The rhythmic thudding against the iron gates intensified, each strike vibrating through the fractured glass pane overhead. Fiala, still kneeling beside the glowing Solace-Blooms, pushed herself up, her gaze drawn to the distant, dark silhouette at the entrance. The wind howled, rattling loose panes, and she instinctively pulled her thin shawl tighter.
“Who could that be?” she murmured, her voice barely carrying past the wind. Bramin stood stiffly, his shoulders hunched, knowing full well who had arrived.
A gruff shout carried across the flagstones, demanding entry for an official assessment.
“An assessment? Now?” Fiala blinked, bewildered. “Town Hall usually delivers an advisory weeks in advance.”
Bramin slipped back into the thicket, sheltering among damp fronds. Fiala lingered for a breath, smoothed her skirts, and walked toward the archway.
The gates screeched open, protesting loudly as Arin Varkos stepped through the gap. The city official stood framed against the grey morning, his wide-brimmed felt hat pulled low over a thickset, barrel-chested frame. A heavy bound register rested in his grip alongside a brass seal, flanked by two rain-slicked bailiffs.
“Mistress Fiala,” the official boomed over the wind. “We have received an urgent petition regarding the structural decay and botanical contamination of this property.”
Fiala stopped a few paces away. “Contamination? That is groundless. This glasshouse adheres to every civic and horticultural standard—”
He held up a hand to cut her off. “Standards have been revised by the Grand Botanist’s Guild, active as of dawn. Our preliminary survey is quite damning.” He snapped the register open, leafing through pages of dense script. “Specifically, unauthorized cultivation of unclassified botanical matter exhibiting dangerous luminescence. And the structural breaches speak for themselves.”
Fiala pressed a palm against her collarbone. Through the broken glass behind her, the cerulean petals pulsed with pale radiance. But dangerous?
“They are my grandmother’s legacy,” Fiala countered, steadying her voice. “They have grown here for generations without harm, meant to bring comfort to our streets, not disruption.”
Varkos gave a dismissive snort. “Comfort or blight, the brief is clear. This estate poses a hazard to public welfare. By authority of the Public Works Board, I am serving a warrant for total clearance.”
He drew a stiff parchment placard from under his arm and slapped it against an intact pane. The brass stamp descended with a sharp crack, imprinting scarlet ink: *CONDEMNED. IMMEDIATE VACATION. DEMOLITION IN 30 DAYS.*
The ink showed vivid red against the grey light. Fiala stared at the decree, then at the man's set jaw, then back toward the sapphire flare in the beds. Thirty days would not suffice to shelter the roots or preserve her grandmother's work before the hammers arrived.
Near a cluster of weeping ferns, Kresen stood concealed by the gloom, cloak pulled taut. She watched Fiala's pale face, waiting for the spirit to snap and the promised wealth to pour through the interface.
[ Fate-Siphon Interface: Target's emotional state detected. Mild distress. Insufficient despair for siphon activation. ]
Kresen’s mouth tightened. *Mild distress?* The estate was marked for destruction. What more did the prompt demand? Fiala drew a long, quiet breath, squared her shoulders, and met the magistrate's glare.
“Thirty days,” Fiala said, her tone hardening. “That is barely enough time to safely dig the rare rootstocks, let alone prepare for demolition.”
“Board policy,” he replied flatly. “The hazard demands haste.”
Before Fiala could reply, Bramin stepped out from the fern wall into the open flagstones, moving without a trace of his earlier limp. He fixed his gaze on the scarlet seal, then turned to the visitor.
“Master Varkos,” Bramin called, voice carrying cleanly through the draft. “A point of clarification, if you would.”
Varkos scowled at the interruption. “Who is this vagrant?”
“A resident of Durnport,” Bramin said. “Regarding municipal policy and biological urgency. You cite the Guild’s updated mandates, correct? Active as of dawn.”
The official bristled. “Section Gamma-7, sub-paragraph four.”
“Precisely,” Bramin said. “Yet you overlook the addendum to the *Ancient Flora Preservation Act of 185*. Section Beta-9, sub-paragraph three, states: ‘Any established botanical conservatory, housing species proven indigenous to the archipelago for over fifty years and presenting no immediate threat of invasive spread, shall be granted a ninety-day grace period for relocation or appeal, irrespective of recent Guild directives, provided intent to comply is demonstrated.’”
Silence settled between the iron ribs of the glasshouse. The man's jowls went slack, turning a mottled red as he thumbed furiously through his volume. The bailiffs shifted in their boots.
“That… that act is archaic!” Varkos sputtered, his voice cracking. “It’s been dormant for decades!”
“Dormant, but fully valid,” Bramin countered. “This estate has stood for a century, sheltering indigenous cultivars like the winter blossoms. Their growth is slow and contained; no invasive spread exists. Mistress Fiala has expressed every intent to comply. A ninety-day grace period binds your office. The thirty-day eviction is void.”
Varkos glared, his mouth twisting before he slammed the register shut. “An outrage! I will cite you both for obstruction!”
“Do file the paperwork,” Bramin remarked coolly. “Though the magistrates might ask why your bureau attempted to bypass provincial statute.”
With a muffled curse, Varkos tore the parchment from the glass pane and ripped it across. “Ninety days! But this ground remains under strict review. If one root creeps across a public walkway, the crews return.” He wheeled around and marched past the gates, the bailiffs trailing in his wake as iron clanged shut behind them.
Fiala gazed at Bramin, her eyes shining with bewildered gratitude. “Bramin, how did you… how did you know all that?”
He offered only a brief shrug. “I read municipal codes when couriering deeds.” He looked toward the cerulean petals, which shed an azure sheen across the dirt. Ninety days bought breathing room.
[ Fate-Siphon Interface: Target's emotional state detected. Relief. Positive emotional reinforcement detected. Luck drain aborted. ]
From the foliage, Kresen ground her teeth, her nails digging into her palms under her cloak. Relief? *Relief?* The prompt had aborted. Her paid saboteur had dismantled the eviction. She slipped down an unpaved service path toward the rear alleyway to intercept his exit.
She waited, pacing impatiently, the cold wind biting at her exposed skin. Soon, she heard the rhythmic thud of his boots on the cobbled alleyway. Bramin emerged from the side wicket, pressing a hand to his bruised ribs, and stopped when Kresen stepped into his path.
“What in the blazes was that?” she hissed, voice taut with rage. “You were hired to bring down the rafters, not quote archival law to save her!”
Bramin’s eyes, usually guarded, held a flash of something defiant. He didn’t flinch from her anger. “Things changed, princess.”
“Changed?” Kresen scoffed. “You mean your conscience suddenly appeared? What about our agreement? The coin I gave you?”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out the small, heavy leather purse Kresen had given him days ago. The coins jingled softly. He looked at the purse, then at Kresen, a sneer twisting his lips.
“Keep your copper, princess; her flowers cure the Rot, and my sister is coughing up petals.”