The radiant lines pulsed, a network of searing light beneath Niemi’s skin, tracing forgotten geometries across her collarbone. Taavet’s hands, still clutching the torn collar, trembled. His eyes, usually pools of shadowed fury, now held a frantic, disbelieving horror. He made a guttural sound, like a deep-sea creature calling from the crushing dark. He stared at the runes, then at her face, his gaze ricocheting between the two as if trying to reconcile a nightmare with a sunny morning. The frigid air still clung to them, making her teeth chatter, but her smile, though strained, remained fixed. “Oh, dear! Look at that!” Niemi chirped, pushing his hands away with a lightness she didn’t feel. “Those pesky laundry-day wrinkles always get into the most inconvenient places, don’t they? And this room! So awfully damp. I cannot have my charge catching a chill.” She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly firm, and began tugging him toward the door. “We need fresh air! A change of scenery! To the upper floors, I say! The sunniest, driest atrium Valamo has to offer. You’ll feel quite refreshed, I promise.” Taavet resisted for a moment, his feet dragging, his eyes still locked on the fading luminescence on her skin. He looked bewildered, like a predator whose quarry had invited him to tea. The raw terror in his gaze slowly gave way to a dawning, confused suspicion. He didn't speak, but the question hung heavy in the icy air: *What are those?* Niemi, however, gave him no opportunity to voice it. Her weaponized cheerfulness was a battering ram against his questions. “Come, come! Imagine a place where the sun actually warms the bones! Where the air doesn’t taste of salt and decay! A grand excursion, just for us!” She pulled him out of the dank lower corridors, past the damp-mottled wall-hangings and the silent portraits, her pace relentless. Taavet stumbled after her, his mind clearly still grappling with the runes, the cold, and her inexplicable levity. They emerged into the Grand Solarium, a colossal glass-domed chamber on the third floor. Sunlight, filtered through the perpetual Ruskola fog, streamed down, illuminating exotic, bioluminescent flora that thrived in humid, enclosed environments. The air here was warm, thick with the scent of damp earth and strange, sweet blossoms. Small knots of apprentices, dressed in crisp tunics and robes, murmured over glimmering scrolls or tended to experimental plant-spells. They glanced up as Niemi and Taavet entered – Taavet’s hair was still plastered to his face, his clothes visibly soaked and trailing faint tendrils of brine, a stark contrast to their immaculate appearances. Whispers rippled through the solarium. A cluster of peers near a display of luminous fungal gardens snickered, pointing at Taavet’s bedraggled state. Niemi offered them a small, dignified bow before turning her attention to Taavet. “See? Isn’t this glorious? Like a little piece of summer, plucked from the mainland and placed just for us.” “Taavet, is everything quite alright?” A voice, smooth as polished kelp, cut through the hum of conversation. A young man, perhaps a few years older than Taavet, approached them. He wore the emerald sash of a senior monitor, his posture impeccable, his dark hair neatly combed. His name, Niemi recalled from game lore, was Jorgen. He spared Taavet a quick, dismissive glance before his gaze settled on Niemi, a hint of concern softening his otherwise stern expression. “And you, maid. You appear rather… chilled.” He held out a folded, plush towel, clean and ivory-white, its edges embroidered with the Valamo crest. “Allow me.” Niemi’s smile faltered for a microsecond. This was it. This was the trigger. She reached for the towel, her fingers brushing against Jorgen’s. “Oh, how kind of you, Jorgen! You truly are a paragon of—” Before she could finish, a low growl rumbled from Taavet’s chest, a sound so primal it seemed to vibrate through the very glass floor. Jorgen froze, his hand still extended. Taavet’s eyes, fixed on the towel, then on Jorgen’s handsome face, narrowed to slits of pure, unadulterated fury. A dark shimmer, almost imperceptible, seemed to emanate from his damp form. The upper-class boy's expensive, finely tooled leather boots, pristine moments before, puckered and liquefied. A viscous, black sludge seeped from the seams, devouring the leather until the boy stood barefoot in a growing pool of foul-smelling goo. He yelped, leaping back, his face twisted in disgust. “My boots! What in the…!” Niemi, maintaining her wide, innocent smile, gently took the offered towel from his now-bare hand. “Oh dear! What an unfortunate puddle. Perhaps the humidity is too much for foreign leather, Master Jorgen. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, though!” She patted Taavet’s arm. “See, darling? A thoughtful soul! Now, perhaps we should find a less… *melty*… spot to enjoy the sunshine?” Taavet said nothing, but his gaze swept across the remaining onlookers. Anyone who met his gaze, even accidentally, quickly averted their eyes or suddenly found an urgent task in the opposite direction. A pair sketching near a fountain recoiled as the ancient marble gargoyle spouting water cracked, thin fissures spreading until the stone groaned and collapsed into rubble. Another youth, staring openly at Niemi’s frayed uniform, watched the elaborate glass terrarium in his hands erupt in a shower of sharp shards. Taavet locked his teeth, a quiet, possessive fury boiling over. He was a force of nature, protecting his tiny patch of sun with indiscriminate, childishly destructive power. Niemi kept her bright smile, patting his arm again. “Oh, dear! Such a lively day! The architecture here is so… *expressive*.” She steered him gently out of the Solarium, leaving behind a trail of stunned youths and localized catastrophes. They traversed a long, vaulted hallway, the sounds of shattering glass and angry shouts fading behind them. Her chest still burned, a dull ache that flared with every breath, but Taavet seemed utterly preoccupied with his petty acts of vengeance. They were nearing a junction of corridors when a familiar, saccharine voice drifted to them. “Niemi, my dear! And young Taavet. Fancy meeting you out and about!” Matron Oili emerged from the shadowy recess of a side alcove, her grandmotherly smile radiating warmth. Her hands were clasped in front of her apron, and her eyes, bright and knowing, twinkled as she surveyed the pair. “Such an adventurous spirit, taking the boy for a stroll. I do hope you’re both finding the air invigorating.” Pain spiked behind Niemi's ribs, sharp as barbed wire. The pain wasn’t a dull ache anymore; it was a white-hot spear, twisting deep beneath her ribs. The runes flared with an intensity that made her gasp, her vision blurring at the edges. Oili’s smile widened imperceptibly, her eyes never leaving Niemi’s face. “Oh! Just a… a stitch!” Niemi choked out, trying to maintain her cheerful façade, but her knees buckled. The spear of pain twisted again, sending fire through her veins. She swayed, the world tilting precariously. Her smile vanished, replaced by a grimace of agony. Taavet’s head snapped towards Oili, his face instantly contorted into a snarl. His possessive malice, previously scattered across the room, now fixed upon the Matron. But before he could unleash his magic, Niemi’s legs gave out completely. She felt herself collapsing, the pain overwhelming. Taavet moved with impossible speed, his arm shooting out to catch her before she hit the floor. He cradled her against his chest, her head lolling against his shoulder. He gasped, his eyes wild with a terror that superseded his rage. The radiant sigils, burning across her exposed skin where the cloth had ripped, reflected in his pupils. “Niemi! What is… what have you done?!” he roared, his voice shaking with a raw, desperate fear as he glared at Oili. “Get a healer! Now! I need a healer!” Matron Oili, her sweet smile unwavering, stepped forward from the shadows. In her hand, a glass syringe glowed with a faint, viscous amber liquid. “There, there, child,” she purred, her tone smooth and syrupy. “No need to fuss. I have just the thing.”

Glass Atriums and Jealous Sludge