Signe stared at the words, throat dry. “A bride of pure heart, given freely.” The ink, so precise and formal, mocked the frantic leap of her hope. Given freely? Her marriage to Valerik was a transaction, a desperate exchange of her future for Rila’s survival. There was no freedom in it, no purehearted offering, only the cold calculus of her house’s debt and Rila’s fading health. Was this a condition, a true prerequisite for the ritual’s success, or merely the romanticized flourish of a scribe from a bygone era? The thought was a chilling draught, extinguishing the warmth of revelation that had bloomed moments before. She traced the elegant script with a hesitant knuckle, the parchment dry and cool against her skin. Could she, a bride bought and bound by necessity, ever embody the purity and freeness required? If this was the truth, then all her efforts, all her nascent plans, were destined to crumble into the same ash as the Skjorr bloom Valerik had touched. A bitter laugh, small and fragile, escaped her. Footsteps, too light to be Old Helmi’s, sounded on the flagstones outside the library. Signe tucked the volume quickly beneath a stack of brittle maps, fingers prickling with unease. The heavy oak door swung inward, revealing a figure that made her forget the ledger, the curse, and all the desperate questions. Rila stood framed in the archway, pale as frost-kissed linen, a worn travel cloak draped over her slight shoulders. Her usually vibrant auburn hair seemed duller, and the shadows beneath her eyes were deeper, starker. “Rila?” Signe breathed, disbelief warring with a sudden surge of protectiveness. “What are you doing here?” Rila’s smile was weak, tinged with a familiar weariness. “Signe. You look… well.” She took a few unsteady steps into the echoing space, her gaze sweeping over the dust-laden shelves. “Our physician, Master Olian, suggested the northern air might aid my consumption. He said the dry, cold air of the northern reaches has a bracing effect. Mother and Father thought it best.” Signe moved swiftly, closing the distance between them, her hands reaching for Rila’s arms. The chill emanating from Rila’s skin was sharper than usual, and her cough, when it came, was a ragged, deep sound that shook her small frame. “Mother and Father sent you here? To Frostfang Hold?” The words were laced with a disbelief that verged on anger. They knew the desolation of this place, the grim reality of Valerik’s curse. How could they send their ailing daughter into its very heart? Old Helmi emerged from the shadowy periphery of the hall, her gaze falling upon Rila with an unreadable intensity. “The air here is… potent,” the old woman said, her voice a low rasp. She offered Rila a small, steaming cup from a tray she carried. “Chamomile and Thistlebloom tea. For the throat.” Rila accepted the cup with a grateful nod, her eyes wide as she took in the cavernous library. “It’s… bigger than I imagined. Like a sleeping giant.” Signe steered her toward a plush, if dusty, armchair. “You shouldn’t have come, Rila. This place… it’s not what you’d expect.” She kept her voice low, keenly aware of Helmi’s silent presence. The truth of Valerik’s blight, the danger he posed, was a secret she was not yet ready to share with her frail sibling. Rila merely shook her head, a stubborn glint in her eyes that Signe recognized as her own. “I wanted to see you. And the journey was… long. I need to rest.” The reunion was bittersweet, shadowed by Rila’s persistent cough and Signe’s growing apprehension. She settled Rila in a quiet chamber near her own, a room with a surprisingly intact hearth that Helmi had swiftly prepared. Later that afternoon, as the sun dipped towards the jagged peaks, casting long, bruised shadows across the snow-covered grounds, Signe guided Rila through the quieter, less blighted wings of the Hold, hoping the sterile cold of the stone would somehow keep the insidious blight at bay. They found themselves in a rarely used gallery, hung with age-dimmed wall hangings depicting the castle's founding. At its center, beneath a skylight long ago frosted over, stood the Core – the petrified relic Valerik had mentioned. It pulsed with an almost imperceptible, cold luminescence, a faint shimmer that danced on its obsidian surface. Signe had grown accustomed to its subtle presence, but Rila, catching sight of it, gasped. “Oh, it’s… beautiful,” Rila whispered, her voice hoarse, her eyes fixated on the heart. She took a tentative step towards it, her hand unconsciously rising as if to touch the weathered stone. As she drew nearer, a deep, wracking cough tore through her. It was worse than any Signe had heard before, forcing Rila to double over, her small body convulsing. She clutched at her chest, her breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. And as Rila struggled, the Core pulsed. The cold light, barely there moments before, intensified. A distinct, icy glow emanated from its polished surface, growing brighter with each of Rila’s pained coughs, before slowly, subtly, receding as the fit subsided. Signe watched, stunned, unable to swallow. Her gaze shot to Helmi, who stood a little distance away, her face impassive, but her eyes fixed on the Core with a knowing, almost resigned expression. “Are you alright?” Signe managed, rushing to Rila’s side, supporting her as she straightened, gasping for air. Rila nodded weakly, pressing a hand to her aching chest. She hadn’t noticed the heart’s reaction, her focus entirely on her own pain. Later that evening, after Rila had rested and eaten a light supper, she sat by the crackling fire in her room, a charcoal stick in her delicate grip. Signe watched her sketch, her own mind still replaying the bizarre incident at the relic. Rila’s artistic talent had always been a source of quiet wonder, a stark contrast to her fragile health. Her sketch pad filled with intricate floral patterns, then the familiar spires of their family home, then, unexpectedly, a complex heraldic device. “What’s that?” Signe asked, leaning closer. The crest was elaborate: a stylized raven perched atop a frozen crag, encircled by what looked like entwined thorny vines, all within a shield-like frame. It was unlike any Varis or allied house sigil she had ever seen. Rila looked up, a faint flush on her cheeks from the warmth of the fire. “I don’t know, really. I dreamt it. It was so vivid, like I was standing right in front of it, carved into a great stone archway. A raven, a peak… it felt important.” She frowned, concentrating on adding another flourish to the thorny vines. Stiffening, Signe recognized the rendering at once. Her memory flashed back to the dusty pages of the bound record. Among the cryptic entries about the family line and the blight, there had been a crude, hastily drawn sketch of a crest. A raven, a crag, thorns… The symbol of the primordial pact, the text had called it. A forgotten covenant that bound Valerik's blood to something terrible, something powerful. She looked from the drawing in Rila’s hand to her sister’s innocent, searching face. How could Rila, isolated in their distant ancestral home, never having set foot in Frostfang Hold until today, have dreamt a symbol that Signe had only just discovered in a hidden, centuries-old ledger? A symbol directly linked to Valerik’s cursed lineage and the very pact that had blighted his house. How did her frail sister know these secrets of his blood?

Whispers in the Blood