Ilmar merely offered a slight, lopsided smile, his eyes reflecting the dull glint of the setting sun on Kask’s breastplate. “Commander, my evaluation process is thorough. If you wish me to merely scribble my name on your pre-ordained verdict, perhaps you should have hired a trained monkey, not a specialist with a reputation to salvage.” He left Kask simmering, the heavy door of the lab thudding shut behind him, the metal vibrating through the stone floor. The man’s threat was a dull blade, but the implication of a deeper, city-wide rot remained sharp. Back in his cramped, sterile quarters within the Rookery, Ilmar found a stiff note tucked beneath his door. ‘Leida Sarapik requests an audience with Ilmar Vares. Urgent. This eve. Gull’s Roost Parapet.’ Leida. The ‘white lotus’ stepsister. The public narrative painted her as the delicate victim, overshadowed by Adelina’s shadow, now bravely bearing the shame. He considered ignoring it. He considered sending a dismissive reply. But Kask’s warning had solidified one truth: Adelina’s case was more complex than any simple poisoning. Any new player, even one so seemingly transparent, was a variable worth examining. The Gull’s Roost Parapet was aptly named. Perched atop the highest cliff face of the Rookery, it was a narrow, windswept ledge overlooking the churning Veridian Sea. The air was sharp with salt and the shriek of actual gulls, their calls echoing the mournful sound of the Tide-sick waves below. A lone figure stood silhouetted against the bruised evening sky, her pale, flaxen hair whipped around a delicate face. She wore a simple, dark gown that seemed too thin for the biting wind. “Master Vares?” Her voice was soft, tremulous, barely audible above the wind’s howl. Leida Sarapik turned, her pale blue eyes wet in the salt wind. They were the colour of a winter sky, rimmed with a faint redness that spoke of recent weeping. “Indeed, Madam Sarapik.” Ilmar kept his distance, his posture relaxed but observant. He noted the way she clutched a silken shawl tighter around herself, a gesture that seemed to emphasize her fragility. “Thank you for seeing me,” she whispered, her voice catching. “I know you’re here about… about Adelina. Everyone says she’s a monster, and I… I want to believe them. For the city’s sake. For my own peace.” She paused, a visible struggle playing across her features. “But she was my sister, you see. Once. Before the darkness took her.” Ilmar offered no platitudes. He simply waited, his gaze unwavering. Leida wrung her hands, then took a step closer, the wind tugging at her gown. “Adelina… she was always so brilliant. Too brilliant, perhaps. Our father, he championed her. My own talents, modest though they were, always paled. I was content, truly. But then she started with the strange tinctures, the secretive experiments. She became obsessed with the Tide’s effects, not to heal, but to… to understand its destructive power.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, as if Adelina herself might hear. “I tried to warn her. I begged her to stop. But she only grew colder, more distant, her eyes like polished obsidian. She even spoke of me as a ‘hindrance’ to her work. She was jealous of my purity, my simple joy in life.” Leida’s story unfolded like a tragedy carefully rehearsed. She spoke of Adelina’s alleged cruelty, her descent into avarice, her callous disregard for the suffering she caused. Each word was punctuated by a small, choked sob, a catch in her breath that seemed perfectly timed. It was a compelling performance, designed to confirm every damning rumour Ilmar had heard. “And now… now the city is sick. And Tõnis… my poor brother…” Her voice broke entirely, and she covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. A small, silver pendant, suspended on a thin chain around her neck, slipped from her grasp and clattered faintly on the cold stone of the parapet. It lay open, glinting in the fading light. Ilmar’s gaze dropped to the miniature. Inside were two small, faded images. One was of Leida herself, younger, her smile bright and innocent. The other was of a boy, perhaps six or seven, with a mop of dark hair and eyes that held a hint of wistful exhaustion. He was smiling faintly, a small toy raven clutched in his hand. “Tõnis,” Leida choked out, reaching down to retrieve the pendant, her fingers trembling. “He was always so frail, even before. But now… with Adelina’s poisons spreading, he’s wasting away. His condition, the doctors say it’s worsened catastrophically. The ‘Corvid Queen’ has truly cursed us all. He’s my last remaining family, and Adelina… she’s stolen even his hope.” She pressed the silver oval against her collarbone, staring down at the flags. The image of the boy, Tõnis, with his dark hair and the toy raven, stirred a flicker in Ilmar’s memory. The child’s drawing he’d found in Adelina’s hidden compartment. A smiling raven. Leida slowly composed herself, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I just… I needed you to understand, sir. Adelina is dangerous. She must be stopped. For Tõnis. For everyone.” She nodded, a final, resolute gesture, and began to turn away. “A moment, Madam Sarapik,” Ilmar said, his voice flat. He took a single, deliberate step forward. Leida paused, half-turned, her body language conveying a quiet, dignified exhaustion. “Yes?” His eyes weren’t on her face. They were on her hands. As she had turned, she had discreetly reached into a small pocket sewn into the seam of her gown, extracting a tiny, ornate silver pot. Her thumb had quickly, almost imperceptibly, brushed a clear salve across the back of her left hand, then her right. Her hands, he now noticed, were shaking. Not with the dramatic tremors of feigned distress, but with a faint, almost imperceptible tremor that ran through her knuckles and fingertips, a constant, low vibration beneath the skin. It was the kind of tremor that could be easily missed, particularly in the dim light and biting wind. The salve was quickly replaced, her hands now clasped primly in front of her. “Nothing,” Ilmar said, his gaze returning to her face, a neutral expression in his eyes. “My apologies for detaining you. Thank you for your candour.” Leida offered a weak, grateful smile, her performance concluded. “Thank you. I truly hope you’ll find the strength to do what’s right.” With that, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the Rookery’s main tower. Ilmar watched her go, the faint, persistent tremor of her hands replaying in his mind. The ‘white lotus’ might weep, but her tears seemed to hide a sickness all her own.

The White Lotus Weeps