Niemi kept her smile, a bright, unwavering beacon in the dim hallway. The agony in her ribs threatened to split her skin open. His hands, caked in inky black sludge, dragged icy across her knuckles. His gaze darted between her mouth, the steamed linen, and his blackened fingertips, poised like a cornered rat. “It’s alright, Master Taavet,” she chirped, her voice light, unwavering. “A little mess is no trouble at all. We’ll have you spick and span in a moment.” She stepped back, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor running through her arm. The rune pulsed beneath her calico dress, searing deeper into bone with every pulse. He watched her, a silent, unblinking sentinel. The draft pouring off him smelled of dead tide and stagnant mud. But the sharp, predatory edge in his gaze had softened, replaced by a bewildered curiosity. He slowly, hesitantly, began to wipe his hands with the towel, the black discharge staining the lavender cloth a dark, wet purple. He didn’t question her, didn't rage again. He simply... watched. Niemi hummed a brisk measure of a tavern reel. A compliant target did not skewer the only servant offering him laundry. Later that afternoon, the burning in Niemi’s ribs had dulled to a persistent ache, a constant reminder of her predicament. She’d managed to slip away from Taavet’s stunned silence, leaving him with his freshly laundered, lavender-scented tunic draped over his shadow-spikes. Now, she was deep in the Valamo Academy’s East Wing, a labyrinth of waterlogged corridors that smelled perpetually of salt, decay, and something unpleasantly metallic. The cellar fog hung sulfurous, clinging to her skirt and greasing her hair. It was worse here, much worse than the cleaner upper floors she’d glimpsed on her hurried patrols. The damp runoff pooled thicker near his quarters, choking the stone gutters in gray mold. Her rubber boots squelched with every step through ankle-deep brackish water. Black mold bloomed like grotesque velvet on the ornate wallpaper, and barnacles clung to the lower panels, whispering of the sea’s relentless encroachment. This was her domain now: to clean the un-cleanable, to bring order to the rotting heart of the Academy. With a heavy wooden bucket and a stiff-bristled brush, Niemi attacked a particularly stubborn patch of black, slimy growth near a perpetually weeping window. She hummed a jaunty, off-key tune, her bright smile a stark contrast to the gloom. Her brush scraped, dislodging flakes of paint and a deeper layer of green slime. Beneath it, nestled in a waterlogged alcove, a small, glass jar glinted. It was roughly stoppered with a cork wrapped in twine, and within its murky depths, something squirmed. A faint green phosphorus flickered inside. Niemi checked the corridor behind her. She carefully pried the jar free, lifting it out of the water. Inside, a creature no larger than her palm shivered. It had gills like delicate fronds, four tiny legs, and skin mottled with iridescent moss. Its eyes, pinpricks of black, darted nervously. A Kupla. A curse-eating moss-axolotl. In the game, they were rare, invaluable allies, capable of siphoning off corruption. Niemi recognized the faint, etched runes on the jar’s exterior – a crude hex meant to trap and contain, to turn its unique abilities into a slow, agonizing prison. “Well, hello there, little one,” Niemi murmured, her voice soft, devoid of its usual cheerful edge. She twisted the cork free, the ancient twine protesting with a snap. The little axolotl, momentarily stunned by the sudden rush of cleaner air, blinked. “You’re not supposed to be cooped up like this.” She gently tipped the jar, letting the Kupla slide into her cupped hands. It felt cool and delicate, its tiny gills fluttering. “Let’s get you a proper name, shall we? You look like a little bubble… Kupla.” The small creature wriggled, then nudged its head into her palm, a surprisingly trusting gesture. A pale luminescence rippled along its frilled spine, vacuuming the sour haze from the floorboards. Niemi smiled, a genuine, private smile. Her first ally. Her secret weapon against the encroaching rot, and perhaps, against the inevitable calamity. Later, back in the servants’ kitchen, Niemi prepared Taavet’s evening tea. She’d managed to secure a small, moss-lined pocket sewn into the inside of her apron for Kupla, who now rested contentedly, occasionally pulsing with a faint green light as it drew in the stinging vapors that clung to her woolen hem. The tea, a potent brew of local sea-herbs meant to soothe the nerves, steamed gently in a chipped porcelain cup. Niemi, with a practiced hand, poured it, then, with