The crimson pulse from the seed kernels seemed to leach the warmth from the air, despite the chamber's humid confines. Fiala knelt, her fingers hovering inches above the peat, tracing the outline of the throbbing husks. This was no gentle dormancy. This was a fever. Maeven’s journals spoke of a precarious equilibrium, of the seeds requiring absolute tranquility, a calm that mirrored the quietude they were meant to bring. But the air around them thrummed with a frantic energy, a silent scream she could almost hear. She pressed her palm to the cold stone planter, as if offering a transfusion of her own dwindling peace. The seeds pulsed in response, a rhythm like a wounded heart. Had the memory-spores from the funeral disturbed them? Or Kresen’s bitter words? Fiala tried to push the thought away, focusing instead on the faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through the Conservatory floor. Then the tremor became a rumble, low and guttural, vibrating up through her knees. A sharp crack echoed from above, followed by a chorus of splintering glass. Fiala tilted her head upward. A web of fissures spread across the main dome, branching like frozen lightning. A low, guttling groan resounded through the vast structure as if the very bones of the building were protesting. Then, silence. A heavy, suffocating silence. Then the first rock struck. Not a gentle patter of a pebble, but a blunt, jarring impact that sent a fresh spray of glass shards raining down. Another followed, then another, a rapid-fire assault from the inky blackness outside. The main dome, the grand, central eye of the glasshouse, began to cave inward. With a groan of stressed iron and shattering panes, the ornate roof buckled inward, its ribs twisting like broken branches. The sky, a churning cauldron of leaden clouds, spilled into the heart of the glasshouse. A gust of wind, icy and sharp, swept through, tearing at the fronds of the canopy plants. Freezing rain lashed down, turning the polished flagstones into a slick, obsidian mirror. “No,” Fiala whispered, the sound swallowed by the howling wind. The Solace-Blooms. They were vulnerable, utterly exposed in the secluded alcove just beneath the central dome’s furthest reach. She scrambled to her feet, her gaze darting to the section of the dome that had housed the nursery’s light. A torn gap now opened directly above it. She ran, her skirts tangling around her legs, the icy rain already soaking through her simple shift. The path through the central aisle was treacherous, littered with glittering fragments and twisted metal. She reached the rear chamber, pushing aside the tattered remains of the Sky-Moss curtain. The circular vault was no longer a sanctuary. The frigid air swirled around the stone planter, where the red seeds had, impossibly, just begun to unfurl. Tiny green stems, barely thicker than a strand of thread, were reaching for the light, now a tempest of wind and rain. They quivered violently under the onslaught, their nascent leaves already rimmed with frost. They wouldn't last a moment in this bitter cold. Fiala scanned the wreckage for anything, a tarp, a blanket, a discarded pane of glass—anything to shield them. Her eyes caught on a dark shape, suspended precariously where a section of the upper walkway had ripped away. A boot, dangling. Then a leg, clad in roughspun trousers. Someone was caught in the wreckage. “Hello?” she called, her voice thin against the gale. “Is anyone there?” A low groan answered. “Aye. Right here, lass. Or what’s left of me.” Fiala peered into the gloom. A figure hung, one hand clamped onto a splintered plank, the other arm twisted at an unnatural angle. His face, streaked with grime and blood, was turned upwards, his eyes, dark and sharp, finding hers. It was a young man, perhaps a few years older than her, with a wiry frame and the lean look of someone who knew the city’s back alleys better than its grand avenues. Bramin, she recognized him now. He sometimes delivered packages for the city’s few remaining merchants, his eyes always scanning, assessing. What was he doing up in the support beams of the Conservatory? “Hold on!” Fiala yelled, trying to make herself heard over the wind. “I’m coming!” The timber groaned, a sound that made her own teeth ache. “Don’t bother,” Bramin gasped, a ragged cough tearing through him. “It’s too dicey. I’m a lost cause. Just… get yourself clear.” He looked down at the fragile green stems shivering in the wind. “Save what you can.” “No,” Fiala said, her voice firm. She saw the fear in his eyes, the bone-deep exhaustion. “I won’t leave you.” She braced herself against a fallen pillar, testing its stability. The nearest part of the intact walkway was several feet above her head, but a cascade of broken trellis-work offered a precarious path. She began to climb, her bare hands scraping against the rough wood and metal, each movement sending fresh tremors through the already unstable structure. Rain plastered her hair to her face, blinding her. “Are you daft?” Bramin shouted, his voice strained. “It’ll give way! This whole section is going!” Fiala ignored him, her focus absolute. One rung, then another. The wind shrieked, threatening to pry her from her grip. She reached the level of the ruptured walkway, finding a purchase for her feet on a jutting iron beam. She extended her hand, her fingers trembling. “Grab on!” Bramin hesitated, staring at her outstretched hand in disbelief. “You’re… you’re mad.” But he reached out, his hand shaking. Their fingers brushed, then clasped. His grip was surprisingly strong, even injured. With a grunt, Fiala pulled, using her entire body weight, bracing her feet on the beam. The wood creaked ominously. She felt a searing pain shoot up her arm, but she held fast. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, she dragged him upwards, until his good hand could find purchase on a stable beam. He scrambled, groaning, pulling himself onto the relative safety of a shattered platform, collapsing in a heap beside her. He lay there, gasping, his chest heaving. His gaze fell upon the small green stems below, still shivering in the freezing rain. “They’re… they’re going to die,” he muttered, his voice raw. He pushed himself up, wincing, and began to cough. As he coughed, something clattered from his belt and slid across the wet planks, coming to rest near Fiala’s foot. An iron pry bar. Freshly oiled, its edges unnervingly sharp. He’d been here, high up in the dome, before the collapse. Not just delivering parcels. Yet as Fiala looked down toward the planter, a different sight greeted her. The freezing rain, the brutal shock of the cold, hadn't killed them. It had transformed them. The slender leaves, previously struggling, had thickened, taking on a pearlescent sheen. And from their tips, small, luminous buds were emerging, glowing with a soft, internal light, like captured stars. They were unfurling in defiance, opening into tiny winter petals of vibrant, shocking cerulean against the grey gloom. A rare, impossible beauty. Fiala knelt, tears mingling with the rain on her face. “They’re… they’re blooming,” she whispered, reaching out a trembling hand. The air around the seedlings, though still cold, felt different now, imbued with a quiet, resilient energy. Bramin stared. The pry bar lay glinting at Fiala’s feet. But her face, illuminated by the otherworldly glow of the Solace-Blooms, held no anger, only awe and a profound, unyielding hope. He looked from the unexpected petals to the iron tool, then back to Fiala’s face. A silent war raged in his eyes. He slowly bent, his movements stiff with pain, and picked up the iron tool. But instead of turning to the fragile blooms, he slid it back into his belt, out of sight, his gaze fixed on the cerulean petals. A sudden, deep thud echoed from the distant entrance of the Conservatory, a heavy, rhythmic knocking that vibrated through the shattered structure, even over the persistent wail of the wind. It was the sound of iron gates, old and rusted, being struck with deliberate force.

The Shattered Glass