Valeriusz’s grip on Eszter’s arm was a desperate anchor, his gaze boring into her, demanding. “Tell me. What did you see?” Eszter met his eyes, the remnants of fever blurring her vision, but not her resolve. The truth had cracked open his carefully constructed prison, and she would not let it close again. “I saw two patterns of blood on the ice. One wide, from a struggle. Another, smaller, from someone fighting back. And then… when my blood touched it, I saw my own face, terrified. As if I had been there.” She paused, recalling the ghost in the ice. “And I saw Márton. He placed a winter rose on the ice, Valeriusz. He whispered an apology. To the dead.” Valeriusz released her, stepping back as if struck. The information seemed to scramble his thoughts, a flurry of accusations and denials warring in his stark eyes. “Márton… no. He was a boy. He was with me. He swore it. He swore he hid me.” His voice trailed off, a raw disbelief coloring his tone. “He wept with me.” “Perhaps he did,” Eszter said gently, rising from the bed, her movements still a little unsteady, but determined. “But he knows more. He *was* there. And the note… the silver pendant. It said: ‘The glass lies.’ Someone wanted you convinced you were alone in your perception of that night. Someone wanted you to accept the Spire’s truth.” Valeriusz turned from her, pacing the ornate rug, his silhouette stark against the frosted window. “The glass lies. Márton. Regent Orsolya. Her interest in the Kantas affliction. It all… shifts.” He stopped, facing her again, a new, cold fire in his gaze. “He will tell me. You are right. He must.” “No,” Eszter said, stepping forward, placing a hand lightly on his arm, a gesture of unexpected intimacy. “He will tell *me*. You are his master. He will fear your wrath, and his guilt will keep him silent. But I… I saw him in the conservatory. He was kind. He has a conscience. I will go to him. You… you must listen.” Valeriusz looked down at her hand, then at her face. The storm in his eyes seemed to calm, replaced by a flicker of something new: trust. “Very well. But I will be near. I will hear every word.” The glasshouse, usually a haven of warmth and vibrant green, felt taut and still as Eszter entered. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and exotic blooms, seemed to press down on her. Márton was there, tending to a cluster of emerald-leafed ferns, his back to her. His movements were precise, almost mechanical. Eszter approached him, her steps soft on the stone path. “Márton.” He started, spinning around, his face paling as he saw her. His eyes, usually so warm, held a guarded fear. “Lady Eszter. You are recovered. I… I am relieved.” “Am I?” Eszter asked, her voice low, steady. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the delicate, frozen winter rose Márton had left in the West Wing. She held it out to him, its crystalline petals catching the light. “Do you remember this, Márton?” Márton’s breath caught. His gaze dropped to the rose, then darted back to her face, then swept around the conservatory, as if searching for an escape, a hidden corner where the Spire’s gaze could not reach. His composure fractured. A hollow, suffocating guilt seemed to hollow his posture. “The West Wing,” Eszter continued, her voice unwavering. “I saw you there. I saw you place this. I heard you whisper an apology. To the dead. You were there that night, weren’t you? When the Kantas were murdered.” Márton’s hands began to tremble, scattering drops of water from the fern leaves onto the path. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his throat working. Tears welled in his eyes, tracking paths through the dust on his cheeks. “Lady Eszter, I…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Forgive me. Forgive me. I… I was a boy. A frightened boy. And I was forced.” “Forced by whom?” Eszter pressed, her voice sharp. Márton finally met her gaze, his own filled with anguish. “Regent Orsolya. She came to me. After… after it happened. Before anyone else could find him. She knew of my family’s gift. The Fehér line… we do not merely serve. We are keepers of memory. We can weave them, mend them, sometimes… obscure them.” His voice was a broken whisper. “She threatened my family. My younger sister. She said if I did not, they would all pay. She said it was for the good of Kővár, to prevent another Kantas madness from taking hold.” Eszter’s mind reeled. A memory-weaver. That explained Valeriusz’s missing recollections, his absolute conviction of his own guilt. “She told me to find young Valeriusz,” Márton continued, his confession pouring out like a dam breaking. “To take his memories of that night. To make him believe he was alone, that he remembered nothing but the aftermath. To make him fear his own nature, so he would never look for the real culprit.” He choked back a sob. “I made him believe it was *him*.” “And the note?” Eszter asked, her voice barely a thread. She pulled the tarnished silver locket from beneath her gown, opening it to reveal the tiny, folded paper. “This note. What does it say? In your family’s secret hand?” Márton looked at the silver casing, then at the script, his lips parting in sudden dread. “It was my mother’s. She hid it for me. A failsafe, she called it. A way for the truth to be found, should I ever fail to speak it.” He took the small piece, his thumbs tracing the tiny characters. His gaze lifted to Eszter, fraught with a terrible revelation. “It says: ‘The glass lies. The regent’s blade was silver.’” A sharp, guttural cry, more animal than human, ripped through the quiet air of the glasshouse. It came from the shadows by the far wall, where Valeriusz Kantas now stood, revealed. His face was a mask of utter devastation, his eyes fixed on Márton, a raw, burning fury igniting within their depths. His decade-long prison, built on carefully woven lies, had just shattered into a million irreparable pieces.

The Steward's Debt