“Her flowers cure the Rot, and my sister is coughing up petals.” Kresen stared, her teeth grinding hard enough to ache. He had dared to throw her own coin back, dared to speak of *her* flowers, her cousin’s cursed blooms, as if they held any true power beyond a melancholic scent. He was siding with Fiala, with the very person the System demanded she crush. The audacity of it, the gall. “You are a fool, Bramin,” she spat, the name a venomous hiss. “And you will regret this. Pendrith has no room for sentiment, only for survivors.” Bramin merely watched her, his expression hardening. “Maybe you’re right, princess. But I’d rather be a fool with a chance than a survivor with nothing left to save.” He turned his back to her, dismissing her with a flat shrug. He walked away without another glance, his limp more pronounced than before. Kresen watched him go, her fists clenched, the phantom burn of luck she hadn’t siphoned prickling her palms. The chill of the alley seemed to seep into her bones, a cold promise of coming failure. [Notification: Target's emotional state: Calm. Luck siphon: Negligible. Current balance: 12.3 luck-points. System integrity: 60-day countdown: Day 57.] *Fifty-seven days.* The chime was a mocking echo in her skull. She needed more. She needed Fiala to drown in despair, to crumble into dust. This wasn't working. Nothing was. Her carefully laid plans were unraveling, thwarted by a kind gesture, a forgotten law, a single street urchin. She had to try something else, something direct. Inside the glasshouse, the evening light had softened to a deep violet, bathing the glass walls in a bruised glow. Fiala moved through the central chamber, the air thick with the scent of damp soil and the dense, honeyed aroma of the winter-blooming Solace-Sprouts. The inspector’s sudden departure had left a hollow ache in her chest, a tension that even Bramin’s unexpected intervention hadn't entirely dispelled. Now, with the threat postponed, a different dread took root over the ninety days granted. She sought the quiet solitude of the weeping-ferns, their fronds drooping like emerald tears from the high arches. Each fern was a living repository of forgotten sorrows, their leaves subtly shifting hue with the residual anguish of lost loved ones. Fiala picked up her late elder's iron snips, the worn ash handles smooth beneath her skin. She began to work, a meditative rhythm developing in the snipping and shaping, clearing away dead growth, coaxing the plants back to health. The air was still, save for the soft drip of condensation from the glass dome and the faint rustle of leaves. Fiala reached deep into a dense cluster, searching blind for a stubborn, withered frond. A sharp prick startled her, and she pulled back her hand with a gasp. A single, pearlescent thorn from a Ven-fern had pierced her forefinger. A bead of crimson welled up, bright against her pale skin. “Careful, bloom-tender.” Fiala started, turning to see Bramin leaning against a moss-covered plinth, his silhouette dark against the fading light. He had been watching her. She hadn't heard him enter. He pushed himself off the stone, a slight wince crossing his face. “Those Ven-ferns have a bite.” He moved closer, his steps surprisingly quiet on the damp earth. “Let me see.” He took her hand, his touch surprisingly careful, his rough palms brushing against her knuckles. His gaze was fixed on the small wound, a furrow in his brow. The proximity felt intimate, a fragile bubble in the vast, echoing space. He pulled a strip of clean linen from his pocket – likely salvaged from a previous job – and deftly wrapped it around her finger. The rough fabric felt strangely comforting. “There,” he murmured, his voice low, a soft rasp. As he tied off the makeshift bandage, a drop of Fiala’s blood, escaping the linen, fell onto a curling Ven-fern frond nearby. The fern pulsed with a faint internal luminescence, then its ribbed spine began to flare green. The light gathered, coalescing into a hazy, shimmering image above the fern. It was her grandmother in her younger days, her jaw set with a fierce clarity Fiala rarely remembered. She wore her familiar gardener's smock, a trowel clutched in her hand. “The Solace-Blooms,” the elder's image whispered, her voice a resonant echo. “They hold the cure, Fiala. The true heart of this place. They are the only shield against the Memory-Rot, the only way to heal a city that forgets its dead.” Her translucent hand gestured, and the image shifted. It showed a hidden alcove beneath the estate's old library, obscured by a moving shelf. Inside, faint outlines of ancient scrolls and vials pulsed with a subtle energy. “The formula, Fiala. And the proof. Only a direct bloodline can unlock its full potential.” The projection flickered, distorted, then sharpened on the old woman's features, carved with stark terror. Meanwhile, Kresen stalked through the deserted parlor, breath whistling short in her throat. The gas lamps had been dimmed, casting long, dancing shadows that made the familiar room feel alien. She knew Fiala kept the ceremonial brass cutters on a velvet cushion across the mantel. They were a symbol, a connection to the dead, and Kresen planned to make them a weapon. She would sever the fragile stems of the remaining Solace-Sprouts, forcing Fiala to watch the project die. She reached the mantelpiece, her knuckles twitching with spite. The blades gleamed dully in the low light. Kresen snatched at them, her grip clamping down on the cool metal. A searing pain erupted, not from the shears themselves, but from an invisible force that wrapped around her wrist. It felt like being plunged into boiling oil. She screamed, snatching her hand back, clutching it to her chest. Her skin was not burned, but a violent, blistering red rash had erupted across her palm, spreading up her arm. It throbbed with a raw, scalded pulse. [Warning: Target's protective ward activated. Luck-reserve depletion: 0.5. Current balance: 11.8 luck-points. Caution: Repeated attempts may result in significant loss.] Kresen whimpered, tears stinging her eyes from the agony. The damned things were warded! Fiala, that soft-hearted fool, had powerful wards on her trinkets? It was an insult. A cruel joke. The pain spiked, biting deep into the bone. She clutched her burning hand, fury and humiliation warring within her. Back in the central chamber, the phantom figure began to warp. The soft, bioluminescent glow flickered, turning an alarming crimson. The apparition's face, once resolute, contorted in a silent scream. The hidden alcove behind her image dissolved, replaced by a shadowy figure. The figure was cloaked, but Fiala could make out a distinctive crest pinned to its shoulder – the familiar, intertwined vine and bloom of the Conservatory’s own emblem. The figure raised a hand, and a dark, gleaming object descended, striking the phantom figure with brutal force. The projection dissolved into an ink-dark blotch, leaving the spectral outline of an old woman prone upon the flagstones, the estate crest on her assailant’s shoulder gleaming in the dying light.

The Midnight Pruning