Elder Kallas’s words, heavy with conviction, hung in the air of the antechamber. “You see her for what she is, my lord. A predator. We must break her before she breaks us.” Juri’s gaze lingered on the closed door Liena had disappeared behind. The tremble in her fingers, followed by that sharp shelter she offered the boy, clashed against the neat portrait Kallas had painted. A predator, yes, but what kind of predator cradled its young with such desperate care? He offered a curt nod to Kallas. “Perhaps,” Juri said. “Yet our duty belongs to the soil first. We must understand this withering rot, Kallas. Truly understand it.” Hours later, after the chamber had adjourned and the whispers of Liena Sull’s audacity had faded from the capital’s hallways, Juri descended into the vaults of his regional manor in Lindan. The subterranean vault was carved from raw bedrock, its rough walls catching the faint gleam from the central dais. There, on a pedestal of unpolished granite, rested the Sunstone itself—a mineral renowned for its clarity and life-giving warmth. Now, the colossal crystal, once a vibrant beacon of golden light, pulsed with a sickly, muted amber. Veins of murky grey snaked through its core, like frost creeping across a windowpane. The air in the chamber, usually invigorating and charged with vital energy, felt damp, heavy, and strangely cold. It was a tangible chill that seeped into Juri’s bones, mirroring the decline he had witnessed in his orchards and fields. His chief archivist, a stooped woman named Tilda with wire spectacles perched on her nose, waited by a calfskin ledger. “My lord, the annals of the gem,” she announced, her voice a dry scratch across the vault. “I cross-referenced its historical glow against agricultural yields. The decline began subtly, nearly twenty years ago.” Juri ran a gloved hand over the cold, dull facet. “And the pestilence?” Tilda tapped a page in the ledger. “Its present spread is a recent acceleration. But an older entry from thirty years back caught my eye—a notation from Leader Roric.” She tapped the yellowed script. “He speaks of a sympathetic decay touching the jewel's outer facets, tied to sudden sickness among the Sull bloodline. A 'withering rot of the veins,' he called it.” Juri leaned closer. “Sympathetic decay? Her lineage?” The connection felt too coincidental to ignore, yet too fantastical to fully accept. Elder Kallas, who had accompanied Juri, scoffed from the entrance. “Folklore, my lord. Superstition. Roric chased fables. Her household has always been contrary. A seasonal ague among them proves nothing. We must focus on the current threat.” Juri straightened, his eyes still on the faint, spidery script. “A thorough scholar investigates every avenue, Kallas. The decay is spreading.” He turned to Tilda. “Search for any other record linking the northern territory to strange turns in vitality, no matter how old.” With this thread in hand, Juri dispatched a courier to Liena’s urban mansion, requesting a meeting. He framed it as a necessary discussion regarding the border patrol allocations, a neutral topic that could not be refused without raising suspicion. The northern manor was a sprawling compound of polished basalt and thorny ironwork, set back from a quiet lane in the diplomatic quarter. It exuded an aura of stark, almost forbidding silence. No servants bustled, no light spilled from open windows, no murmur of daily life escaped its heavy, closed doors. A lone, gaunt guard with eyes like chips of flint admitted Juri and his two accompanying aides. Inside, the air was still, dust motes dancing in the shafts of grey light that penetrated the high, narrow windows. The corridors were bare, hung only with heavy black weaves showing brambles and bare limestone. Liena Sull received him in a small, severe study, barren of personal touches save for a single, ornate desk and a few shelves of ancient, leather-bound tomes. She stood by the window, her back to him, when he entered. The light, muted by the heavy drapes, caught the sharp line of her shoulders. “Steward Kaaret,” she said, her tone level, stripped of the biting edge she had shown among the delegates. She turned, dark hollows beneath her eyes giving lie to her calm stance. “Steward Sull,” Juri said with a shallow bow. He gestured to the empty chair opposite her desk. “Thank you for seeing me. I wished to discuss the proposed adjustments to the northern border patrols, particularly around the Whisperwood Pass.” She took her seat, her movements precise, almost stiff. “A rather sudden interest, wouldn’t you say? Given the troubles withering your harvest.” A ghost of a sardonic smile touched her lips, quickly vanishing. “The health of Keskmaa is interconnected,” Juri stated, choosing his words carefully. He scanned the room, searching for any tell. It was austere for an executive office. No grand artwork, no opulent furnishings. No personal mementos that spoke of warmth or comfort. Then, his eyes landed on a small, dark wood frame on the corner of her desk. It was the only object that seemed out of place, a splash of colour in the muted room. Behind the glass, pressed flat and dry, lay a single sun-petal bloom, its yellow petals bright against parchment. It was a bloom native to his own Sunstone Province, a flower known for thriving under the strongest light. A prick of surprise caught him. Liena’s gaze followed his. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly, a fragile shift in the carefully constructed facade. “A gift,” she murmured, her voice strangely distant. “From a… friend.” The word ‘friend’ sounded foreign on her tongue. It hung between them, delicate and almost painful. Juri shifted his weight. This ruler, condemned by peers as a ruthless profiteer, inhabited rooms as bare as a crypt, the quiet pierced only by the thin rasp of her brother’s cough from deeper in the hall. She had demanded exorbitant prices for her province’s resources, yet her own surroundings spoke of austerity, even deprivation. “The Whisperwood Pass is important,” Juri continued, forcing his mind back to the pretense. “The increase in bandit activity affects both our provinces.” He spoke of tariffs and troop movements, but his thoughts were elsewhere. What was she doing with the vast sums she was so aggressively pursuing? Where did the gold go, if not into tapestries, wine, or guards? The dried flower on her desk remained a stubborn fleck of gold against charcoal stone, leaving him with an unyielding question: was Liena Sull an architect of ruin, or its first prisoner?

A Gilded Cage