“What is that you’re hiding, Oana?” Lord Calin’s voice, raspy like grinding gravel, echoed in the cramped laboratory. The words were a hammer blow, perfectly timed, as her fingers brushed the cold glass of the Gorsian nightbloom solvent. Air stuck in her throat, sour with pure annoyance. The man had a knack for theatrical entrances and theatrical interrogations. She straightened, turning slowly, the small vial now tucked securely in her palm, hidden against her leg. A faint film of grey dust clung to her sleeve, a perfect, impromptu alibi. “Hiding?” she scoffed, affecting a bored tone. “Nothing of consequence, Lord Basarab. Merely examining the fascinating array of… dust. This lab, I must say, is a veritable archaeological dig of detritus.” Calin’s stony gaze, devoid of eyebrows, narrowed. He was still half-hidden by the towering, skeletal remains of a distillation apparatus. “You were fumbling with something under the canvas.” “Ah, that.” She gestured vaguely towards the fabric Stefan had delivered. “Just a particularly stubborn thread caught in the hem. A tailor’s nightmare, I assure you. Not nearly as intriguing as, say, the structural integrity of this wing, which appears to be held together by little more than hope and aggressive fungi.” She tried a small, practiced smile, the one she used on tax collectors and overly zealous apothecaries. He didn’t smile back. His expression remained a carved mask. “You always deflect with insolence, Oana.” “It’s a versatile skill,” she countered. “Far more useful than, say, turning city fountains into gravy, a mistake I’m still paying for.” She paused, letting the silence hang. “However, I did come to a conclusion about your… condition.” She switched gears abruptly, hoping to steer him away from the lingering scent of solvent and suspicion. “The curse’s anchor. I suspect it sits in one of your limbs, or your torso, rather than your head. The calcification seems to emanate outwards, but the core itself isn't your whole body, or you'd already be a garden ornament.” Calin’s rocky features softened, if only by a fraction. The insult barely registered. The mention of his curse, however, always held his attention. “What are you proposing?” “A thorough examination of the affected areas,” she said, trying to sound professional and not like she was mentally calculating where to stash a revolutionary’s potent liquid. “And for that, we need light. And a less… dusty environment. Your study? It has more natural illumination, even through the perpetual gloom of this spire.” He hesitated for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Very well. But no more ‘fascinating detritus,’ if you please.” “My word is my bond,” she lied smoothly, already planning how to retrieve the solvent later. She quickly secured the hidden vial under the loose floorboard, a tiny, almost imperceptible click, before following him out of the lab. The Cogwork Valet rolled from the corridor shadows, its polished brass gleaming in the gloom. “A most serendipitous move, Lord Basarab!” the Valet trilled, its gears whirring softly. “A change of scenery, a fresh perspective! Often, the path to a lady’s affections begins with shared scholarly pursuits. Consider a reading of the Bard of Brontia’s ‘Lament of the Unrequited Serenade’?” Oana rolled her eyes. “Not quite, Valet. We’re attempting to prevent your master from becoming a permanent lawn ornament, not court a maiden.” “Ah, but are those goals truly distinct?” The Valet pirouetted gracefully. “For what is love, if not a bulwark against the ravages of time and creeping granite?” Calin merely grunted, already halfway down the hall. Oana sighed, following. The Valet, undeterred, continued to offer its bizarre advice as they made their way to Calin’s study, a room lined floor-to-ceiling with books, many of them covered in a fine layer of dust that contradicted Oana’s earlier promise. “Now, if you would just sit,” Oana instructed, indicating a heavy, upholstered chair by a tall, drafty window. She pulled over a small, wobbly stool and her worn satchel, which contained a magnifying glass, a roll of parchment, and several charcoal sticks. “I need to map the reach of the mineral crust, specifically where living tissue transitions to stone. The anchor point should be the oldest, most dense part.” Calin settled into the chair, his movements stiff. The stone on his hands and forearms was visibly thicker than when she’d first arrived, the cracks deeper. His face, too, had taken on a more formidable, craggy aspect. He rolled up his trousers, revealing a leg that was solid grey from ankle to mid-calf, the skin a rough, pitted surface that looked like river stone. “Excellent, excellent!” chirped the Valet, hovering nearby, its optical lenses whirring. “The hero allows the heroine to tend to his wounds, a classic gambit! Next, he shall confess a deep, abiding secret—a lost love, or a fondness for candied elderberries!” “Please, Valet,” Oana muttered, already sketching on her parchment. “Just… observe. Quietly.” She pressed a cool, practiced hand against Calin’s stone-hard skin, then traced the jagged border where flesh met rock. The coldness radiated through her fingertips. “The spread is erratic,” she mused aloud. “Not a steady creep. More like… sudden lurches forward.” She leaned closer, using her magnifying glass to peer at the microscopic fissures. The air in the study, always cool, seemed to develop a fresh, chilling current. A particularly strong gust whistled through a gap in the window frame, rattling a pane. The Valet, sensing a lull, chimed in. “Might I suggest a theatrical sigh, Lord Basarab? And a pained utterance regarding the unfairness of fate, to elicit a comforting stroke of the brow from the fair Oana?” “Valet, I will dismantle you and use your gears for my next failed experiment,” Oana threatened without looking up. Her focus remained solely on the intricate veins of stone spreading across Calin’s leg. The air grew colder still, and the rattling intensified. The books on the tall, precariously stacked shelf behind Calin