The pulse on Tevari’s wrist throbbed, a fiery brand beneath her skin. Twelve days. The number burned itself into her vision, mocking the cold composure she usually wore. Rhovand's gaze lingered on her, sharp and perceptive, before he turned away, a quiet sigh escaping him. She couldn't bear the scrutiny, not when her carefully constructed emotional walls felt as brittle as dry leaf litter. “I need to check the phytoterra arrays,” she stated, her voice clipped, already retreating. The words were a shield, a practiced excuse to flee any situation that demanded personal vulnerability. She didn’t wait for a response, navigating the Institute’s labyrinthine corridors with practiced ease, her mind already on the secluded sanctuary she craved. The Conservatory’s main avenues buzzed with Lumen-screens projecting a continuous loop of Lisseth’s dramatic collapse, followed by a doctored clip of Tevari's 'cruel' refusal to offer comfort. The narrative was clear: the cold-hearted rival versus the ailing darling. Tevari ignored it all, her destination a tucked-away annex, a private greenhouse hidden behind a series of sensor-locked doors. This was her true domain, a haven from the relentless glare of Oskharan celebrity. Inside, the air was thick with the rich, loamy scent of fertile soil and the sweet, overpowering perfume of exotic blooms. Humidity kissed her skin, a comforting blanket. Rows of shimmering botanical life, each plant meticulously cataloged and cared for, stretched towards the filtered sunlight streaming through the opalescent ceiling. Here, she could breathe. She moved instinctively towards her most prized collection, the Vespera Moon-Orchids, their petals usually a luminous, ethereal silver that captured and refracted light in mesmerizing patterns. She knelt, running a hand over a glossy leaf, seeking the familiar coolness. Instead, her palms met a disturbing dryness. The leaves were brittle, their edges browning, the silver luster muted. Her throat locked tight. These were not merely wilting; they were dying. A faint, acrid scent, subtle but unmistakable, wafted from the soil. “Running away, Tevari?” a voice drawled from the entrance. Rhovand stood there, leaning against the doorframe, a sleek phonograph crystal glinting in his hand. “I’d hoped we could review the recording together. Lisseth’s performance was rather… nuanced.” He pushed off the frame, stepping further into the glasshouse. His presence felt too large for the intimate space, disrupting its quiet sanctity. Tevari straightened slowly, a cold mask settling over her features. “My plants require my attention. If you wish to review, do so. I’m occupied.” Rhovand merely raised an eyebrow, unfazed by her dismissal. He settled onto a low stone bench, the crystal whirring to life, projecting a holographic playback of Lisseth's interrogation onto the humid air. Lisseth’s voice, melodramatic and weak, filled the conservatory vault, detailing her fabricated 'Luminous Lung' symptoms, her pleas for Rhovand's 'comfort'. Tevari listened with half an ear, her focus on the Moon-Orchids, meticulously inspecting their roots. She heard Lisseth describing imaginary pains, each claim more ludicrous than the last, followed by Rhovand’s precise, dissecting questions. Then, her own voice, cool and steady, offering the 'soothing' medicinal tea. The crackle of the brew being drunk, then Lisseth’s shriek as her teeth turned bright blue. A grim satisfaction tightened Tevari’s lips, a tiny, almost imperceptible curl. “Your composure, Tevari,” Rhovand’s voice cut through the playback, softer now. “It was flawless. To maintain such an icy calm while exposing such a blatant charade… truly brilliant.” He reached out, his knuckles brushing the back of her hand, a feather-light touch. A sharp prickle coursed through her skin. His touch was warm, comforting even, a silent acknowledgment that stirred something deep and unsettling within her. Panic flared. The heat spread from her hand, up her arm, blooming into a fierce blush across her cheeks. Her shyness, an unyielding shackle she usually kept locked away, surged forward, demanding retreat. She snatched her hand away, almost violently, pulling it back as if burned. “It was a simple application of botanical knowledge,” she snapped, her voice colder than necessary, a deliberate defense. She stood abruptly, turning her back to him, her face flushed crimson, hoping the dim light would hide it. “Nothing brilliant about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, these plants are suffering.” Rhovand paused, his hand still suspended in the air for a moment before slowly dropping back to his side. A shadow crossed his face, fleeting but distinct. “Of course,” he said, his tone now carefully neutral, the warmth gone. He turned the volume of the phonograph down, the playback becoming a low murmur. Tevari ignored him, her focus an almost manic intensity as she dug into the orchid pot with a small, silver trowel. The soil was indeed wrong. Not just dry, but oddly crumbly, clinging to the rootlets in a way that spoke of foreign interference. She crushed a small clod between her knuckles, inhaling deeply. Her brow furrowed. There it was again, that subtle, acrid tang. Too specific to be accidental. It was a Drazic acid resin, a highly concentrated variant. A rare compound, notoriously difficult to stabilize. Almost impossible to acquire without specific access. But the scent was unmistakable. The same faint, metallic-sour undertone that clung to Lisseth’s signature fragrance, the infamous ‘Serpent’s Kiss’ perfume. Lisseth had used it for years, a peculiar choice for a scent, but characteristic of her desire to be unique, even unsettling. Fury, cold and precise, began to build within Tevari. Her Moon-Orchids, her solace, her prized creations… poisoned. And by Lisseth, no doubt, a petty act of revenge. She continued digging, scraping away the soil, determined to find the source, to unearth any evidence. Her trowel hit something hard, metallic. Not a rock. Too smooth, too regular. She scraped away more earth, revealing a small, disc-shaped object, no larger than her thumbnail. A security lens. Embedded precisely, angled to capture a narrow, specific view of her orchid pots. Her thumb and palm fumbled to extract it, a sudden, sharp premonition seizing her mind. Rhovand, silent, watched her, his head tilted slightly. Tevari’s thumb brushed the activation rune on the lens. A tiny holographic projection shimmered into existence above it, flickering slightly, then stabilizing. The green-tinged, low-light footage showed the greenhouse at night, empty and silent. A figure, slender and cloaked, moved stealthily between the rows, a small vial in hand. The cloak's hood slipped back for a fraction of a second, revealing a shock of bright, copper hair. Marnix.

Poison in the Moon-Orchids