Garegin’s hand, a web of age and deference, settled on Lord Moros’s arm, guiding him from the shattered remnants of the dining hall. Tavitri watched them go, the steward’s gaze flicking back to her, a brief, sharp assessment veiled by a solicitous smile. He wanted her away from Moros, a purpose underlined by the shards grating under the servants' brooms. The lord, however, did not look back. He simply allowed himself to be led, his broad back disappearing around a crystalline archway. The air still thrummed with the afterimage of his ruinous grief, an echo that set Tavitri’s teeth on edge.
Narine, still pale, pushed her chair back, the rasp of it jarring in the sudden silence. “Well,” she began, her voice regaining a fraction of its usual bite, “it seems even the ‘provincial’ style has its… moments of inexplicable luck.” She gestured with a dismissive hand towards Tavitri’s intact wine goblet, a lone survivor amidst the debris.
Tavitri met her gaze, a slow smile touching her lips. “Perhaps it’s not luck, Narine, but an understanding of harmonics that transcends mere flash.” She rose, collecting her goblet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
She left Narine fuming amidst the servants who were already sweeping up the glittering fragments, making her way towards the designated workshop. The Glacial Spire was a labyrinth of echoing passages, each turn revealing another vista of carved quartz, yet it felt colder than ever. The steward’s hurried actions, his almost possessive solicitude towards Moros, nagged at her. It wasn’t simply loyalty; there was an intensity to it, especially concerning Moros’s health. She’d noticed it during the first meal, too – a particular tea, always served by Garegin himself, described as a ‘restorative draught.’
Upon reaching the workshop, Tavitri found Narine already there, her slender fingers tracing the edges of Tavitri’s workbench with thinly veiled disdain. “This is hardly adequate,” Narine declared, turning to face her. “My guild expects… space. Proper space. Not this cramped corner.”
“It was perfectly adequate until you decided to impose yourself,” Tavitri retorted, her patience wearing thin. “And this ‘cramped corner’ has produced pieces that, unlike your guild’s sterile perfection, actually *sing*.”
Narine’s eyes narrowed. “My guild’s pieces endure! Yours are, by all accounts, merely fodder for Lord Moros’s… outbursts.” She swept her arm across a small side table Tavitri used for her less-frequently accessed tools, a gesture of careless dismissal. Her elbow caught a small clay vial, one Tavitri had seen Garegin carry. It toppled, striking the mineral slab with a sharp *clink*. The stopper flew out, and a handful of dried, pale green herbs scattered across the polished table, mingling with fine mineral powder.
Before Tavitri could react, a low *thrum* rose not from her voice, but from the implements laid out beside her. The azurite shaping rods on the table vibrated violently, a thin, almost musical whine rising from their depths. A pair of delicate, spun-glass tongs began to shimmer, the light refracting oddly through their form as if the very air around them was distorting. The vibrations intensified, making the entire workbench hum. A tiny seam began to trace across the blade of a nearby chisel. Narine gasped, stepping back, her previous arrogance replaced by genuine alarm. The acoustic pressure rose, threatening to shatter everything on the bench.
Tavitri moved instinctively, her hands sweeping over the table, gathering the errant herbs and scooping them into a cupped palm, trying to contain the strange, amplified energy. The moment the last leaf left the tabletop, the hum died, the implements falling still. The crack on the chisel, however, remained, a stark reminder of the potent reaction.
Narine stared at the herbs in Tavitri’s hand, then at the damaged chisel. “What… what *was* that?” she whispered, her voice uncharacteristically small. “Those aren’t just ordinary herbs.”
“No,” Tavitri murmured, examining the crushed leaves, their scent faintly acrid and metallic. “They pick up vibrations. Powerfully. And they magnify what is already there.” A cold knot tightened in her stomach. These were the herbs Garegin had in his possession. The ones she’d seen him carry. The ones he steeped into Lord Moros’s nightly tea.
Later that evening, the thought refused to leave her. After the evening meal, she quietly made her way towards the kitchens, feigning a need for a late-night infusion of her own. The grand hall was empty, the servants having retired. A faint glow emanated from a small antechamber off the main kitchen, the familiar clinking of ceramic on stone reaching her ears. It was Garegin. She peered around the archway, careful to remain in shadow.
Garegin stood over a small preparation table, a steaming kettle beside him. He meticulously measured a handful of the same pale green herbs into a glazed ceramic pot, their acrid scent now more pronounced. As he poured hot water over them, he hummed a low, tuneless melody, his back to her. Then, from beneath the table, he produced a small, obsidian vial, its surface absorbing all light. He uncorked it with a soft pop, revealing a fine, pale powder within. With an unnerving precision, he tapped a minute amount of this powder into the steeping tea, stirring it with a silver spoon. As the spoon swirled, a low, dissonant hum, almost imperceptible but distinct to a Kavitari’s ear, emanated from the pot. It wasn’t a harmonious sound; it was a grating, hostile whine.
The brew was an acoustic toxin, formulated to stoke the very sorrow tearing Moros apart.
Tavitri drew back, breath catching in her throat. The kind, solicitous steward, Moros’s only friend, was deliberately, systematically poisoning his master. Her mind raced, connecting the shattered glass, the lord’s amplified despair, the growing isolation. It was all a calculated act.
As she tried to retreat, her boot scraped softly on the polished stone floor. Garegin froze. His humming stopped. Slowly, deliberately, he turned, the silver spoon still in his hand, the steaming pot of tea between them. The gentle smile that usually graced his face was gone, replaced by an expression of cold, unyielding calculation. His gaze, usually crinkled with kindness, flattened into hard slate under the glow-lamps.
“Some things are best left unseen, my dear.”