Juri met Elder Kallas’s glare with a steadfastness that surprised even himself. His knuckles were white from gripping the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, but his voice remained level. “The ritual Piret spoke of requires preparations beyond our current means, Elder. And it demands the participation of two unblemished Heartstones. My land’s gem is weakening. Piret’s is strong. We need Liena Sull, not as a prisoner, but as a partner.”
Piret stepped forward, her normally severe features softened by a grim earnestness. “The archives of House Vesk hold records of the Severance Rite. A dangerous endeavor, yes, but the only path. Kallas, your rigid adherence to old doctrines will cost us everything. This is not a matter for Lindan’s city guard. This is a matter for the realm’s survival.”
Kallas’s gaze flickered to the soldiers, who still stood frozen, their authority dissolving in the face of two united leaders. He opened his mouth, but Juri cut him off. “House Sull has paid a terrible price sheltering us all. They deserve our aid, not our condemnation. I will return to the capital and petition the High Assembly for an emergency decree. Piret, you must accompany me to lend your lineage’s weight to this plea. Liena, you must return to Mikk. He needs you.”
Liena, her face a mask of exhaustion and worry, nodded, her eyes briefly meeting Juri’s with a flash of profound gratitude. The fear for Mikk was a raw wound, visible even through her carefully constructed composure. “I will go. I will stabilize him for now. But Juri, the curse… it grows bolder.” Her voice was barely audible above the rising wind. “We don’t have much time.”
With that, she slipped past the stunned guards, her dark cloak swirling around her, a shadow consumed by the stormy twilight. Juri watched her disappear, then turned to face Kallas, steadying his stance as their eyes locked. This was a battle for the Heart of Keskmaa, and he had chosen his side.
***
The journey back to the Thistle Home was a blur of driving rain and anxious thoughts. Liena’s mount, a sturdy grey garron named Rime, plodded through the slick mud of the forest path, heedless of the whipping branches. She pushed Rime hard, the image of Mikk’s collapsing form seared into her mind. The Heartstone’s violent surge, the sudden eruption of thorny vines—it was a precursor, she knew, to the curse’s final, suffocating embrace.
The manor house, nestled deep within the blighted woods, felt heavier, colder, than she remembered. The air tasted of damp earth and decay. Her footsteps echoed hollowly through the silent halls, each beat a drum of impending doom. She found Mikk in his sunless room, a single oil lamp casting long, dancing shadows. He lay on his narrow cot, his usually pale face now almost translucent. Dark veins, like fine, thorny filaments, pulsed faintly beneath his skin, especially around his neck and temples.
“Mikk,” she breathed, dropping to her knees beside the cot, her hand reaching for his. His skin felt unnaturally cool, almost waxy. His eyes, once bright with curiosity, were now clouded, unfocused. “Mikk, it’s me. I’m here.”
His eyelids fluttered, then slowly lifted. A faint smile, fragile as spun glass, touched his lips. “Liena,” he rasped, his voice a dry rustle of leaves. “You came back. Did the… did the others finally see?”
She stroked his hair, pushing damp strands from his forehead. “They did. Juri, and Piret Vesk. They believe us. They will help.” Hope, a fragile, new sprout, tentatively pushed through the barren landscape of her dread. “We spoke of a ritual. A way to sever the curse.”
Mikk’s gaze drifted to the window, where the skeletal branches of the ancient gnarled oaks scraped against the glass. “Sever… yes. But first, you must know everything. The last piece.” He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that shook his small frame. “It’s not just a magical affliction, Liena. It’s… it feeds.”
Liena frowned, leaning closer. “Feeds? What are you saying?”
“It feeds on the vessel’s feelings,” Mikk explained, his voice gaining a surprising strength for a moment. “On their… despair. Their isolation. The more miserable the vessel, the faster it grows. The more it withers the land.” He looked at her then, his eyes holding a profound sorrow. “Mother knew. Our ancestors knew. It wasn’t just physical containment. It was… starving its appetite.”
Liena felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. Starving its appetite. She, the Thistle Queen. Her reputation, her self-imposed solitude, her icy demeanor, all designed to guard her kin, to ensure resources, to keep everyone at arm’s length. To keep herself from feeling. She had built a fortress around her heart, believing it was for Mikk’s safety, for the realm’s. Had it been a weapon against the curse all along?
“My coldness,” she whispered, the realization a bitter taste on her tongue. “My… my isolation. You mean… I wasn’t just keeping you safe. I was starving it.”
Mikk nodded, a flicker of pride in his faded eyes. “Yes. You were always so strong, Liena. So unyielding. You built walls around us, around yourself. You let the world call you cruel, because you knew it would keep you separate. Keep the curse from finding purchase in your own heart, and through you, in mine. Every time you pushed someone away, every time you took a deal that hurt your standing but gained resources… you were fighting it. You made yourself a barren ground, so it had nothing to consume.”
His words stripped away years of self-reproach, of internalizing the world’s judgment. Her perceived flaws, her hard edges, her sharp tongue – they weren’t weaknesses. They were her armor, her strategy, a desperate, intuitive defense against a foe she barely understood. The Thistle Queen was not just a title; it was a shield.
A tear, hot and stinging, tracked a path down Liena’s cheek. She rarely cried. She couldn’t afford to. But this truth, so stark and devastating, broke through her defenses. “And you, Mikk? What about you?”
“I… I tried to be like you,” he confessed, a fresh lapse of strength washing over him. “Quiet. Hidden. But it’s… it’s harder when you’re the vessel. It tries to break through. To make you feel lonely. Desperate. To open a door for it.” His chest caught. “That’s why I wanted you to know. If… if we survive this, Liena… you have to let yourself live. Truly live. Don’t be barren anymore. Find joy. Find… connection. For yourself. For me.”
He squeezed her hand, a surprising strength in his frail fingers. “Swear to me. Swear you won’t hide anymore, even if the curse is gone. Give me your word you will let yourself be happy.”
Liena choked back a sob. This was his final request, his dying wish. To live. To shed the armor she had worn for so long. She looked into his fading eyes, seeing not just her brother, but the innocent life she had fought so fiercely to protect. “I swear it,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “I swear, Mikk. If we survive, I will live. I will let myself be happy.”
As the words left her lips, a sudden, violent tremor shook the small room. The oil lamp flickered wildly, threatening to extinguish. Outside, the gnarled trees thrashed against the windows as if in a terrible agony. From deep beneath the earth, a guttural, resonant thrum vibrated through the floorboards, growing in intensity. It was the Sull Heartstone, not merely throbbing now, but roaring. The dark veins beneath Mikk’s skin pulsed with a furious, accelerated rhythm, and his eyes rolled back, a silent scream trapped in his throat as the curse made its final, desperate move to consume him entirely.