The satisfied curve of Siran’s lips, brief as it was, etched itself into Narineh’s memory. It was a silent commentary on Vahagn’s suffering, a cruel punctuation to his raw grief. The stone floors bit through her slippers. The image of the dead glasshouse, the lord’s desolation, and Siran’s chilling smile coalesced into a knot of unease. There was more here than just a curse; there was a design.
She found Koryun later that morning, hunched over a steaming mug of mint tea in her chambers, meticulously polishing a pair of spectacles. The air, despite the braziers Narineh had insisted on, still clung with a biting chill. She recounted Vahagn’s words, the ruined glasshouse, and Siran’s silent presence.
Koryun listened, his brow furrowing deeper with each detail. “A sickness… that’s what he called it?” He pushed his spectacles onto his nose, his eyes, usually so bright with curiosity, now shadowed with concern. “And Siran watched him, smiling?”
Narineh nodded, her gaze distant. “It wasn’t a smile of pity. More… satisfaction. As if his misery was precisely what she wished to see.” She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “His parents died trying to save that glasshouse. He said Siran knew.”
Koryun sat up straighter, the tea forgotten. “Siran was regent then, too. She oversaw everything after their deaths. If there’s a pattern, a lingering truth in this fortress, it will be in the archives. In the archive halls.”
“You think we’ll find answers about his… condition?” Narineh asked, the word ‘curse’ lingering behind her teeth.
“Not a cure, but an understanding,” Koryun replied, already standing. “The fortress collection is famed across Nairi, a repository spanning centuries. If anyone documented the peculiarities of this house, it would be there.”
The hall was a monument to neglected scholarship. Towering cases of dark wood rose into the gloom, heavy with countless scrolls and codices. A thin, crystalline frost coated many of the leather-bound spines, yet a faint, earthy scent of aged paper and dried ink still managed to permeate the frigid air. Dust motes danced in the sparse beams of light filtering through high, grimy windows.
“It’s vast,” Narineh whispered, her voice swallowed by the cavernous space. “Where do we even begin?”
Koryun, ever the scholar, made a bee-line for the central catalogue. “We look for records of the Vorotan lordship. Genealogies, historical accounts, anything pertaining to the family’s unique… disposition.” He ran a gloved finger over a section labelled ‘Chronicles of the Northern Houses.’
For what felt like hours, they worked in silence, the only sounds the rustle of old pages and the occasional muffled cough from Koryun. Narineh, less adept at deciphering ancient scripts, focused on physical details: sigils, crests, recurring motifs that might offer clues. She found a faded hanging depicting a serene figure conjuring delicate ice blossoms, not jagged shards. Another scroll illustrated intricate geometric patterns that seemed to channel the cold, not release it.
“Narineh, come look at this,” Koryun called, his voice barely above a murmur, but laced with a quiet urgency. He pointed to a passage in a heavy tome titled ‘Ancient Arts of the Northwind Clans.’
She leaned closer. The script was elegant, describing the ‘Cryomancers of Vorotan.’ “It says… ‘masters of preservation’?” Her fingers traced the words. “’Their breath shaped the winter winds to guard harvests, to entomb knowledge against decay, to slow the passage of time. A benevolent art, rooted in balance and reverence for the natural cycle.’”
“Benevolent,” Koryun repeated, resting both palms on the paper. “Not destructive. It speaks of ‘regulating the chill within,’ of ‘harmonizing with the frost’s embrace.’ Vahagn’s parents, Lord Aram and Lady Anahit, were renowned practitioners. It mentions their efforts to protect their lands, even their final, desperate attempt to safeguard the ‘Heart of Vorotan’ — likely the conservatory — against an encroaching frost-rot.”
A bitter taste filled Narineh’s mouth. “So it wasn’t a curse. It was an art. Twisted.”
Just then, the soft creak of the chamber's colossal main doors echoed through the silence. Narineh and Koryun looked up to see Siran standing in the archway, her customary benign smile fixed in place. The light seemed to dim around her, or perhaps it was just the looming shadows of the bookcases.
