Ivor stood motionless, an unyielding barrier before the threshold. Lantern light caught the pulsing blue mineral, throwing sharp amber angles against the stones and cutting through the draft pooling around Mirina's ankles. The footsteps ceased. A soft clearing of a throat preceded a voice, smooth as polished glass, from the archway. “Ivor, my dear man. And Lady Mirina. What a delightful surprise to find you both enjoying the… unique charms of the West Wing at this late hour.” Olen Saros stepped into the dim passage, a silk dressing gown the colour of twilight draped over his shoulders. His smile stretched a fraction too wide, pleasant grease over iron. His glance tracked over the blue mineral, then hitched on Mirina’s wrist band, lingering with an appraisal that raised the hairs on her neck. Ivor bowed, his voice a low, even rumble. “Lord Olen. Her Ladyship expressed an interest in the estate’s older architectural features. I merely offered a brief, unscheduled tour.” “Indeed?” Olen’s mouth tightened at the corners. “Such dedication to learning the layout of your new home, Lady Mirina. One might almost believe you were… charting something.” His cadence was airy, yet heat prickled Mirina's collar. She met his gaze, refusing to flinch. “As a cartographer, Lord Olen, I find patterns in all structures. The history etched into these stones is quite compelling.” She gestured vaguely at a moss-covered niche. The lie felt flimsy, yet it was all she had. Olen chuckled, a sound without genuine mirth. “Of course. A woman of your intellect would appreciate such things. Though I do recall advising against wandering too far from the main halls, especially at night. The Stillness, you see, is… unpredictable. And we wouldn’t want any harm to befall you, or, for that matter, your dear sister, Kasya, would we?” The casual mention of Kasya, delivered with an easy paternal tilt of his chin, hit harder than an unsheathed blade. Her usual habit of picking motives apart like drafting errors faltered against raw calculation. Olen offered a simple leverage point: her twin's breath traded for her own obedience. “Kasya is quite safe, I assure you,” Olen continued, eyes fixed on hers, “as long as all parties continue to act… reasonably. You are an observant woman, Lady Mirina. I trust you grasp the delicate balance we maintain here.” The corridor narrowed around them. Olen gave both of them an assessing nod. “Well, do try to get some rest, both of you. Tomorrow brings new opportunities for… discovery.” He pivoted, silk hem sweeping the floorstones, his footsteps fading until only the draft remained. Mirina waited until the last footfall faded down the corridor. “He saw,” she muttered under her breath. “He knows I was searching.” Ivor released a measured breath. “He suspects. He wants you convinced that every flagstone belongs to him.” He nodded toward her cuff. “And he knows the band dampens your senses. He prefers you hindered, Lady Mirina.” Her jaw set hard. If Olen expected a frightened draftswoman, he had misjudged his captive. The next afternoon, Mirina sought out Ivor again. “I need to speak with Gavril,” she stated, her voice firm. “Alone. Where Olen cannot listen.” Ivor’s brow furrowed. “That is… difficult. Lord Olen monitors many areas.” “What about the glasshouse?” Mirina asked, recalling the glassy terrace she had viewed from the high gallery. “The court with the stone effigies. It felt… distinct.” Ivor considered this. “The winter garden. It remains largely spared from the recent petrification. Perhaps… yes.” He sketched a quiet route past the North Terrace that converged on the iron entrance when Gavril walked during the midday lull. Following the route, Mirina pushed past the tall iron-framed door. Inside, cool air smelled of dried petals and mineral dust. Ferns and tall palms were locked in glass-clear rime, leaves frozen mid-sway above dry stone basins where water had ceased to run decades ago. In the center, encircled by frosted boxwoods, rose two pale figures carved from pearlescent marble. They depicted a man and a woman, their faces etched with gentle smiles, their hands clasped. Gavril Saros stood before the pair, back turned, shoulders drawn tight beneath coarse charcoal wool. She stepped closer, boots muted against the grit. “Lord Gavril?” He remained motionless before the stone likenesses. “I came to learn what happened here. To map the blight.” He offered no reply. Mirina paused two paces back, studying the carved faces; both bore his angular cheekbones and severe jawline, though worked into expressions of unclouded ease. “They were beautiful, weren’t they?” Mirina said, her voice softer still. “Your parents.” This time, a tremor passed through Gavril’s frame. He turned, slowly, his eyes, the colour of deep sea ice, fixing on her. He had shed no tears since she’d seen him in the library, but the sorrow in his gaze was a raw, open wound. His crystalline tear, the proof of his enduring grief, was absent today, perhaps because he was in the one place where his sorrow was already manifest. “They were,” Gavril replied, his low rasp grating like rough slate sliding across shale. “And Olen… he demands that I forget.” Her lungs hitched, then settled. He was fully conscious of his uncle's hand. “He speaks of your grief as a liability,” she said, studying his profile. “He uses it to govern this house.” Gavril looked back to the carved figures. “He claims he shields me from the province. Yet the perimeter shrinks every season.” He faced her directly, his glare sharp as sheared flint. “You should pack your drafting tools. He grinds down everyone near this hall. Leave, Lady Mirina, while the roads are open.” His words, delivered with such a desolate honesty, were not a threat, but a plea. A desperate, quiet attempt to save her from the cage he himself inhabited. She saw, for the first time, not the Beast, but the man, burdened by an unbearable weight, struggling to protect even a stranger from the encroaching darkness. That midnight, his warning lingered in the dark. Mirina looked down at the dull metal band clasped around her forearm. Olen wanted her senses muted. Yet how could she chart an anomaly while deliberately deaf to its pulse? With a firm squeeze to the latch, she popped the catch. The metal slipped into her palm, heavy and inert. A sudden pins-and-needles tingle surged up her forearms, rushing into her chest like cold river water. The quiet inside the bedchamber was no longer empty; it hummed with low vibrations through the floor timbers. Heat flared behind her ribs. She flexed her fingers, watching her knuckles pale. The masonry beside the bedpost shivered; along the mortar lines, needle-thin prongs of glass-hard rime pushed outward, creeping across the stone in jagged, rapid webs.

Whispers in the Crystal