced by the reality of Kavira, the dying woman. She stepped into the frigid water, a gasp escaping her lips. The cold was immediate, brutal, a thousand tiny needles pricking her skin. She submerged herself fully, the icy embrace a momentary reprieve from the heat that burned within her. She closed her eyes, letting the water swirl around her, wishing it could wash away the sickness, the lie, the relentless march of time. When she resurfaced, slick hair plastered to her face, she looked down at her chest. The vitreous rot, usually a faint blue network beneath her skin, was now exposed. A massive, jagged shard, thick as her thumb, had erupted from her lower right ribs, piercing through the skin, a grotesque, organic growth. It pulsed faintly, a dull crimson light, like a trapped, dying heart. This wasn't merely inside her anymore. It was *out*, a cruel, tangible manifestation of her impending demise. Her vision blurred, not from tears, but from the stimulant, making the edges of the rock walls swim. A clatter from the entrance. A heavy, metallic sound. Kavira froze, muscles locking. She whirled, blood surging in her ears as panic spiked. Garek stood there, his face a mask of utter shock. His stare dropped from her unbound chest to the curve of her hip, then locked onto the jagged shard piercing her flesh. His hand, which had been resting on the hilt of his sword, slowly, almost imperceptibly, released it. The sword hit the cold stone with a dull thud, echoing through the vault's damp quiet. “You lied to me… but you are out of time.”

The Glacial Springs