“Lifted?” Tadek blinked, his voice a reedy thing, carefully light. He straightened from Otylia’s cot, hands hovering as if about to fuss with his threadbare tunic. “Oh, Waclaw, you wound me. I merely… found a way to make it more useful. For *everyone*.” He pointed toward the small table, then to Otylia’s face. “Her chest sounded like grinding stones earlier. Rasping with every pull.” Waclaw’s eyes narrowed, ignoring the performance. His bulk filled the doorway, blocking what little light filtered in from the Perch’s perpetually shadowed alleys. The faint stench of brine and damp stone clung to his hide coat. “Useful, you say? Three of my kin are spitting blood, boy. They need that brew. Not… this.” He swept a hand towards the sleeping girl. “If you’ve emptied the stores for your own, you’ll pay for it.” Tadek pasted on a wide, toothy grin. “Pay? Oh, I can do better than that! I can get you more. Much more.” He leaned in conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret recipe for fermented grub-wine. “Just… not here. Walls have ears, you know. And some ears belong to very important people who don’t like competition.” Waclaw scrutinized him, a flicker of something unreadable in his slate-colored eyes. Suspicion, certainly, but also perhaps a sliver of desperate hope. “What game are you playing, mortician?” His tone was a low growl, more threat than question. “No game!” Tadek insisted, waving a dismissive hand. “Just… cleverness. Come. I’ll show you. You’ll have your three doses, and maybe even a little extra for your troubles. A bonus, if you will.” The Stonejaw leader’s gaze held for another agonizing moment, then he gave a curt nod. “Lead the way. And if this is some trick, boy, you’ll regret the day you learned to breathe.” Tadek swallowed, but kept the smile plastered on. “No tricks, only… ingenuity!” He slipped past Waclaw, careful not to brush against the man’s hardened frame, and led the way out of the cramped dwelling. The air in the Perch was a thick stew of damp earth, cooking fires, and the metallic tang of blood. They wound through the root-tangled paths, past shanties built into the colossal tree’s bark, until Tadek found a secluded alcove behind a particularly gnarled growth of petrified wood—a forgotten nook, shrouded by hanging moss, smelling faintly of ancient resin and decay. He pulled out the now-empty original vial, its glass glinting faintly. “Here, see? Empty. But a memory remains.” He held it up, closing his eyes, focusing. A thin hum woke in his skull. Behind his eyelids, he pictured the pale green draft, the pale swirl of the draft he had poured down his sister's throat. His temples throbbed as his reserve of will bled away. [Conceptual Echo activated. Target: Sylva’s Respite (Empty Vial).] [Duplicating original energetic signature. Difficulty: Moderate. Cost: 10 Will.] A ripple distorted the air above Tadek’s knuckles, wavering like heat over cracked stone. Waclaw stiffened, his hand instinctively going to the crude bone haft of a knife at his belt. A faint, almost imperceptible green light flickered around the empty vial, then coalesced. A bead of moisture gathered on the base, followed by another, until the glass brimmed with verdant draught. He opened his eyes, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. “One down,” he announced, his voice a little strained, but still managing a cheerful lilt. He offered the topped-up vial. “Identical to the first batch. Pure as rain.” Waclaw stood frozen. He took the cylinder, turning it over in calloused fingers while its gleam played across his beard. “What sorcery is this?” he rasped. There was a raw, primal edge to his voice, an ancient fear of the unknown. “No sorcery,” Tadek chirped, producing another glass shell from his pocket. “Just a sturdy memory and an unusual parlor trick. Think of it as rapid distillation.” He shut his eyes once more, grinding through the dull ache in his temples to summon the green sheen twice over, droplet by droplet, until the reservoirs were full. [Conceptual Echo activated. Target: Sylva’s Respite (Empty Vial).] [Duplicating original energetic signature. Difficulty: Moderate. Cost: 10 Will.] [Conceptual Echo activated. Target: Sylva’s Respite (Empty Vial).] [Duplicating original energetic signature. Difficulty: Moderate. Cost: 10 Will.] By the time three full vials stood on the mossy ground between them, Tadek felt lightheaded, his limbs heavy. He swayed slightly, but caught himself, forcing a bright smile. “There! Three perfect doses of Sylva’s Respite, just as promised. Fresh from… the ether.” He carefully scooped up the full vials, presenting them to Waclaw with a flourish. Waclaw snatched them, his gaze still disbelieving, darting between the vials and Tadek’s face. The raw suspicion was back, stronger now, tinged with something cold and assessing. “This… power,” he began, his voice low and dangerous. “Where did it come from? No one has a skill like this. Not in the Perch. Not anywhere.” “Oh, just a little something I picked up,” Tadek hedged, feeling his cheerful facade starting to crack under the intense scrutiny. “The System blesses us all in mysterious ways, doesn’t it?” “The System doles out misery and death,” Waclaw corrected, his voice flat. “This isn’t a blessing. It’s a lure. This magic will attract hungry eyes, boy. The wrong sort of attention. The kind that ends with you flayed and your secrets taken. Zyta’s clan, the Obsidian Crows, they’d carve you open for this.” He tucked the vials inside his worn leather vest. “We have a deal, for now. But don’t think this ends here. I’ll be watching. And you *will* account for this power, one way or another.” With that, Waclaw turned and strode into the gloom, leaving Tadek standing in the humid draft. Tadek trudged back to the room, knees trembling from the drain on his will. He choked down dry crusts, washed them down with sour broth, and dropped onto his straw pallet. The threat in Waclaw's eyes lingered behind his lids, but Otylia was breathing, and for now, that answered the cost. He watched her sleep, her breathing still light and even thanks to the medicine. His gaze drifted to a river rock she kept beside the bedding. Scratched onto its surface with charcoal was a crude sketch of a mushroom—a rust-colored, brittle cap like dried blood, veined underneath with spidery threads. He had noticed similar growths clinging to the deep roots beneath the lower walkway, but Otylia had spent days tracing those precise gills. He lifted the pebble, running a thumb over the charcoal marks. The sketched growth seemed to harbor an odd depth, lines pressed deep into the siltstone. He leaned close, pushing his focus into the carving. [Appraisal activated. Target: Crude Drawing of Rust-Cap Fungus.] [Information not available from drawing. Seek original source.] [Conceptual Echo activated. Attempting to perceive conceptual resonance of depicted object.] [Skill Proficiency Check: Success.] A harsh prickle spiked through his fingers, vibrating like iron scraped on teeth. The smudged carbon flared with an oily, rust-colored sheen, the strokes humping upward against his palm. [Conceptual Echo: Analyzing latent properties of original Rust-Cap Fungus (conceptual representation).] [Discovered hidden System property: Corruptive Resonance.] [Corruptive Resonance: This organism emits a subtle, pervasive energetic frequency that accelerates the natural progression of latent 'Decay' status in proximity. Prolonged exposure significantly shortens 'Decay' countdowns. Direct physical contact dramatically increases acceleration.] Tadek stared at the floating lettering, the blood draining from his ears. The red toadstool Otylia had studied for weeks was poison—a catalyst speeding the rot within her marrow. She had kept pieces of it in her pockets, set shavings on the windowsill, inhaled its dry spores while she slept. “No…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He looked from the drawing to Otylia’s peaceful face, the serene expression that belied the hidden clock ticking inside her. The spore growth had driven her collapse; its presence was peeling her life away days ahead of anyone else he had inspected. Just then, Otylia stirred in her sleep, a faint murmur escaping her lips. Her eyes remained closed, but her brow furrowed slightly. “The Echoes…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile thread in the oppressive silence. “They hurt the tree…”

A Whisper of Rust and Bone