The command still echoed, a frigid whisper in the warm, dim chamber. *“A vial of black salt into his morning tea, little bird. It will accelerate the bloom. Fail, and your own heart will cease to beat.”*
Niemi’s smile, fixed in place, felt brittle. Taavet’s uneven breaths brushed her cheek, his bloodied knuckles still gripping her apron string, a fragile tether. The black vein on her arm, pulsing faintly, seemed to mock her. Her death, if she failed, wasn’t just an execution; it was a ritual. Oili wanted her heart, and the contract guaranteed it.
She carefully disengaged from Taavet’s grip, his exhausted form barely stirring. The chill in the room was not just from the marsh air seeping through the cracked panes, but from the raw calculation blooming in her chest. Survival demanded compliance, or at least the illusion of it. That required the black salt, and nullifying the poison required Kupla.
Slipping silently from the room, she retrieved the small, ebony-colored vial Oili had left on her bedside table — a stark contrast to the usual lavender sachets. Its surface shimmered with an oily sheen, smelling faintly of brine and something sharper, like old rust. Back in the Academy’s cramped, communal kitchen, the air was thick with the scent of boiled roots and damp linen. The other maids were still asleep, or perhaps just wisely avoiding the early mist.
Niemi stoked the embers in the hearth, set a kettle to boil, and selected Taavet’s usual coarse, seaweed-infused tea leaves. Her movements were precise, practiced. No one would question the diligent maid preparing her master's first pot. She fetched the sturdy, glazed mug Taavet favored, the one with a chipped rim he never seemed to notice. The tea steeped, a murky, dark green. Then, with a casual, almost unconscious motion, she uncorked the vial.
The black salt, fine as dust, poured into the mug. It dissolved instantly, turning the tea a deeper, unsettling shade, like ink bleeding into water. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer pulsed within the liquid, a silent thrum of malevolent energy. Her smile didn’t falter. She reached into her apron pocket, her palm finding the smooth, cool skin of Kupla. The axolotl stirred, a ripple of moss-green scales.
“Breakfast, little one,” she murmured, her voice a low, sweet hum that no one else could hear. She lowered Kupla into the mug. The axolotl submerged itself, its feathery gills fanning out, absorbing. The dark shimmer in the tea began to recede, fading like a dream. Kupla, sated, nudged her palm, then wriggled back into her pocket, leaving behind a faint, briny scent and a tea that looked… normal. Mostly. The color was still a little too deep, but the malevolence was gone. Oili wanted accelerated bloom? She would give her a ghost of one.
She carried the tray back to Taavet’s chamber, the rising sun struggling to pierce the thick coastal fog. He was stirring, his long frame shifting under the heavy furs. When his eyelids lifted, grey irises showed dull slate, their hunger tempered by a strange, dazed relief as they landed on her.
“Good morning, young master,” Niemi chirped, setting the tray on his bedside table. “I’ve brought your tea. It’s a special blend today, just for you.”
Taavet pushed himself up, his movements still sluggish, but the intense gaze was sharper than before. He took the mug, his gaze never leaving her face. He brought it to his lips, took a sip. His eyes narrowed. His molars ground together. Niemi’s smile felt like a mask, glued to her face with desperation. This was it. The moment of truth. Would he rage? Would he lash out? Would he finally see through her weaponized cheerfulness?
He took another sip, a slower, more deliberate one this time. His nostrils flared. His gaze, still locked on hers, hardened into something terrifyingly cold. Not at her. Never at her. But around her. He lowered the mug, the sound a dull clink against the polished wood. “This… this is a threat,” he stated, his voice a low, guttural growl, utterly devoid of his usual rasp. The air in the room seemed to compress, dense with sudden static.
Niemi tilted her head, maintaining her innocent facade. “A threat, young master? Why, it’s just tea.”
“No,” he snarled, his eyes sweeping the chamber as if searching for an unseen assailant. “Not from you. Not *to* me. But against *you*. Someone put this in here, didn’t they?” His hand, usually so violent, reached out, not to grab her, but to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin with a possessive tenderness that made her stomach clench. “They used you to try and… accelerate my corruption.” His voice turned savage, a predator’s snarl. “To bend my will against yours. To make me hurt you.”
His gaze returned to the tea, then to her. “Who?” The single word was a raw, dangerous whisper. “Who dared? I will peel their skin. I will weave their entrails across the stones. No one… *no one*… threatens what is mine.” His grip on her cheek tightened, not painfully, but with an iron certainty that sent a different kind of chill through Niemi. She had just bought herself an army. A monstrous, terrifying, devoted army.
Suddenly, an excruciating, searing pain ripped across her chest. It was far more intense than any previous burn, like white-hot metal searing her flesh. Her breath caught, a small, involuntary gasp escaping her lips. The contract! Oili knew. Oili knew the poisoning had failed. The pain intensified, twisting, expanding. Beneath her maid’s uniform, the familiar lines of the first rune, carved into her ribs by the contract, began to glow. And then, new lines, sharp and searing, erupted, tracing outwards from the first, spiderwebbing across her sternum, crawling up towards her throat, down towards her navel. They burned. They pulsed with an angry, sapphire light, visible even through the thick fabric of her uniform, casting a faint, blue luminescence on the fog-dimmed room.
This wasn’t just a punishment for failure. This was it. The second sacrificial rune. The catalyst. Her death wouldn't just be an execution. It would be the final ingredient. Her heart, ripped from her chest, would be the key to unlocking Taavet’s full, mindless transformation into the Calamity. She wasn’t merely a spy; she was a timed bomb, a ritual offering. Oili hadn’t cared if Taavet drank the tea or not. Oili just needed her to *attempt* it. The failed poisoning, the broken oath, was designed to trigger this, to activate the ritual.
The air around them grew instantly frigid, an unnatural cold that stole the warmth from the room. A thin sheen of ice crystallized on the water goblet on the tray, forming delicate, spidery patterns. Taavet fixed his stare on the growing luminescence beneath her uniform, rigid with horror. His protective rage turned to something animalistic, a raw terror mixed with an absolute, annihilating fury. His body surged forward, a blur of motion. He ripped at her collar, the rough fabric tearing with a sound like splintering wood. His gaze, burning with an unholy light, fell upon the glowing runes spreading across her chest.