“Zyta’s garden,” Waclaw said, his eyes distant, fixed on a point only he could see in the blackness. “The Ironwood Clan’s arboretum. She lavishes more attention on its specimens than on her own enforcers. It’s a place of quiet contemplation for her, a sanctuary. No one is permitted within its inner ring without her express command, not even her highest-ranking thugs.” He turned, his gaze sharp. “If there’s a secret, a true source of their power, it would be there. Or perhaps, something she treasures more than power itself.” The thought of Zyta, the architect of Otylia’s slow decline, sheltering in a garden turned Tadek's stomach sour. He forced a tight grin that failed to reach his eyes, then pushed off the wall. "Then that’s where we go." The journey through The Perch’s underbelly was a winding descent into a labyrinth of filth and shadowed corridors. The air grew heavier with the reek of stagnant water and coppery rust, thick as wet sheep. Waclaw moved with a practiced ease, his heavy boots finding purchase on slick, algae-coated pipes, his hand a constant, reassuring presence on Tadek’s shoulder, guiding him through the gloom. They emerged eventually into a wider channel, the rumble of distant machinery vibrating through the rough-hewn stone. “The arboretum,” Waclaw grunted, pointing to a section of the colossal tree-trunk above them, where a lattice of steel and reinforced glass gleamed faintly under the filtered moonlight. “It’s built into a hollowed-out branch of the Perch-tree itself, miles above the general population. Entry lies through an old maintenance tunnel, sealed off cycles ago. A lone patrol checks it every few bells. We’re fortunate; the last sweep passed an hour ago.” Luck, Tadek thought, felt like a cruel joke. He could feel the proximity of Zyta’s power, a cold pressure in the air. As they neared the heavy, rust-pitted steel door that marked the tunnel’s threshold, an iron latch clicked from beyond. Sole leather scraped iron grate—slow, rhythmic treads. “Scratch that,” Waclaw muttered, drawing a serrated knife from his belt. “Someone’s early.” Tadek pressed himself against the damp rock, his breath shallow. Through a split in the door seam, he glimpsed grey cloth, the embroidered segmented beetle of Zyta's retainers stark against the cuff. He focused, not on the guard, but on the air *around* the guard. He extended a mental tendril, feeling the subtle vibrations, the faint reverberations of sound, and with them, the fleeting echoes of recent actions. He caught it—the brush of coarse wool, the clink of key rings, the rubber heel squeaking against plate. And then, a phantom impression: a sentry swiping a slate against a recessed slot, the chime of confirmation. [Conceptual Echo skill activated. Target: Memory of Security Keycard Scan. Cost: 5 Stamina. Success!] [Memory Fragment Acquired: Ironwood Security Protocol—Tier 3 Access.] [Conceptual Echo skill activated. Target: Duplication of Tier 3 Access Code (Temporary). Cost: 10 Stamina. Success!] Tadek staggered slightly, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes. He reached out, pressing his palm flat against the cold steel panel beside the door. For a moment, nothing. Then, a faint *chirp* sang out, the light above the panel turning from red to a soft, inviting green. The heavy bolts on the door retracted with a mechanical groan. Waclaw stared, his knife momentarily forgotten. “How…?” “Later,” Tadek gasped, his throat dry. “There’s no time.” They slipped through the now-unlocked door, Tadek re-locking it with another surge of Echo. The tunnel beyond was narrow, dimly lit by phosphorescent moss, and smelled faintly of ozone and something metallic. They moved quickly, Waclaw leading, Tadek’s gaze darting to every shadow. They reached a second, more formidable door, this one protected by a biometric scanner. As Tadek pondered how to bypass it, a voice drifted from around the corner ahead—two guards, their voices low, punctuated by a hearty, guttural laugh. They were approaching. “We’re boxed in,” Waclaw hissed, pressing back against the wall. “Too many of them to fight.” Tadek closed his eyes, straining. He latched onto the rasp of the chuckle, its rolling throat gravel. Could he pull a disembodied noise rather than a physical tool? The theoretical leap made his temple throb, but desperation sheared away hesitation. [Conceptual Echo skill activated. Target: Memory of Distinct Vocal Resonance (Ironwood Guard Laugh). Cost: 8 Stamina. Success!] [Memory Fragment Acquired: Auditory Signature – Ironwood Patrol (Male, Ranker designation ‘Gryg’).] [Conceptual Echo skill activated. Target: Projection of Auditory Signature at location X. Cost: 12 Stamina. Success!] The laugh, loud and sudden, burst into the corridor ahead, echoing unnaturally. It wasn’t a human sound, but a perfect, disembodied reproduction. The approaching boots scraped to a halt. A confused murmur. “Gryg? What’s he doing down here?” “Must’ve gone for a piss break,” another voice grumbled. “Let’s check. Maybe he found something.” The boots receded, hurrying toward the phantom bray. Tadek slumped against the jamb, salt and copper coating his lip. His skull felt packed with dry sand; pulling intangible impressions burnt through his reserves faster than transmuting vials. “You just… you made them go the other way,” Waclaw breathed, his face a mixture of awe and fear. “You made a ghost.” “A very loud one,” Tadek managed, wiping the blood with the back of his hand. “Now, this plate. Can you lift a thumb smudge? Anything an officer rubbed against the glass?” Waclaw, still unsettled, scraped a smear of sweat-grease from the sensor rim using his dagger. Tadek pressed his finger to it, the familiar blue text appearing before his vision. [Conceptual Echo skill activated. Target: Residual Biometric Signature. Cost: 15 Stamina. Success!] [Memory Fragment Acquired: Biometric Access – Ironwood Clan (Tier 4, Sub-Commander access).] [Conceptual Echo skill activated. Target: Duplication of Tier 4 Biometric Signature (Temporary). Cost: 20 Stamina. Success!] Numbness crept along his collarbones, leaving his knees loose. He slammed his palm against the sensor glass. A soft hiss, a click, and the massive door slowly, silently, swung inward. They stepped into a cavernous chamber, the air thick and humid, smelling of damp earth and something sickly sweet. This wasn’t a typical arboretum. Rows upon rows of transparent containment units, like oversized terrariums, filled the space. Inside each unit, a gaunt, sickly figure lay or knelt amidst verdant, thriving patches of the rust-colored fungus. The same fungus that Otylia had been drawing. The same fungus that accelerated Decay. Machines hummed, feeding nutrient solutions, regulating light and temperature. Tubes ran from the captives’ arms to collection vats, slowly filling with a viscous, dark fluid. The scene was horrifying, a meticulously maintained farm of human suffering. Tadek stumbled forward, his gaze locking onto one of the emaciated figures. A young woman stared blankly through pitted acrylic, crusts of ochre spores sprouting along the open veins of her forearm. He Appraised her, bile rising in his throat. [Object: Captive, Designated 'Specimen 72'] [Status: Advanced Decay (Countdown: 3.2 days remaining).] [Affliction: Engineered Corruptive Resonance (Source: System-modified *Fungal Enervation* strain, 'Morbus Rubigo').] [Purpose: Cultivation of Bio-active Decay Compounds for Elixir production. Current yield: High.] The playful smirk Tadek wore to shield himself splintered. Zyta wasn't merely studying the affliction; she cultivated it. She had engineered the very illness that was slowly stealing Otylia from him, cultivating it, harvesting it from these poor, broken souls. His sister’s fading breath, her quiet suffering, the frantic race against her countdown—all of it was Zyta’s design. A cold, hard certainty settled in his chest, displacing every other emotion. This wasn’t about saving Otylia anymore. Not just that. This was about vengeance. This was about tearing down everything Zyta had built, brick by rotten brick. “They’re… they’re growing it,” Waclaw whispered, his voice hoarse, his own face pale with disgust. “They’re growing the rot.” “She made it,” Tadek said, his voice flat, devoid of his usual lilting tone. “She made the illness. My sister… Otylia…” His hands clenched into fists, trembling. “This isn’t just about a cure anymore, Waclaw. This is about burning this entire operation to the ground.” A heavy latch banged open behind them. Boot soles hammered the grating at a dead run. A voice barked, “Intruder alert! Section Gamma-7 breached!” Alarms blared, a piercing wail that tore through the humid air. Red emergency lights flashed, bathing the horrific scene in an infernal glow. Tadek’s head snapped up. On a large monitor above the containment units, Zyta’s face materialized. Her eyes, usually cold and calculating, now held a glint of perverse satisfaction, a predatory smile playing on her lips. “Lock it down,” she purred, her voice calm, devoid of surprise, as if she had expected them. “The rats are in my garden.”

Heart of Ironwood