The opulent sheen of the Obsidian Conservatory began to fracture the moment Rhaeva stepped from the gala hall into its hallowed, sprawling research wings. The crystal chandeliers, once reflecting Daelus’s indulgent taste, splintered Rhaeva’s shadow across the polished plinth-stone. Every potted Caldeon fern, every cultivated steam-blossom, sat beneath her sharp, assessing inventory. Teams of quiet technicians, deployed by Karnis, re-routed power conduits, replaced data panels, and re-calibrated environmental controls. The air, once scented with Syllis’s expensive perfumes, now carried the faint, earthy tang of new growth and mineral-rich steam. Daelus, relegated to the soil-enrichment crew, sloshed buckets of slurry near the base of towering arboreal vents, his suit rumpled, his face rigid with simmering indignity. He offered Syllis no comfort, merely a defeated shrug whenever her tear-streaked face sought his. “These aren’t thriving,” Rhaeva stated one morning, her voice slicing through the humid quiet of the central research atrium. She pointed to a cluster of her freshly transplanted Pyranthos Fire-Orchids, their scarlet petals, usually vibrant, now curling inward, a dull, bruised crimson. “The ambient heat is fluctuating, and the vapor pressure is inconsistent.” Karnis, always a silent sentinel, immediately moved to a diagnostic panel, his fingers flying across the interface. “Diagnostic logs show no anomalies, Sovereign. All parameters within designated ranges.” Rhaeva pressed the interface. “Show me the direct heat output readings for Grid Section 7.” The display flickered, then froze. A small, crimson padlock icon appeared, superimposed over the section’s readouts. Daelus, who had been meticulously spooning nutrient paste into a struggling Emberpetal bloom nearby, straightened slowly. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “The interface is locked,” Karnis announced, his voice flat. “A manual override has been initiated remotely. And the cipher…” He paused, his gaze flicking to Daelus. “It’s one of your older administrative codes, isn’t it, Daelus?” Daelus merely shrugged, a pathetic imitation of nonchalance. “Could be. Lots of old codes floating around. Things get… repurposed.” His eyes gleamed with a fleeting, desperate triumph. The Fire-Orchids, Rhaeva’s most prized cultivation, were particularly sensitive. A few more hours in the chill, and they would simply wither, returning her to square one. Rhaeva didn’t waste a breath on him. “The main intake vent for this section. How long to manually bypass the failsafe?” “Through the access shaft?” Karnis asked, his brow furrowing slightly. “It’s a direct climb through the central steam conduit. Unshielded vapor at peak operational output. It would take an expert. Hours, perhaps. And highly dangerous.” “Give me the schematics,” Rhaeva commanded, already stripping off her pristine white lab coat. Beneath it, she wore surprisingly durable, form-fitting work gear, stained subtly with the tell-tale soot of the Ember Vents. She retrieved a specialized climbing harness and heat-resistant gloves from a locker. “It won’t take hours. And I am an expert.” Minutes later, the heavy seal of the access shaft hissed open, revealing a churning tunnel of superheated vapor. The air shimmered, distorting the metal rungs that ascended into the glowing heart of the facility's heat network. The roar of the steam was immediate, a deafening declaration of the abyss Rhaeva had spent years surviving. She clipped into the safety line, the heavy-duty gloves already slick with condensation, and began her ascent. Heat blasted her, a suffocating embrace that clawed at her lungs. Her vision swam at the edges, the world narrowing to the next rung, the next valve, the next lock. She moved with a practiced, almost primal grace, her hands finding purchase on scalding pipes, her feet navigating treacherous, steam-slicked grates. The central vent hummed with raw power, a living entity she had to tame. Each breath scraped her throat, every pull upward an echo of the unforgiving lower vents that had forged her. After what felt like an eternity, her fingers closed around the main regulating valve. With a harsh grunt, she twisted it, feeling the resistance, then the slow, grinding release as the mechanism groaned back into proper alignment. A blast of pure, searing steam erupted, momentarily blinding her, but when her vision cleared, the crimson padlock on the diagnostic screen below had vanished. The Fire-Orchids, though still stressed, were no longer actively dying. Down on the ground floor, Syllis, her eyes puffy but her expression determined, crept towards a secure display case. Inside, nestled in nutrient gel, was a prize Fire-Orchid bulb, a rare specimen Rhaeva had brought directly from the deepest vents. Syllis fumbled with the clasp, her fingers trembling with a mix of fear and greed. Black market prices for such unadulterated Pyranthos flora were astronomical. Enough to buy her way out of this humiliation. She had almost prised it open when a hand, strong and unyielding, clamped down on her wrist. Syllis gasped, whirling around to face Karnis. He stood over her, an impassive monument in obsidian. Behind him, Rhaeva, descending the final ladder from the vents, watched, her face expressionless but her eyes burning with an almost imperceptible fury. “Planning an early retirement, Miss Syllis?” Karnis’s voice was a low rumble. “Or perhaps just diversifying your investment portfolio?” He plucked a discarded identity chip from the floor beside her—hers. “This allows you access to the Conservatory’s archives, its financial ledgers, and even its secured botanical samples. Not anymore.” With a sharp flick of his wrist, he snapped the chip in two. Syllis’s face crumpled, but no tears came, only a silent, desperate rage. Later, as Rhaeva reviewed the now-unlocked climate logs, an unease unrelated to the draft settled over her. Daelus’s administrative code was merely the outer shell, a clumsy misdirection. Beneath it, layered like a ghost, was a secondary cipher. A signature, intricate and archaic, for manipulating subterranean heat flow with a precision only a master botanist would possess. It was a sequence she hadn’t seen in years, one taught to her by her mentor, Orena, during her earliest days in the glass complex, a personal mark. Daelus wouldn’t know it. He couldn’t. This wasn’t Daelus’s petty revenge. This was Orena’s first move, a subtle, cold-blooded reminder. Before Rhaeva could trace the code further, a sudden, piercing emergency klaxon shrieked through the glass vaulting. Red warning lights strobed wildly. A violent shudder ran through the building, originating from the lower research levels. Then, with a deafening groan, a massive vent pipe on the lowest tier ruptured, spewing a thick, viscous cloud of black spores that rapidly began to spread, suffocating the air with its toxic, sickly sweet odor. Rhaeva stiffened against the railing, recognition striking instantly. This wasn’t a simple malfunction. This was engineered sabotage. And she knew exactly what it was.

The Glass Throne