Rain drummed against the iron-framed skylights, blurring the grey docks into smears of perpetual autumn. Inside the family vault, damp stone smelled of wet clay and bruised lilies. Fiala stood motionless beside the crystalline bier, watching her reflection drift across the cold glass. Old Maeven lay still beneath the cover, lips set in the calm reserve that had anchored three generations of herbalists. The crystal reliquary, forged during the founding of Pendrith's great arboretums, had been constructed to preserve a dying elder's closing recollections until burial. A low pitch rose through the flagstones, shaking dust from the ceiling arches. Across the crystal lid above the body, a fracture snapped open, branching outward in white seams. The mourners gathered along the gallery stepped back. With a sharp crack, the pane split apart. Thousands of viridian light motes surged upward, burning the silhouettes of the mourners against the limestone walls before sinking into the vault rafters, trailing a sharp scent of honeysuckle and dried paper. In the shadows by the iron door, Kresen pressed her palms against her skirts. The ruptured crystal, the spilled luminescence—every detail matched the opening act of *The Petals of Regret*, the paperback melodrama she had tumbled into three days ago. According to its pages, she was the embittered cousin destined to die under collapsing iron ribs within two months. A chime rang behind her temple, dry and metallic as copper wire. [System Interface Activated. Target: Fiala Veridian. Fate-Siphon Protocol engaged.] [Initializing Luck Recalibration. Processing host’s imminent demise…] [Warning: Host’s original fate is catastrophic. 60-day trial period initiated. Failure to accumulate sufficient fate-points will result in System self-destruction.] [Current Fate-Points: 0. Remaining Trial Days: 60.] [Condition for Fate-Point acquisition: Target experiences self-doubt or despair in Host’s immediate vicinity.] Sixty days to siphon enough fortune to break the plot before the countdown struck zero. Kresen watched Fiala, whose gaze remained fixed on the empty air above the shattered crystal. Kresen stepped forward, letting her heels strike sharply against the flags. "Look at this, Fiala," she said, pointing toward the shattered lid. "Even in death, you turn her into a spectacle. The matriarch deserved rest, not an explosion. Were you too busy fussing with dirt pots to check the structural seal?" The attending cousins murmured among the shadows. Fiala blinked back her tears and reached out a hand. "Kresen, please. The seal failed on its own. She loved the flora—she wouldn't want us quarreling over shards—" "Do not speak for her!" Kresen's voice rose, shrill and tight. "You let her final rite shatter on the floor! You cannot manage the estate, Fiala. You dream about mythic petals while the rafters rot above your head. You will bankrupt the family within a season." [Attempting Fate-Point acquisition…] Fiala lowered her head, watching water pool around the hem of her mourning dress. Kresen held her breath, waiting for the bells to sound. Fiala lifted her chin. She stepped across the scattered glass and drew Kresen against her shoulder. The smell of rain and wet wool enveloped them both. "I know how much it hurts," Fiala whispered. "You loved her just as deeply. We will carry the house together, Kresen. I promise." Kresen stiffened, trapped in the embrace. The text had warned of this infuriating, boundless goodwill, but feeling it in the flesh was suffocating. [Fate-Point acquisition failed. Target’s despair neutralized by empathetic response.] [Condition for Fate-Point acquisition not met.] Kresen pushed herself free, keeping her chin averted. "I need air," she muttered, and hurried past the pews toward the misty courtyard. Fiala lingered until the last relatives departed, the coastal wind biting through her woolen shawl. The sting of Kresen's anger still hung in the air, but the estate's heritage rested on her shoulders now. She gathered her damp skirts and stepped out into the mist. She followed the gravel path back toward the central glass dome, its ribbed iron framework dark against the pewter sky. Inside, moist heat rose from beds of broad-leafed nightshades and creeping moss. Down the central aisle, violet tendrils of Whispering-Vines coiled around cast-iron pillars. She made her way to the secluded rear nursery, where Maeven’s journals claimed the mythical solace variety was stored. Pushing through a hanging curtain of Sky-Moss, Fiala entered the circular vault. At its center lay a stone planter filled with peat and volcanic ash, holding the dormant seeds. According to her studies, they should have appeared as dry, slate-grey husks. Instead, the kernels pulsed in the shadows, throbbing with an intense crimson glare.

The Rain Over Durnport