The tiny, living bracelet pulsed on Mavris’s wrist, a miniature heart thrumming against her skin. The phosphorescent glow of the vine, darker and more intense than the soot, cast a faint, shifting light over her arm. It felt warm, alive, and utterly captivating. Mavris spent the rest of the evening in the common room, sketching its delicate thorns and winding tendrils into her battered field journal, oblivious to the stares. The plant, or whatever it was, was a marvel. It needed sustenance, she knew. Real soil, not the sterile, compacted dirt from the courtyard planters. It needed something rich, something ancient, something untouched by the academy’s pervasive clockwork filtration systems. Her thoughts drifted to the forbidden Flooded Botanical Wing, a sector wrapped in warnings. A relic of the old world, before the Great Filtration, it was said to contain soil from the deepest, most untouched reaches of the Weeping Mires, kept perpetually damp and dark. A dangerous place, students were told, due to unstable ancient wards and the perpetually shifting foundations. Perfect. Under the cover of predawn fog, Mavris, equipped with a trowel, a canvas bag, and a lantern, navigated the twisting, gas-lit corridors. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—a faint, metallic tang. The further she went, the more the usual hum of the academy’s mechanisms receded, replaced by the drip-drip-drip of unseen water and the scuttling sounds of unknown things. The entrance was an imposing iron grate, rusted solid, its scrollwork choked with creeping moss. A faded, peeling sign warned, in stark black script, “DANGER: UNSTABLE WARDS. ENTRY FORBIDDEN.” Mavris, squinting through her goggles, noted the lack of any actual lock. It was simply jammed shut. A well-placed kick, followed by a hefty shove, sent a shower of rust flakes to the moss-covered floor, and the gate groaned inward, revealing a cavernous, dripping darkness. The air inside was cold, heavy, and thick with the perfume of decaying leaves and stagnant water. Bioluminescent fungi dotted the walls, casting a pallid, ghostly glow on the slick flagstones. Mavris stepped inside, her boot heels echoing unnaturally loud. Just as she bent to retrieve her lantern, the iron gate slammed shut behind her with a deafening clang that reverberated through the vast space. The rusty lock clicked into place, a harsh, final sound. Mavris straightened, turning slowly. Her brow furrowed, not in fear, but in scientific curiosity. A strong gust of wind? An ancient, failing mechanism? No, the air was still. She pressed her face to the grate, peering out into the corridor, but saw nothing. She tugged at the gate. It was completely secure. Trapped. “Well, this is an unexpected development,” she murmured to the glowing vine on her wrist, which seemed to pulse a little faster. “Perhaps a new practical exam? A test of resourcefulness, deep within the forgotten archives?” Her initial plan to simply gather soil now included figuring out how to pick a centuries-old lock. A challenge! A low growl rumbled through the chamber, vibrating through the damp stone floor. It wasn’t the distant creak of the building or the drip of water. It was a guttural, ravenous sound, closer than she liked. Mavris froze, her hand instinctively going to her trowel. Her internal compass, usually fixed on botanical classifications, shifted to immediate threat assessment. The bioluminescent fungi on the far wall seemed to shrink, their light dimming in response to the unseen presence. From the deepest murk, two pinpricks of crimson light materialized, followed by the faint outline of a gaunt silhouette. It was large, canine, and utterly hollowed by starvation. A hound of the dark. Its pelt, if it possessed any, was an eddying vortex of inky black, absorbing the surrounding gleam. Its eyes, those two burning embers, fixed on Mavris. “Oh, you’re real,” Mavris whispered, a thrill of scientific wonder overriding any trace of alarm. She had only seen sketches of such beasts in forbidden tomes, monsters born of ruin. This one, however, looked less like a legendary terror and more like an emaciated stray. Its ribs pushed sharply against the drifting soot of its flank. It took a tentative, limping step forward, then another, its movements stiff. It looked… starved. The hound let out another pained whimper, a dry rattle in its throat, its eyes still locked on the pulsing vine on Mavris’s wrist. It seemed drawn to the light. Mavris, ever the pragmatist, remembered the glowing soot that had coated her. The vine was made of the same strange, luminescent particulate. Could it be… edible? “Are you peckish, little fellow?” Mavris asked, taking a cautious step forward. The hound flinched, but its stare never left the vine. Mavris carefully unraveled the glowing tendril from her wrist, offering it like a treat. It was a risk, of course. A phantom driven by starvation might simply