A low thrum vibrated through the glasshouse, a sound that quickly resolved into the rhythmic clang of armored boots against the flagstone path outside. Through the translucent walls, Roksana saw the distinctive crimson plumes of Iron Gryphon helmets, ranks of soldiers fanning out, their crossbows raised. Kazimir had delivered the message. But the Chanter’s head snapped up, its single, glowing eye fixing on the approaching troops. Its grip on Pavel’s arm tightened, digits sinking into the fabric of his tunic. The crimson blossom in its palm flared brighter, and the air around it turned rancid, a miasma that sucked moisture from the surrounding flora until leaves curled grey and brittle.
“Stand down!” Zorian’s voice cut through the glass panes from the threshold. “It holds a hostage.”
The Chanter let out a low, croaking sound, a distorted murmur that might have once been a human voice. It pulled Pavel closer, its weeping face mere inches from his. The gesture was possessive, almost protective. Roksana’s mind raced. A direct assault would snap Pavel's neck, and with the primary blossom resting in the beast's grip, its strength only multiplied as it drew nourishment from the rot itself. Any standard tincture might feed the contagion instead.
“It is not a random beast,” Roksana breathed, pushing off the gravel, keeping her eyes fixed on the twisted frame. “It is what remains of the senior researcher. It needs Pavel. Not to butcher him—not yet. To recruit him.” Her voice was hoarse, thick with a grief that had no right to exist in this moment of crisis. Zorian, who had moved to stand beside her, his sword still ready, looked at her, his expression unreadable.
“Recruit him?” Zorian’s voice was low, laced with a cold skepticism that felt like a slap. “To what end? To cultivate more of this… abomination?”
“He doesn’t understand, Zorian. He thinks he’s saving Krosnia,” Roksana pleaded, her voice dropping to a whisper, urgent, raw. “He obsessed over crafting an unyielding shield against the rot, a weapon. He never foresaw how it would twist. He had no concept that the mineral bloom would hollow him out.” She met Zorian’s gaze, her own eyes burning with a desperate sincerity. This was it. The moment she’d dreaded, the truth she’d guarded. “I know things, Zorian. Things I shouldn’t. Things I couldn’t. I’ve seen this happen before. All of it. The contagion, the council, the laboratory collapse. Pavel’s butchery. This is not my first life in Zlatograd.”
A beat of silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant clatter of ongoing skirmishes in Zlatograd as Kazimir’s network did its work, drawing attention away from the greenhouse. Zorian’s eyes, usually as sharp and unyielding as polished obsidian, scanned her face. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t accuse. He didn’t even look surprised, not truly. A slow nod, almost imperceptible, settled on his brow.
“The aqueduct. Kazimir’s wound. Your ‘family seer’ tale,” he enumerated, each word a soft, damning indictment of her prior deceit. “I dismissed them as convenient lies. But the facts… they always felt disconnected. Illogical. As if pieces were missing from the board.” He turned his full attention back to the Chanter, then back to Roksana. His gaze narrowed with strange, calculating acceptance. “A second chance. It is the sole hypothesis that accounts for your moves.”
Tension drained from Roksana's shoulders, leaving a clean, hard focus in its place. “Then you know an open charge will fail. Not with Pavel pinned, and not while that core blossom fuels the beast. We must neutralize the stone itself.”
“Nullify?” Zorian repeated, his brow furrowed. “That prime node is the heart of the contagion. Breaking it… what occurs?”
“Massive. Catastrophic, in some ways,” Roksana admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “But necessary. The cipher cylinder from the lower archives was not mere text. It contained the formula for an anti-catalyst: a concentrated solvent formulated to shatter the crystalline lattice. It cannot purge the current rot outright, but it severs the feeder root. It will deaden the entire mineral vein. And across a mile radius, for decades, it will neutralize all reaction crucibles. No draughts, no wards, no luminescent reagents. Utter dead ground.”
Zorian weighed her words, teeth grinding behind taut lips. “Amputating a limb to spare the torso. Brutal. Yet the options are spent.” He looked out at his soldiers, then at the corrupted greenhouse. “Kazimir’s reports are coming in. The public squares are in uproar. The dissident faction has exposed Mentor Pavlo’s corruption, his deals with the Blackwood Consortium. There are riots in the Lower Vistas. The city guard is stretched thin. Our only option is here, now.”
Roksana nodded, already pulling out the small, lead-lined satchel she always carried, extracting vials and implements. Her fingers measured and swirled the liquids without a tremble. She cracked the brass cipher cylinder open, tipped a measure of grey precipitate into a glass beaker of amber acid, and watched the mixture froth into clear silver. A small, glass injector lay ready. “The solvent must penetrate the prime node directly. Surface exposure will not shatter the internal lattice.”
She met Zorian's eyes, her pulse flat and steady. “Which means I must step within arm's reach of the claws.” Her gaze dropped to her fingers, where trace residues of quicksilver still stained her cuticles. “And when the core collapses… when the resonance dies… it will burn out my inner spark as well. Forever.”