began to shift. A deep groan emanated from the timber. “Or,” the Valet continued, undeterred, “a sudden, selfless act of protection! The hero defending the heroine from a plummeting gargoyle, or an especially vile dust bunny!” Just as the Valet spoke, the whistling draft intensified into a howl. The tall bookshelf, top-heavy and weakened by centuries of rot, groaned loudly, leaning inwards. A cascade of heavy, leather-bound tomes began to slide, threatening to topple the whole frame directly onto Calin. He sat, mesmerized by her mapping, his head tilted slightly, not realizing the danger. Oana’s pragmatism, usually a shield against sentiment, became pure instinct. “Calin! Move!” she yelled, shoving him with all her might. He was heavy, but the force of her push, combined with his own surprise, sent him sprawling sideways, out of the direct path of the collapse. The bookshelf crashed down with a deafening roar, a tsunami of ancient paper and splintered wood. Oana stumbled, not quite clearing the collapsing timber. A sharp, searing pain shot through her left forearm as a thick, oak plank, heavy with books, pinned her against the edge of the wobbly stool. The impact sent a dizzying throb through her head, and she gasped, her vision momentarily blurring with agony. “Oana!” Calin’s voice was a raw, guttural sound she’d never heard from him. He scrambled back, his stone limbs moving with surprising speed. He saw her, arm trapped, face pale with pain. A sharp spark flared in his slate-crusted gaze. He reached for the wooden plank, his stony fingers clenching. “Wait, don’t!” she cried, a warning born of his past journals. He couldn’t touch it, not with his power. Not without turning her, too. But the pain was blinding, her arm throbbing, trapped beneath hundreds of pounds of wood and knowledge. Calin didn’t heed her. His eyes, usually clouded with resignation, sharpened with a fierce resolve. He wasn’t touching her. He was touching the *wood*. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer radiated from his hand as he pressed it against the fallen shelf. His jaw was set, his brow furrowed in concentration. The raw, uncontrolled power that had once hardened his own hand now manifested with deliberate precision. The thick, oaken plank, heavy and unyielding, began to *flicker*. It didn’t turn to stone. It softened, shimmered, and then, with a sound like a thousand whispers, dissolved into a fine, pale shower of sawdust. The books, no longer supported, tumbled harmlessly around her. Oana stared, her arm still throbbing, but now free, at the pile of innocuous wood dust. Calin had done it. He had controlled it. Dumbfounded wonder washed over her, nudging aside the pain. Calin stood there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his tunic. His hand, still outstretched, trembled slightly. He looked at the sawdust, then at his own hand, then back at Oana, a bewildered, almost hopeful expression on his stone-cracked face. “I… I didn’t…” he started, his voice a low rumble. But before he could finish, a sharp, crystalline *crack* echoed through the room. A spiderweb of new fissures erupted across his stony leg, spreading upwards past his mid-calf. The grey, lifeless stone surged, like a rising tide, encasing his entire leg in an instant. He gasped, slumping back into the chair, his frame stiffening. The effort, the conscious exertion of his power, had taken a brutal toll. His left leg was now a solid, unmoving column of rock. Oana’s awe turned to a cold dread. The curse was accelerating, faster than she’d ever seen. She knelt beside him, her own arm aching, her hand hovering over his newly petrified leg. The surface felt cold, dense, and unyielding. “Calin…” she whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Are you… are you alright?” He didn’t answer for a long moment, staring blankly at the stone that was now irrevocably part of him. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin, almost lost. “It’s not the dying I fear, Oana.” He turned his gaze to her, his stone eyes surprisingly vulnerable. “It’s… being forgotten. That the man I was, the man I tried to be, will be lost beneath the stone. That I will be remembered only as the monster, the failure, the one who shattered the mountain. A cautionary tale. But never… never a person.” His words, raw and devoid of his usual dramatic pronouncements, struck a chord deep within her. The cynicism that was her default setting faltered, crumbled, like the bookshelf. She saw not the gruff, miserable lord, but a man drowning in a cruel fate, desperate for a sliver of remembrance. Her pragmatism, for once, didn’t offer a solution, but a genuine, human response. She reached out, her uninjured hand gently resting on his knee, just above the newly petrified section. “You won’t be forgotten, Calin,” she said, her voice firm, unwavering. “Not as a man. Not while I’m here.” A heavy quiet settled between them. His gaze searched hers with a gleam akin to hope or raw disbelief. The Valet, having retrieved a feather duster, gave a metallic cough. “A most tender moment! A shared gaze into the crackling hearth would further solidify this burgeoning—” Oana ignored it, her gaze locked with Calin’s. But her mind, ever the pragmatist, was already working. He had controlled his power. A breakthrough. But at what cost? His curse was racing. The Rose Timer, sitting back in her room, must be shedding petals like autumn leaves. She had to act, and quickly. She had just made a promise, and for the first time in a long while, it felt like one she truly meant to keep. She took a deep breath, the pain in her arm a dull throb now, a secondary concern. The solvent. The anchor. She needed to understand what had just happened, and how to replicate the control without accelerating the curse. The mountain, the spire, her freedom – it all depended on it. She looked at Calin, now a statue from the waist down, his expression still etched with vulnerability. A monster. A man. And the clock was ticking, faster than ever before.

Draughts, Drafts, and Disasters