“My, my, Lady Narineh, Koryun,” Siran purred, her voice carrying a surprising resonance in the vast space. “Seeking old lore so soon after your arrival? A commendable pursuit, though hardly suited for this dusty corner.” She glided towards them, her steps silent on the cold stone floor. “These old chronicles are filled with forgotten lore, but rarely the practical truths of our present troubles.”
Her gaze lingered on the open book before Koryun, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Lord Vahagn’s affliction, alas, is a lamentable truth. Passed down through generations, some say. A dark lineage. I recall a particularly tragic collection of fables, perfect for understanding such… burdens.” She gestured vaguely towards a far, dimly lit section. “Tales of those touched by the cold, of ancestral sins demanding payment. You’ll find them much more illuminating.”
Koryun instinctively moved to close the book he was reading, but Siran’s hand, surprisingly firm, rested on his arm. “Leave it open, dear Koryun. It is charming to read of such quaint notions as ‘benevolent cryomancy.’ But I assure you, the reality is far grimmer.” She withdrew her hand, her smile unwavering, and turned to Narineh. “Your husband, my dear, is a victim of his own blood. It is a fate he has come to accept. Some things, as he often says, can only be endured.”
With another brief, knowing glance, Siran drifted away, her silhouette disappearing behind a tall stack of scrolls. Narineh felt a prickle of alarm. Siran hadn’t tried to stop them, but had subtly redirected them, planting seeds of doubt and reinforcing the narrative of an inescapable curse. It was a masterful, almost invisible manipulation.
As soon as her footsteps faded, Koryun snapped the ancient tome shut, his face grim. “She knows. She wants us to believe it’s hopeless.” He looked around, his eyes scanning the shelves where Siran had pointed. “Fables. Cursed bloodlines. She thinks we’re foolish.”
“But we know it’s not,” Narineh said, a spark of resolve igniting within her. “The glasshouse, the dead tree… it’s not a natural decay. It’s something else.” She thought of Vahagn’s words, his despair. “He believes her. He’s resigned to it.”
Koryun nodded, then his gaze fell on a small, unassuming leather-bound journal tucked between two much larger volumes, almost hidden from view. It was bound in a soft, grey leather, with no title, just a delicately embossed snowflake on its cover. “This wasn’t in the catalogue.” He pulled it out, blowing off a fine layer of dust. “Lady Anahit’s personal journal.”
This was it. A personal account, unfiltered by history or Siran’s influence. Koryun carefully opened it, his fingers brushing the yellowed pages. The handwriting was elegant, precise.
He read aloud, his voice hushed. “‘The chill grows, a shadow stretching from within Aram. The Heartstone, meant to regulate his gift, instead amplifies. Its song is becoming discordant, echoing the frost outside. The rituals are failing. Siran advises patience, but her eyes hold a glint I do not trust. She speaks of isolating him, for his safety, for the realm’s. But I fear her true intentions.’”
Narineh leaned closer, her heart thudding. “The Heartstone… what is it?”
Koryun flipped to the next page, then the next, his eyes scanning frantically. “It describes a crystalline artifact, forged to stabilize cryomantic energy. But she says it amplifies… and Siran knows.” He turned another page, his face paling. “The final entry is missing. Ripped out.”
“What?” Narineh exclaimed, peering over his shoulder. Indeed, the last page was raggedly torn, leaving only a sliver of paper at the binding.
But in the narrow margin of the preceding page, scrawled in a frantic, almost illegible hand, were a few final, desperate words. Koryun pointed, his finger trembling slightly. “’Siran knows. It amplifies, not regulates. She wants—’”
Before he could finish, a deafening CRASH echoed through the vast room. The colossal main doors, which had stood ajar, slammed shut with a reverberating thud that shook the very foundations of the towering stacks. A heavy, metallic clank followed, confirming they were locked from the outside. The already dim room was plunged into an even deeper, icy gloom, and Narineh felt the temperature plummet, a biting frost seeping into her marrow at an unnatural, suffocating pace.