The vibration intensified, no longer just a tremor but a drone that seemed to penetrate the very marrow of Lenka’s bones. It wasn’t just the stone floor that thrummed now; the ornate candelabras rattled on their sconces, and a faint, high-pitched whine rose from somewhere deeper within the palace’s labyrinthine passages. Csilla, her face a mask of horrified fascination, stumbled back a step. “What in the Abyss is that?” she breathed, her earlier desperation momentarily forgotten in the face of this unsettling phenomenon. Lenka, ever the pragmatist, felt a primal unease coil in her gut. It sounded like a hive of very angry, very large wasps, but with a bass note that felt entirely unnatural. “Sounds like someone’s having a bad night,” she muttered, though her gaze was already fixed on the direction of the princes’ wing, the source of the unsettling chorus. “This isn’t… normal,” Csilla whispered, clutching her hands to her chest. “I’ve never heard anything like it. Not even during the Midwinter Feast when Prince Laszlo rigged the entire ballroom to play the royal anthem on exploding turnips.” “Exploding turnips?” Lenka blinked. “Now that’s a spectacle I might’ve actually enjoyed.” She shook her head, dismissing the thought. Pipin’s drawing of the merging crowns flashed in her mind. This wasn't some noble's prank. This was… bigger. And definitely not good for Pipin’s chances of keeping his head. “We should alert the guards,” Csilla insisted, already turning towards the nearest corridor. “No.” Lenka grabbed her arm, stopping her. “If it’s something truly awful, and we’re the first to find it, that puts us in a better position. If it’s just a glorified chamber pot overflowing, then no harm done. Besides,” she added, a hint of steel in her voice, “I’ve got a feeling this racket has something to do with those four idiots.” Csilla hesitated, her eyes darting between Lenka and the pulsating corridor. The drone swelled, now accompanied by a faint, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat that was too slow, too heavy, too *many* all at once. Fear warred with ambition in Csilla’s gaze, and ambition, as always, won. “Fine,” Csilla said through gritted teeth. “But if we find a dragon, I’m blaming you.” They moved cautiously down the gilded corridor, the pitch climbing with every step, vibrating through the stone beneath their slippers. It seemed to emanate from the grand Royal Archives, a wing normally silent as a tomb after dark. The heavy oak doors were ajar, a sliver of candlelight bleeding into the oppressive darkness of the hall. Lenka pushed the door open wider, revealing a scene that pulled the breath from her lungs. The vast, cavernous library, usually meticulously organized, was a mess. Scrolls lay scattered, books teetered precariously from shelves, and in the center, amidst a circle of overturned tomes, sat Prince Stefan. He was hunched over a large parchment on a low reading table, his face slack, eyes wide and unseeing, fixed on some distant point. His hand, gripped around a charcoal stick, moved with an unnatural, compulsive energy, tracing the same pattern Pipin had snorted to her: four distinct crowns, slowly, horrifyingly, fusing into a single, grotesque entity. The low hum was coming from him, a deep, resonant vibrato that pulsed from his very being. Bookshelves around him seemed to glow faintly with a sickly green light, and the air crackled with a dry, metallic tang. “Stefan?” Csilla whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum. He didn’t respond. His eyes remained vacant, his hand continuing its morbid artistry. Cold prickles swept the nape of Lenka’s neck. This was no ordinary trance. Lenka stepped closer, the Sunstone Amulet around her neck suddenly feeling heavy, warm. As she approached, Stefan's eyes flickered, gaining a terrible, haunted lucidity. The humming faltered, then intensified, a discordant chord of pain. “Lady Ilona,” Stefan murmured, his voice hollow, as if speaking from a great distance. His gaze settled on the amulet, and a flicker of something like recognition, raw and agonizing, crossed his features. “You wear it.” “Wear what?” Lenka demanded, her usual bravado warring with a genuine unease. “What’s happening to you? And what is that awful noise?” Stefan’s gaze drifted to the parchment, his charcoal still poised over the merging crowns. “The Curse of Shared Devotion,” he intoned, his voice gaining a strange, detached clarity. “They say it’s a love charm, woven by ancient sorcerers to ensure the Somesvar line would always find true affection. A romantic lie.” He slowly raised his head, his eyes fixing on Lenka, no longer vacant, but burning with a frantic, desperate understanding. “It’s a parasitic magic. Not a charm, but a disease. It binds, yes, but it also consumes. It seeks to unify, to make the royal bloodline inviolable, to ensure there is no dissent, no individuality. It slowly erodes us. Our memories, our personalities… they are being stripped away, blended.” He pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. “Soon, the four become one. One mind. One will. A single, mindless royal entity, incapable of thought, only instinct. A puppet king.” Lenka felt a cold dread seize her. A puppet king. Pipin’s life depended on a successful betrothal to one of these princes. Not to a mindless royal puppet. “The amulet,” Stefan continued, his voice growing weaker, the hum around him beginning to pulse again. “It doesn’t create love. It *demands* a true bond. With its wearer. It’s an anchor. A soul anchor. To forge a connection strong enough to resist the curse. To pull us back from the precipice of… dissolution.” He coughed, a dry, rattling sound, and his eyes glazed over again for a moment, the hum rising to a crescendo. Lenka stared, the audacity of the situation, the sheer, horrifying truth of it, slamming into her. This wasn’t about a dowry anymore. It wasn't about a pig, not entirely. It was about saving four living, breathing, albeit exasperating, people from a fate worse than death. A mindless existence, stripped of everything that made them *them*. Her stomach churned. She was no longer just running a con; she was on a rescue mission. “So, I have to… make one of you love me?” Lenka asked, the absurdity of the situation almost comical, even in the face of the encroaching horror. “No,” Stefan rasped, his eyes locking onto hers, a desperate plea in their depths. “You have to *choose* one. To bond with them. Truly. Before there’s nothing left to choose.” The brutal reality of his words pressed down on her. The stakes had just escalated from a few thousand corona to the very souls of four princes. This was far more complicated than simply pretending to be Lady Ilona. This was a tangled, deadly mess. Before Lenka could process this new, overwhelming burden, the library doors burst open. Prince Matyas stood there, his face pale with panic, his golden hair disheveled, breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes were wide, brimming with unshed tears. “Ilona!” he cried, his voice trembling with fear. “You have to help! Laszlo is gone!”

The Scrivener's Malady