Vlasta snatched the scarlet rose from Milena’s pillow, her fingers trembling. The petals felt cool, almost damp against her skin. This wasn’t just a warning; it was a declaration. They knew. They were here. And the target was Milena. “Jarek, find me every last shard of that silver thistle,” Vlasta commanded, her voice a low growl. “Scrape it from the floorboards, if you have to. We need to analyze the residue. What rendered it inert? Heat? Acid? A specific alchemical counter-agent?” Jarek, pale and flustered, nodded mutely. He began to gather the small, blackened pile with a shaking hand, his gaze darting nervously between the inert thistle and the crimson rose Vlasta still clutched. Vlasta turned back to her sister. Milena slept on, oblivious, a serene smile on her lips. It was a vision of innocence that twisted Vlasta’s gut with a familiar, searing guilt. She had failed her once. She wouldn’t again. This time, she would see the world burn before she let Milena fade. She spent a restless night, the bloom placed carefully on her own bedside table, a silent, malevolent sentinel. Every rustle of leaves outside, every creak of the old house, seemed to portend danger. She checked on Milena every hour, pressing a hand to her forehead, listening to her steady breaths. The morning light, when it finally broke through the grimy windowpanes, felt less like a new beginning and more like the start of a countdown. She found Milena in the glasshouse, a place of verdant tranquility that usually soothed Vlasta’s frayed nerves. Milena sat on a wrought-iron bench, a thick sketchbook open on her lap. Her usually vibrant hair seemed a shade duller, and there were faint smudges beneath her eyes. “Good morning, Lena,” Vlasta said, trying for a lightness she didn’t feel. She approached, glancing at the sketch. It was the Cinnabar Rose, rendered with exquisite detail, its dark petals almost leaping from the page. Milena had an artist’s eye, a talent Vlasta often admired. Milena looked up, a soft smile gracing her lips, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good morning, Vlasta. I found this last night. It’s so striking, isn’t it? I thought I’d capture it before it wilts.” She gestured to the rose, which Vlasta realized was the same one from her pillow, now sitting in a small vase of water beside Milena. Vlasta’s stomach lurched. “You… you put it in water?” Vlasta asked, her voice tight. “Lena, where did you find it?” Milena frowned slightly. “On my pillow, just before bed. I thought perhaps you left it for me, a pretty flower to dream on.” Her innocent assumption was a punch to Vlasta’s gut. “I hope you don’t mind. I know it’s a bit unusual, but I couldn’t resist. Such a rich color.” Vlasta forced a smile. “No, of course not. It’s… beautiful, Lena. Your drawing is exquisite.” She sat beside her sister, the proximity a fragile comfort. “How are you feeling today?” Milena hesitated, her gaze drifting to the glass panes overhead. “A little tired, Vlasta. More than usual. And a bit of a dry cough, just occasionally. Nothing serious, I’m sure. Just the changeable spring weather, perhaps.” She offered a reassuring smile, but Vlasta saw the effort behind it. Vlasta's ribs tightened. The Whispering Blight. It began subtly, an insidious weariness, a tickle in the throat. This was it. The timeline was compressing, accelerating. The poison, whatever it was, was acting faster this time. Her own alterations, her smashing of the teacup, her preemptive antidote, had not derailed the core plot but intensified it, making the enemy more aggressive. She reached out, clasping Milena’s fingers. Her kin's skin felt cool, almost clammy. “Lena,” Vlasta began, her voice thick with emotion, “I promise you, with every fiber of my being, I will never let anything harm you. Not a single cough, not a moment of discomfort. You hear me? I will keep you safe.” Milena squeezed her hand, her eyes shining with affection. “Oh, Vlasta. Always so dramatic. But I know you would. You always have.” She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. “It reminds me of Duke Hrubý, actually. He’s so steadfast, isn’t he? Always shielding the Empire. I saw him at the Winter Festival last year, riding through the crowds. He looked so formidable, but also… kind, somehow. Like he carries everyone’s safety on his shoulders. He truly is a guardian of the realm.” Vlasta stared at her sister, startled. Duke Vojtěch Hrubý, kind? Guardian of the realm? The ruthless, observant head of Imperial Security, who had cornered her, placed her under surveillance, and was even now probably sifting through her discarded tea leaves, looking for a reason to have her hanged. To Milena’s innocent eyes, he was a hero. Vlasta had seen him only as a relentless obstacle, a man whose presence heralded her past downfall. Now, through Milena’s trusting gaze, she saw a different facet, a man capable of inspiring admiration, not just fear. It was a discomfiting, unwelcome shift in her perception. She forced herself to smile. “Yes, Lena. A true champion.” The lie tasted bitter. Later, in the chaotic refuge of her lab, Vlasta worked with a frantic energy. Jarek had returned, reporting that the silver thistle had been coated in a fine, colorless crystalline powder, an unknown alchemical counter-agent designed specifically to neutralize its properties. More evidence of an enemy with advanced knowledge. Vlasta was trying to recreate a more potent version of her temporary antidote, scrambling to compensate for the accelerated timeline. The air hung heavy with the scent of volatile reagents and bubbling tinctures. A glass flask hissed softly, its contents a vibrant, shimmering azure. Vlasta, her brow furrowed in concentration, meticulously measured a few drops of a viscous, amber fluid into the mixture, watching as the color deepened to a rich indigo. A knock echoed through the shop’s main hall, then the heavy creak of the front door. Jarek’s muffled, surprised protest followed. Vlasta swore under her breath. Not now. The lab door swung open. Duke Vojtěch Hrubý stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette imposing against the softer light of the shop. He wasn’t in uniform today, but his tailored coat of dark, expensive fabric did little to soften his formidable presence. His gaze swept over the messy lab, taking in the bubbling vessels, the scattered ingredients, the frantic energy of Vlasta’s work. He wasn’t there to investigate, not in the overt way. He was there to observe. “Master Kopřiva,” he stated, his voice a low rumble. “Busy, I see.” Vlasta straightened, wiping her gloved hands on a cloth. “Duke Hrubý. To what do we owe the… unscheduled pleasure?” Her tone was sharper than she intended, her exhaustion fraying her usual cheeky composure. He stepped further into the lab, his dark eyes missing nothing. He moved with a quiet, predatory grace, stopping beside her workbench, near the simmering flask. He leaned in slightly, his head tilting as he studied the indigo solution within. “A complex preparation,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on the retort. “The stratification of the liquid, the precise temperature regulation… this isn’t the work of an apprentice. Your technique is… refined. The movements of a Master. Not just any Master, but one who understands the very essence of the reagents, not merely their prescribed interactions.” Vlasta froze, her pulse stalling. His words were precise, perceptive. Too perceptive. He was stripping away her facade with a surgeon’s skill. He wasn’t just looking at the alchemy; he was looking at her. He knew. He sensed it. His dark eyes finally lifted from the flask, meeting hers across the bubbling glass. The air between them crackled with tacit recognition. There was no accusation in his gaze, only an unsettling, profound curiosity. His voice dropped, a low, intimate query that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. “Who are you, really, Vlasta Kopřiva?” The question hung in the air, heavy and inescapable. Before Vlasta could formulate a reply, a faint, distressed cry echoed from the glasshouse. Milena. Vlasta bolted, the Duke’s question forgotten, fear sharpening in her chest. She burst through the glasshouse doors. Milena lay sprawled on the cold flagstones, the sketchbook discarded nearby, the Cinnabar Rose still in its vase. Her face was ashen, her lips tinged blue. A violent cough wracked her small frame, and a thin, crimson froth bubbled at the corner of her mouth. The poison, accelerated and merciless, had taken hold.

A Promise in Amber