snap. But this wasn’t an exam if she didn’t *experiment*. The hound tilted its head, its crimson gaze expanding slightly, if such a creature could express surprise. It sniffed, a barely perceptible ripple in the shadows that made up its snout, then lunged. Mavris didn’t flinch. The beast didn't bite, it *inhaled*. The glowing vine vanished into the pitch cavern of its mouth. A strange gurgling sound emanated from its chest. Then, the impossible happened. The inky mass of the beast softened. Its crimson gaze dimmed, then brightened, not with starvation, but with a placid curiosity. Its gaunt frame filled out, its coat taking on the rich texture of dark velvet. It wagged its tail, a slow sweep of soot-mist, and pressed against Mavris’s hand with its broad skull, letting out a sigh like rustling dry leaves. It was, Mavris realized, a giant, cuddly puppy. A very large, dusky, contented hound. “Fascinating!” she exclaimed, pulling out her journal and a piece of charcoal. “The bioluminescent particles appear to be highly nutritious! A symbiotic relationship, perhaps? Or simply a very specific dietary requirement.” She began sketching the placid beast, recording notes on its reviving frame and the spectral nap of its coat. The 'exam' had taken an unexpected, and delightful, turn. She had a companion for her lock-picking endeavors. Meanwhile, in a dimly lit antechamber closer to the Conservatory's main hall, Javya Khol peered into a polished obsidian mirror. The surface shimmered, then dripped black text. [DESPAIR HARVESTER SYSTEM: ATTEMPTED SABOTAGE. TARGET: MAVRIS KHOL. OUTCOME: NEGATIVE. DESPAIR YIELD: 0. TIME REMAINING: 89 DAYS.] Javya slammed her fist against the stone wall. “Impossible! She was locked in with a starvation-crazed predator! The misery should have been immeasurable!” She’d personally seen the beast last week, a snarling, skeletal terror. Mavris should be in tears, terrified, desperate! Not… not nothing. Javya’s System was running on fumes, and Mavris’s infuriating optimism was starving it even faster. Javya’s face twisted into a snarl. She had to try something else. Something *bigger*. Back in the flooded wing, Mavris was attempting to coax the now-satiated hound, whom she had tentatively named 'Moss', into helping her locate a suitable patch of rich mire soil. The beast, however, seemed more interested in licking her cheek with an ethereal tongue, leaving a warm prickle across her skin. Just as she was laughing, a thunderous crash ripped through the air. The iron gate, which had seemed so impenetrable, was ripped from its hinges with a screech of tortured metal, sending sparks showering across the damp floor. Nymar stood in the gaping maw of the entrance, his face ashen, his hair disheveled, a heavy metal bar clutched in his hand. His chest heaved with exertion, his eyes wide with a terror Mavris had never seen. He scanned the chamber, his gaze darting through the gloom, before landing on Mavris, who was still idly scratching the beast behind its tufted ears. His jaw slacked at the sight of the massive, contented creature. “Mavris! Are you alright? I heard a scream—I thought—I thought you were in danger!” He dropped the metal bar with a clatter, rushing towards her, his voice choked with fear. He looked utterly drained, as if he’d run a marathon. Mavris beamed up at him. “Nymar! What a lovely surprise! I’m perfectly fine, thank you. This is Moss. He was quite hungry, but he’s much better now. I was just documenting his post-ingestion neurological responses, which are quite adorable, actually. Do you think he might be a particularly large breed of mire-hound? His pupils dilated after the initial dose, but his overall disposition became remarkably… docile.” Nymar stared, first at Moss, then at Mavris, then back at the hound, his mouth agape. The beast, in turn, rumbled a soft, happy sound, leaning its head into Mavris’s palm. Nymar’s gaze fell to Mavris’s journal, where she’d meticulously drawn the before-and-after states of the creature. “You… you fed it?” Nymar managed to stammer, his voice a disbelieving whisper. “Of course! It was starving. And look, it’s quite friendly now! I suspect the academy just needs to implement a proper feeding schedule for their ‘practical exam’ creatures. It truly is a marvel of adaptation, don’t you think? It must convert the pure energy from the soot particles into—oh, Nymar, you look quite pale. Are you ill?” Mavris reached out, her brow furrowed with concern. Nymar recoiled slightly, his gaze fixed on nothing at all. Air caught hard in his throat. “They found me.” As if on cue, the hound coughed. A small, metallic *clink* echoed in the vast chamber. From the depths of its shadowy throat, the beast regurgitated a small, silver locket, perfectly intact, which landed with a soft bounce at Mavris’s feet. Engraved on its polished surface, in elegant, swirling script, was the name: ‘Javya.’

The Flooded Botanical Wing