“For Father, a shield for your heart, so you never have to be alone.” The words hung in the quiet of the daughter's workshop, enduring proof of an abiding love. Tavitri rose, the cold of the inscription still tingling on her skin. Narine, her face a mask of unusual solemnity, nodded towards the door. “He needs to see this. He needs to understand.”
They carefully maneuvered the breathtaking crystal effigy out of the hidden workshop, its luminescent form casting shifting shadows on the crystalline corridors. Its presence seemed to alter the very air of the Spire, filling the emptiness with a fragile warmth. They carried it to the Grand Hall, positioning it centrally where Lord Moros often sat in brooding contemplation, the single, un-shattered wine glass from their last dinner still visible on a nearby table.
Moros entered moments later, his customary dark robes appearing heavier than usual, his gaze fixed on some distant point. He paused, his presence causing the air to thicken, a subtle pressure Tavitri had come to recognize. His eyes, the color of twilight, slowly drifted, then snagged on the sculpture. His broad shoulders stiffened. He stared, not with recognition, but with an acute, almost painful disbelief. Air caught in his throat.
“My girl,” he rasped, the syllables a scrape of agony.
Tavitri stepped forward, her voice gentle but firm. “Lord Moros, this was made by your daughter. It has been here, in her workshop, for years. Untouched by your grief. Unbroken. The vibrations tearing through your voice, my lord, are not natural. They are being magnified.”
His head snapped up, his gaze intense, accusatory. “What sorcery is this? How could this survive? All… everything breaks.” He swept a hand towards the desolate walls of the hall, the gesture heavy with sorrow and self-condemnation.
“Because it was *her* creation, Lord Moros,” Narine interjected, her voice unusually impassioned. “A true Kavitari’s work, made with pure intent. And it was hidden, kept from whatever venom has been tainting you and twisting your craft into a curse.”
The double doors to the Grand Hall swung open with a soft sigh. Garegin, ever present, entered, a tray with steaming tea in his hands. He surveyed the scene, his benign expression tightening almost imperceptibly as his eyes fell upon the sculpture. He walked towards Moros, his gait unhurried.
“My lord, I apologize for the interruption,” Garegin said, his voice a soothing balm that grated on Tavitri’s nerves. “But it seems I have arrived at an unfortunate moment. What is this… this new creation?” He feigned surprise, his gaze sweeping over Tavitri and Narine with a hint of disapproval.
“It is my daughter's work,” Moros said, his voice rough, still caught between wonder and pain. “It should be impossible.”
Garegin set the tea tray down with a soft clang. “Indeed, my lord. A tragedy, that piece. A terrible tragedy.” He shook his head, looking down. “One that reminds us of the true danger of unchecked talent.”
Tavitri felt a chill prickle across the nape of her neck. “What do you mean, Garegin?”
Garegin turned to her, his eyes holding a pitying glint. “My dear girl, you are new to the Spire. You never knew the young lady in her final days. A brilliant artisan, yes, but her gift was volatile. Her emotions hummed with such ferocity that she struggled to contain them. The Spire itself struggled to contain them. This effigy, grand as it is, was her undoing.”
He produced a bundle of yellowed scrolls and a leather-bound book from inside his cloak. He offered them to Moros. “I kept these, my lord. Against my better judgment, perhaps. But they are a record of her struggles. Letters from her tutors, concerned about her escalating resonance. Her own journal entries, detailing the terrifying power she wrestled with. The day she finished this very piece, the unbridled chord consumed her. Broke her from within, just as it splits other glass.”
Moros took the items, his hands trembling. He unfolded a brittle scroll, his eyes scanning the elegant script. Tavitri saw his face whiten, a flicker of deep hurt crossing his features. The cursive script on the scroll matched the carved inscription below. Garegin had twisted the girl's desperate message into an instrument of ruin, forging a history of madness to weaponize the very devotion meant to heal.
“It states here… her own master… warned of an internal instability…” Moros murmured, his voice hollow, reading from one of the forged letters. He looked at the figures, then back at the letter, misery warring with his hope. “She wrote of feeling herself fray, like an over-taut cord…” He lifted his head, brows pinched in raw confusion. “Is this true?”
Tavitri stepped forward, blood rushing in her ears. “No, my lord! It is a lie! Garegin wants to keep you isolated in your grief. He is drugging your cup, amplifying your destructive pitch, twisting your memories!”
“Drugging?” Garegin scoffed, his chin drawing back in offended indignation. “My lord, I have served your house for generations. I have borne witness to your pain, your lasting loss. To suggest such a thing insults my loyalty and your daughter's memory.” He turned toward the crystal forms. “This work is a hazard. It holds too much of her volatile force.”
With a clumsy brush of his sleeve, Garegin leaned forward, fingertips grazing the pedestal. His touch seemed featherlight, yet a sickening *crack* snapped through the hall. A thin fissure spread across the glowing pane, snaking between the two figures and shearing through their joined hands.
Tavitri gasped, recoiling. It had not been Moros, but the steward's fingers. Subtle, calculated, precise. Garegin had driven an attuned hum into the base to fracture the work.
Garegin recoiled, his face a picture of shock. “Oh! My deepest apologies, my lord! I merely meant to… to steady it. It seems I am clumsy in my old age. But see, Lord Moros? The inherent instability. The danger. It reacts even to an innocent touch. This is not a shield; it is a weapon. A monument to her final, destructive act. She truly did create something beautiful, but something destined to break, taking her with it. And it seems it is still capable of harm.”
Moros stared at the fractured glass, then at the parchment in his hand, then up at Tavitri. His stare, once searching, hardened with frigid finality, hurt congealing into betrayal.
“You brought this here,” Moros said, his voice low, dangerous. “You disturbed her memory with a cruel falsehood, exploiting my pain. You played with a dangerous force. And you accuse my most loyal companion of… of poisoning me?” His gaze was like ice, freezing Tavitri in place. “Garegin has been my anchor, my only constant in this desolate place. You, artisan, are confined to your quarters. You will leave only when I permit it. And take this broken memory with you.”
Tavitri looked from the fractured figures to Moros’s face, which had turned entirely to stone. Garegin offered Moros his tea, a triumphant, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. Moros took the cup, his gaze never leaving Tavitri’s. She saw the raw wound in his eyes, a pain so deep that it had once again become a protective fury. He had chosen his grief, and his false comfort, over her. She was alone, trapped, and the Spire felt suddenly smaller, suffocating. She knew, with chilling clarity, that if she couldn’t find a way to make him see the truth, not only would Moros be lost forever, but she would be silenced long before that could happen. Her gaze met Garegin’s, and in his cold, calculating eyes, she saw her doom reflected. Her only choice was to break free. But how?
Then, a new thought, sharp and terrible, pierced through her despair. Narine. She was here, too. What would Garegin do with a second witness?