Joveta stared at the empty, broken box, a cold dread seeping into her bones. The thrumming in her head intensified, no longer just from the fever but from a stark, terrifying certainty. Someone knew. Someone had found it. And now the last hope, the precise, esoteric instructions for the legendary cure, was gone.
“The notebook,” she whispered, her voice a reedy tremor. “It was here. Under my pillow. It held… every formula.” She pushed herself further upright, vertigo prickling behind her temples, but she barely noticed. “Zdenor, you have to go.”
He had just returned with the water, the ceramic carafe heavy in his hands. His brows furrowed, the carefree lines around his eyes completely absent. “Go? What are you talking about?”
“You can’t be seen here.” She looked at him, her gaze intense, pleading. The bubbly persona was a forgotten cloak, shed in the face of true fear. “They’ll realize. They’ll know I’m not who I pretend to be. And then they’ll come for you too.”
Zdenor set the carafe down with a soft thud, his eyes darkening. He crossed the small space in two swift strides, taking her hands in his. His grip was firm, unyielding. “Joveta. Look at me.” His voice was low, a rumble of thunder before a storm. “Do you honestly believe I would leave you now? After… after all this?”
She pulled against his fingers, frantic energy seizing her. “You don’t understand. This isn’t a game, Zdenor. Master Yvelis… she perished to guard that formula. If they find out what I’m truly capable of, what I intend to do…” Her voice broke. “They’ll destroy me. And if you’re with me, they’ll drag you down with me. Your family, your reputation, your future… all of it.”
A corded tendon pulsed along the line of his throat. The elegant drape of his shirt, usually so casually worn, seemed to pull taut across his shoulders. “My family? My reputation?” He scoffed, a raw, bitter sound. “You think any of that matters more than this?” He gestured vaguely at her, at the splintered cedar box, at the sharpness in her gaze. “My future, Princess, is standing right in front of me, terrified and attempting to push me away.”
His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a small, tender gesture that belied the fury in his gaze. “Our arrangement, Joveta, was a convenient lie to start. But what we became in that conservatory, what you became to me in these past few days… that is unequivocally real. I am not leaving you to face this alone. Not for any ‘reputation’ or political favor.” His voice dropped to a near whisper, his eyes burning into hers. “You are mine. And anyone who tries to hurt you will face me.”
The possessiveness in his tone, so unexpected, so starkly at odds with the carefree playboy she thought she knew, silenced her. Her argument dissolved beneath his quiet certainty. She could see no bluff in his gaze, only a terrifying, undeniable sincerity.
“The note,” she managed, changing tack. “The one that said, ‘I know what she gave you.’ And the key to Radvan’s desk… Ilyak saw me take it.” A sudden clarity pierced through her panic. “He was there. He knew I took the manuscript. He must have seen me hide it.”
Zdenor straightened, his posture shifting from protective to predatory. “Ilyak. The nervous student. The one who followed you to the labs.” His mind, usually occupied with schemes of flirtation, was now working with ruthless efficiency. “Where would he go? Somewhere quiet, somewhere he could think without being watched.”
Joveta’s eyes narrowed. “The Sunken Gardens. He always sought solitude there when he was overwhelmed during lectures.”
Without another word, Zdenor helped her up, his hand steady on her arm. Her legs still felt wobbly, but the adrenaline coursing through her body pushed away the lingering weakness. They moved through the labyrinthine corridors of the academy, past hushed studies and empty parlors, the silence of the early morning amplifying their quick footsteps.
The Sunken Gardens were a verdant sanctuary, carved into a gentle slope behind the main academy buildings. Dew-kissed ferns unfurled beside miniature waterfalls, and the air was thick with the earthy scent of damp soil and the sweet perfume of night-blooming jasmyna. In the center, hunched on a stone bench, was Ilyak. His shoulders were shaking, and he was scrubbing at his face with the back of his sleeve.
As they approached, his head snapped up. His eyes, already red-rimmed, flared with naked terror. He scrambled to his feet, knocking over a small, ornate watering can. “J-Joveta! Zdenor! What… what are you doing here?”
“The bound pages, Ilyak,” Joveta said, her voice devoid of its usual airy lilt. “Where are they?”
He flinched, his gaze darting between them like a trapped bird. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was a pathetic squeak.
Zdenor stepped forward, his imposing height casting a shadow over the trembling student. “Don’t lie to her, Ilyak. You witnessed her taking the key. You tried to blackmail her. You knew about the manuscript.” His voice was a low growl, devoid of any playfulness. “Where is it?”
Ilyak crumpled, sinking back onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. Small, choked sobs escaped him. “I’m sorry, Joveta. I’m so, so sorry.” His words were muffled, but clear enough in the quiet garden. “She made me. Svata. She knew you had it. She said… she said if I didn’t get it, she’d hurt my family.”
Joveta stiffened. “Svata? Why would she want my teacher's writings? She’s after political power, controlling the scent-weavers, not some obscure cure formula.”
Ilyak lifted his head, his face streaked with tears and snot. His eyes were filled with a desperate, crushing grief. “It’s not for power. It’s for my sister, Zora. She’s… she’s been in a coma for months. Svata is her mother. My mother. She has exhausted every avenue. Every healer, every balm, every ancient aromancy text.” He swallowed hard, tears freely streaming down his face. “The master found the only true hope. The legendary cure. Svata isn’t a villain, Joveta. She’s just a mother, desperate to save her child. She’ll do anything. And Zora… Zora is my little sister.”
The revelation hung in the perfumed air, an impossible, heartbreaking truth. Joveta felt the ground shift beneath her. Svata, the ruthless secret-taker, the interrogator in the conservatory, wasn’t a monster hungry for dominion. She was a grieving parent, a twin reflection of Joveta’s own devotion to a dying wish. The lines between hero and villain blurred, then shattered completely.
The cure. That promised legacy. It wasn’t just about honoring the past anymore. It was about saving a child. Ilyak’s sister. Svata’s daughter. Joveta’s mind, sharp and analytical, raced. She needed to synthesize the cure, and she needed to do it now, before more harm came to Zora, before Svata resorted to even more desperate measures. Her own safety, the risk of exposing her intellect to the authorities who hunted sharp minds, faded into irrelevance. This was bigger than her.
“Where are the papers now, Ilyak?” she asked, her voice firm, resolute.
He pointed a trembling finger towards the sprawling, heavily guarded central pavilion. “She took it straight to her private labs. She said she’d send me back with the missing ingredients. She’s going to start compounding it herself.”
A cold dread, entirely different from her earlier panic, settled in Joveta’s stomach. Svata, without a master's full understanding of the intricate, unstable nature of the legendary cure’s components, could easily create something lethal. There was no time. Joveta had to intervene. She had to use her own mind, her own hidden brilliance, to save this child.
Before they could formulate a plan, a sharp, metallic clang echoed from the periphery of the gardens. Heavily armed academy guards, cloaked in the dark uniforms of the Imperial Scent-Ward, emerged from the surrounding foliage. Their faces were grim, their movements precise. They spread out, surrounding the three of them in a tightening circle. Each guard held aloft a shimmering, brass canister, from which a thin, silvery vapor was already beginning to seep.