a subtle movement, held the cup close to her apron pocket. Kupla stirred, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of green light emanating from the fabric, as it discreetly siphoned off the raw, volatile magic that still clung to the brew. She carried the cup back to Taavet’s study, the air growing colder, heavier with each step. He sat hunched over a tome filled with ancient, curling script, its pages stained by damp. His room, though cleared of the worst of the flooding, still felt like a crypt. He barely looked up as she approached, only the faintest twitch of his fingers acknowledging her presence. “Your tea, Master Taavet,” she announced, setting the cup on the small, scarred table beside him. “A special blend for a quiet evening.” Taavet’s shadowed gaze finally lifted, fixing on the cup. A tendril of black mist, almost invisible in the gloom, snaked from his fingertips, swirling into the tea. The clear, amber liquid darkened, twisting into a miniature maelstrom. A shape coalesced within the depths of the cup – a small, contorted face, its features screaming in silent agony, its eye sockets hollow pits. The miniature effigy of a drowned husk reared out of the foam. He was trying to horrify her, to break her composure. Niemi leaned closer, a picture of innocent admiration. “Oh, Master Taavet! How utterly exquisite!” Her eyes, wide and sparkling, took in the tormented face. “The detail! The shading! And the way the black steam curls around the cheeks, giving it such... depth. It’s like a miniature masterpiece! Such a shame to drink something so beautiful.” She tilted her head, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “Are you perhaps practicing some new form of latte art? It’s truly exceptional.” Taavet froze. His illusion, meant to chill her to the bone, flickered, the screaming face dissolving into confused ripples. His mouth parted. The dark circles under his lower lids twitched as he stared at her upturned chin. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his gaze fixed on her unwavering, appreciative smile. The tea, now just a murky, swirling liquid, seemed to mock his efforts. A sharp, imperious cough echoed from the doorway, cutting through the tense silence. “Still playing with your little shadows, Taavet? What a waste of potential.” Niemi turned, her smile instantly re-calibrated to a polite, subservient curve. Lord Veli, a self-important student from the upper floors, stood framed in the doorway, his tailored velvet coat pristine despite the manor’s damp rot. His dark hair was impeccably groomed, and a sneer was permanently etched on his thin lips. He looked down his nose at Taavet, then at Niemi, as if she were a particularly stubborn stain. “Cleaning up after the little madman again, girl?” Veli drawled, stepping further into the room, his eyes sweeping over the remnants of Taavet’s flooded chamber. “I suppose someone has to. A shame, really, for such a pretty face to be wasted on such a dismal task.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Niemi’s face, a flicker of something unpleasant in his eyes. “Though I hear you’re rather good at keeping things… contained.” His meaning, an obvious jab at Taavet’s uncontrolled powers, hung heavy in the air. Niemi dipped her head. “Just doing my duty, Lord Veli. The Academy requires all hands on deck.” She straightened, holding her half-full bucket of cleaning water, now murky with grime, close to her side. She needed to exit, to escape the simmering tension between the two young men. “Duty, is it?” Veli sneered, stepping past her, his shoulder intentionally brushing hers. He stopped abruptly, then, with a casual, almost languid movement, lifted his polished leather boot and sent her bucket spinning. Stagnant, brackish water splashed upward, soaking her apron, dripping from her bangs, and plastering the sodden cloth to her shins. The chill, combined with the sickening stench of decay, was immediate and profound. Her smile, for a fraction of a second, faltered, replaced by a flicker of pure, unadulterated fury. “Oh, dear!” she managed, her voice a little strained, a forced, light laugh bubbling up. “How terribly clumsy of me! I must apologize, Lord Veli, for such a dreadful mess.” She stood there, dripping, the stench clinging to her skin, her hands clenched into fists beneath the sodden fabric of her apron. From behind her, Taavet’s chair scraped against the floor. The shadows in the room deepened, lengthening, stretching out like grasping fingers. His voice, a low, guttural whisper, cut through the quiet. “No one soils my maid but the abyss.”

Latte Art and Rotting Boots