The kitchen smelled of scalded mint. Garegin's mouth sat straight and thin, stripped of its habitual warmth. His gaze, flat and unblinking, held the cold, ancient warning of a mountain pass in winter. The silver spoon in his hand, moments ago stirring a concoction meant to heal, now seemed like a weapon. “My dear,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, silken murmur that was more threat than endearment, “Some things are best left unseen. Especially by those with… delicate sensibilities. You understand, don’t you?” Tavitri’s throat felt as though it had turned to dust. Her mind raced, a frantic hummingbird against a pane of glass. Confrontation meant ruin; she had only her tuned ear for discordant notes and an empty hand. She managed a shaky nod, her eyes darting from his unreadable face to the steaming pot. The hostile whine, though fainter now, still tickled the edges of her awareness. “Yes, Steward Garegin. My apologies. I was… looking for extra kindling for the studio hearth. It grew quite late, and I seem to have lost my way.” The lie felt clumsy on her tongue, but her fear lent it a desperate sincerity. He watched her for another beat, his expression never wavering. Then an easy grin crept back across his lips. “Indeed. The Spire disorients newcomers, does it not? Especially late. Perhaps you should rest, little artisan. The morning will bring new inspirations.” He gestured vaguely towards the kitchen door with the spoon, dismissing her. Tavitri backed away on quiet soles, pulse knocking hard behind her ribs. She kept her eyes on him until she reached the arched doorway, then turned and fled down the silent, crystalline corridor, her footsteps echoing unnervingly on the polished floor. She halted only once the heavy timber slab of her studio swung shut behind her. The Glacial Spire, once a marvel, now felt like a gilded cage. Garegin was a wolf cloaked in gray wool, steadily unraveling his master from within. The knowledge settled in Tavitri’s bones, cold and heavy. She couldn’t leave. Not now. To abandon Moros would be to condemn him. To stay meant danger, a dance with a viper. Hours later, the glow-lamps sputtered yellow across the pine table. Tavitri turned an azure offcut in her fingers. The rough mineral scrap measured no longer than her thumb, dense with the deep indigo of midnight. Her usual intricate patterns felt wrong, too complex for the simple, profound ache in her chest. Tonight demanded something plain, an anchor against dread. She closed her eyes, letting her song flow. It wasn't the powerful, shaping melody she used for larger works. This was a lullaby, ancient and soft, a tune her grandmother had sung to ward off night terrors and comfort scraped knees. It was an old mountain tune, spare and firm, promising dawn after snowfall. Her voice, a low, melodic hum, wrapped around the crystal. No guild flourish guided the pitch, only a sustained murmur. The mineral pulsed as facets captured the amber lantern glow. She sang of running water beneath frozen crusts, threading resolve through the blue core. Engrossed in the note, she missed the latch lifting. Nor did she catch the sudden draft that signaled Lord Moros. Only when the song came to a natural pause, her throat a little hoarse, did she open her eyes. He stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the faintly luminous corridor. His weathered jaw slackened in the amber murk. “That song,” he said, his voice a low rumble, rough with disuse. It was the first time he had sought her out, the first time he had spoken to her outside of command or a communal meal. “My girl… she used to sing it.” Tavitri froze, the teardrop jewel caught in her hand. His daughter. The memory drifted through the quiet room like smoke. He had never spoken of her. His grief, usually an ax against every glass pane in the Spire, leaned soft against the doorframe. “She shaped glass?” Tavitri asked, keeping her tone down to spare the quiet. Moros nodded, a slow, heavy motion. His gaze cleared, fixed somewhere years behind him. “More skilled than I ever was. She crooned to the mineral shards on her sill, coaxing them into beads of light.” A ghost of a smile, fleeting and heartbreaking, touched his lips. “After… after she was gone, the song changed for me. Everything changed. The resonance… it became a weapon. A blight.” He looked at the pendant in her hand, his gaze intense. “That was her tune. Her shield against the dark.” The so-called Beast was an unmoored father, his innate chord warped by agony into raw destruction. Here stood the man Garegin methodically broke, laying bare a seam in the fortress. Moros closed the distance. His broad, scarred palm hovered inches over the ornament. His knuckles shook, betraying the strain of curbing his resonance. Tavitri waited for the crack of splintering mineral, yet none came. As his fingers neared, the drop flared blue, an unwavering flame answering his call, warm and intact. The piece stayed whole. No fractures split the sheen; it shone between them, steady and whole. Then the air chilled. A smooth voice broke into the room. “My lord. It is well past the hour. I brought your nightly tea.” Garegin stood in the doorway, a silver tray in his hands, two steaming cups resting upon it. Moros snatched his hand back. The azure glow faded instantly. The openness vanished from his face, replaced by his customary granite scowl. Moros nodded, a stiff, almost mechanical gesture. “Thank you, Garegin.” He turned away from Tavitri and the blue stone, his expression shuttered. Garegin stepped inside, casting a cool glance toward Tavitri before nodding to his lord. He offered the larger cup to his master. “For your rest, my lord. The night grows cold.” Tavitri watched, dread tightening her chest. An impulse urged her to slap the porcelain away, yet speaking out would doom them both. Her eyes pleaded with Moros, silently begging him to see, to understand. Moros did not look back. He took the rim in his calloused fingers, brought the broth to his lips, and drank.

The Ghost's Lullaby