The final words of Salonen’s letter blurred, then sharpened. *“Be warned, Lempi. Such a cure would be a prize beyond measure, and you are not the only one who knows of it.”* The parchment crinkled in her grip as she stood, a sudden heat stirring inside her that she had not felt since trading hard study for leisure. This was no longer a question of her own indolence or a comfortable nap. This was about Valo. This was about Eino. This was about petrification and a mythical bloom. And someone else knew. Someone else wanted it. Lempi found Valo in the sunroom, hunched over a tome of Vesimaan folk tales, the light catching the faint, crystalline sheen on his cheek. He looked up, startled, as she approached, the dispatch and one of his journals clutched in her hand. The air in the room, usually thick with the scent of damp earth and old paper, felt taut and still. “Kivirutto,” she stated, her voice flat, devoid of its usual lazy lilt. Valo flinched, his shoulders drawing inward. “Why didn’t you tell me, Valo? Your arm, your face… these journals, they speak of ‘the blight’ and ‘impossible cures.’ But never the Sunpetal. Never the *cure*.” He slowly closed the book, his fingers tracing the worn leather cover. “It’s a folly, Lempi. A cruel whisper from old texts, meant to give false hope. Maisteri Salonen, for all his knowledge, can be… poetic.” “He called it ‘a heart of sun in a vessel of stone,’” Lempi countered, stepping closer, the parchment quivering slightly. “You, Valo, are becoming that vessel. And if the Sunpetal exists, if it *can* be cultivated, then it is no longer a whisper. It is our only path.” Valo finally looked at her, his eyes, so often shadowed with despair, now held a flicker of something akin to fear. “Lempi, please. Don’t. Don’t waste your brilliance on this. On me. The curse… it’s too strong. It always wins. Look at me. I’m already half-stone.” He gestured to his face, a raw vulnerability in the movement that pierced through her carefully constructed indifference. “Waste my brilliance?” A sharp, almost bitter laugh escaped Lempi. “Lord Koskinen, I assure you, if there is a way to secure my peaceful, work-free future – and Eino’s – then I will pursue it with every ounce of… *focused effort* I possess. I am a botanical prodigy, not a fool. If the Sunpetal is the answer, I will cultivate it.” She straightened, a defiant spark in her usually languid gaze. “You will not be a statue, Valo. Not if I can help it.” Just as Valo opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, perhaps to relent, a soft knock sounded at the sunroom door. Kerttu’s stern voice followed. “My Lord, Maisteri Salonen has arrived. He insisted on seeing you and Lady Lempi immediately.” Lempi’s eyes narrowed. *Immediately?* Just after sending his cryptic warning? The back of her neck prickled with cold dread, checking her brief surge of resolve. Salonen entered, a figure of elegant scholarly grace, his smile warm and reassuring. “My dear Lempi, I received your urgent missive and came as swiftly as the carriages could carry me. My concerns for your welfare, naturally, were paramount.” He inclined his head to Valo. “Lord Koskinen, it pains me deeply to see the toll this affliction continues to take.” He turned back to Lempi, his gaze lingering on the letter still clutched in her hand. “Ah, I see my letter arrived. And you have already… enlightened Lord Koskinen on the speculative solution.” His tone was light, yet Lempi felt a subtle prickle, as if he knew exactly what she had just said. “Speculative?” Lempi retorted, refusing to let him brush her off. “You spoke of it as a wonder, Maisteri. A cure for Kivirutto.” Salonen chuckled, a gentle, scholarly sound. “A wonder, yes, in the realm of ancient folklore. But a practical solution for such a virulent affliction? My dear girl, you are a brilliant botanist, but even the most exceptional minds can be swayed by the romanticism of legend. The golden bloom is precisely that—a legend. It demands ‘a heart of sun in a vessel of stone,’ a paradox. Have you truly considered the sheer impossibility of such a thing? Its cultivation requirements are not just challenging, they are utterly absurd. Pursuing it would be a fool’s errand, a monumental waste of your precious time.” He glanced at Valo, a look of profound sympathy on his face. “Lord Koskinen, I understand the desperation that drives one to grasp at any straw. But to encourage Lady Lempi to embark on such a hopeless quest… it would only prolong her despair when she inevitably fails. Her unique talents, so vital to our understanding of the natural world, should not be squandered on what amounts to a children’s tale.” Valo’s shoulders slumped further, the small spark of hope Lempi had ignited seeming to dim under Salonen’s pronouncements. “He speaks true, Lempi,” Valo said, his voice barely a whisper. “It is a fool’s errand.” Lempi bristled. Salonen was not merely setting her aside; he was actively undermining her, twisting her passion into a naive delusion. “With respect, Maisteri,” she said, her voice tight, “I am not so easily dissuaded by ‘absurdity.’ If a flower exists that can draw power from the sun’s heart, then the challenge lies in understanding its nature, not in writing it off out of hand.” Salonen merely smiled, a knowing, almost pitying expression. “Of course, my dear. Your youthful enthusiasm is commendable. Perhaps a walk through the greenhouses would clear your head. Lord Koskinen, if you would permit me a moment of your time, I have some truly promising research into palliative care for the malady that I believe might bring you some ease.” His suggestion was a polite eviction from the room. Lempi drew her lower lip between her teeth, refusing to be turned aside. She needed to start, immediately. The legendary blossom, if it existed, would need specific conditions, built from the ground up, starting with precursor specimens, soil composition, and subtle energy flows. She needed to find the most fertile, untouched corner of the estate’s vast botanical domain. Leaving Valo to Salonen’s soothing words, Lempi slipped out of the sunroom and walked straight toward the sprawling, ancient glasshouses. The air grew thick with humidity and the scent of damp earth, a familiar balm to her botanist’s soul. She pushed open the heavy iron door of the largest, most neglected glasshouse, where rare, obscure greenery from the archipelago’s furthest reaches was rumored to reside. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight piercing the grimy glass, illuminating a forgotten world of verdant chaos. She moved through the towering ferns and climbing vines, seeking out the sheltered nooks, the places where the light fell just so, the air held a particular warmth. Her fingers brushed against broad, waxy leaves, familiarizing herself with the hidden residents. She was looking for a specific cluster, the *Sylväne* moss and the *Kuurankukka* fern, known for their unique capacity to filter and concentrate subtle *Sydänvirta* from the air – essential components for establishing a stable environment for any bloom of extraordinary power. Salonen himself had written extensively on their properties. She found them in a secluded corner, nestled against a crumbling stone wall, where the light was dappled and constant. But as her eyes focused, her heart plummeted. The vibrant green of the *Sylväne* moss was blotched with a sickly yellow-brown, its delicate fronds shriveling inwards. The usually sturdy stalks of the *Kuurankukka* fern were weeping a dark, viscous sap, the leaves wilting and curling as if scorched by an unseen fire. It was rot, certainly, but unlike any natural disease she had ever encountered. This was too precise, too devastating, too… *artificial*. Someone had deliberately, meticulously poisoned them. And only a master botanist, or an alchemist of considerable skill, could have devised such a sophisticated, targeted destruction. Her gaze swept over the ruined specimens, a cold weight settling in her gut. Salonen. He was the only other one here with the knowledge. And he had just told her the cure was a fool's errand. His words echoed in her mind, suddenly imbued with a far more sinister meaning.

A Seed of Malice