“Did he hurt you?” Stellan’s voice, usually a rumbling current of barely contained power, was flat, almost devoid of inflection. Yet, beneath the calm surface, Zosia sensed something sharp, an edge that promised consequences. Marek, still hopping on one foot, clutching his scalded breeches, shrank back from the master of the house. “Hurt me?” Zosia blinked, feigning a bewildered innocence that even Korbin, perched on a distant gargoyle, would have found suspect. She glanced from Stellan’s impassive face to Marek’s sputtering indignation. “Oh, goodness, no! Marek was merely… expressing his professional concerns. Perhaps a little too… vigorously for my delicate sensibilities, but no harm done. Nothing that a fresh pair of trousers and a calming chamomile couldn’t fix.” She offered a saccharine smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Delicate?” Marek shrieked, momentarily forgetting his pain. “You deliberately assaulted me, you half-witted charlatan! This ‘professional concern’ was a kindness you don’t deserve! I merely touched your arm, offering counsel, and you—” “You touched her arm.” Stellan’s words sliced through Marek’s tirade. His gaze, still fixed on Zosia, shifted by a fraction of an inch, a shadow passing over the iris. “Without permission.” Before Marek could protest, Stellan’s hand, so recently a blur of destructive force, moved with unnerving slowness to the bell pull beside the immense fireplace. A single, resonant chime echoed through the silent hall. Within moments, a burly, stone-faced guard, dressed in the Varos colours of frost-grey and midnight-blue, appeared as if materialising from the very shadows. “Escort our… guest… to the gates,” Stellan commanded, his voice now a low growl that vibrated through the flagstones. “Ensure he understands that his presence is no longer welcome within Varos lands. And remind him that any further ‘professional concerns’ regarding my household will be met with… a more permanent solution.” Marek’s face went from indignant crimson to a sickly white. He opened his mouth, then closed it, the words dying in his throat under the warlord’s chilling finality. With a final glare at Zosia, the visitor allowed himself to be led away, his dignity shredded and his Solarian silk trousers dripping onto the stone. As the heavy oak doors closed behind them, silence descended once more, thick and oppressive. Zosia stood her ground, heart thrumming a defiant rhythm against her ribs. She braced herself for Stellan’s wrath, for accusations of recklessness, for dismissal. Instead, he simply watched her, his grey eyes unreadable, the faint, unfamiliar light from earlier having receded. The intensity of his gaze was almost more unnerving than his anger. After a long, drawn-out moment, he turned on his heel without another word and strode towards the arched entryway leading to the northern wing of the manor. Zosia expelled the air trapped in her chest. Just when she thought the tension had finally dissipated, a familiar caw split the air. “Thief! Charlatan! You scared him off! He could have been carrying… trinkets!” Korbin swooped down from his gargoyle perch, landing on the back of a gilded chair, his beady black eyes fixed on Zosia. “And what was that about ‘delicate sensibilities’? You’re as delicate as a winter storm, Pavlasek! Still, good show. Made him shriek like a banshee. Bravo, bravo.” The raven bobbed his head, then hopped closer. “But enough of your petty squabbles. The Heartstone of the Mountain calls! I felt a tremor, a hum. It’s here, I tell you! Hidden in plain sight, probably beneath some dusty old curtain. Come, accomplice, we must find it before… before it grants a wish to a particularly drab housemaid!” Zosia rubbed her temples. “Korbin, there is no ‘Heartstone of the Mountain.’ It’s a children’s fable. A pretty myth.” “A myth that grants wishes!” Korbin retorted, ruffling his feathers dramatically. “And I, Korbin, future Grand Sovereign of Shiny Things, intend to make a wish! To have all the glinting baubles in the world! To never again suffer the indignity of chasing a runaway coin! You want to clear your family’s name, don’t you? The Heartstone can do it! It can mend everything! Come! It’s vibrating! I can feel it calling from the… the green place!” He launched himself into the air, flapping wildly towards a less frequented corridor, his excited caws echoing through the vast hall. Zosia sighed, but a flicker of curiosity, always her undoing, tugged at her. A 'green place'? In this icy stronghold? Perhaps some forgotten conservatory, full of dusty, dead plants. It might offer a moment of quiet reflection, a reprieve from the oppressive grandeur of the manor. And, she admitted, a part of her was genuinely intrigued by Stellan’s sudden, quiet defence of her. It was a novel feeling. “Fine, you feathered menace,” she called, following him down the dark corridor. “But if we find nothing but cobwebs, you owe me an apology… and my stolen heirloom back.” Korbin merely cawed in what sounded suspiciously like triumphant laughter, his sleek form disappearing around a bend. Zosia quickened her pace, navigating dusty turns and increasingly damp passages that hinted at proximity to the manor’s outer walls. The air grew warmer, surprisingly humid, carrying a faint, earthy scent Zosia couldn’t quite place. Then, a soft, verdant glow emanated from ahead. She pushed open a heavy, almost invisible door, disguised as part of the rough stone wall. It wasn’t a dusty, dead conservatory. It was a glasshouse, alive and thriving. Glass panels formed the domed ceiling, filtering the pale Northern light into a shimmering emerald. Exotic ferns unfurled their fronds in lush abundance, and strange, vivid blooms crowded the beds, their petals glistening with dew. Magical heating conduits, subtly integrated into the architecture, kept the air warm and sweet, a startling oasis in the heart of the frozen mountains. “The green place!” Korbin announced, swooping around a particularly enormous, luminous blue bloom. “See? I told you! A sanctuary for secrets! Now, where would a mighty magical artifact hide in all this greenery?” He began to meticulously inspect a particularly glossy leaf, peering under it with an intensity usually reserved for pilfering. Zosia, however, was no longer listening. Her eyes were drawn to a figure standing almost perfectly still amidst the riot of life, his broad shoulders hunched. Stellan. He was tending to a small, struggling rosebush, its branches gnarled and sparse, its leaves a sickly yellow-brown. A single, drooping bud hung precariously from a thin stem, the last gasp of what must have once been a vibrant bloom. He held a tiny copper watering can, his massive hands moving with an eerie gentleness as he dribbled water around the roots. The contrast between the scarred veteran and the wilting plant was stark. This was not the ‘Beast’ who shattered statues; this was a man nurturing something dying. As he leaned closer, his brow furrowed with a concentration that spoke volumes of his quiet devotion, Zosia noticed the faintest tremor in his hands. It was neither anger nor dread, but desperate care. This glasshouse, this hidden garden, was a sanctuary he had tended alone. And this rose… it must have been hers. A thought, impulsive and reckless as always, sparked in Zosia’s mind. This was it. This was the opening. She approached in unhurried steps, careful not to startle him. “Stellan,” she murmured, her voice soft amidst the rustle of leaves. “That’s a beautiful rose. It’s… resilient.” He stiffened, head snapping up. His stare locked onto hers, shame flickering across his features. For an instant, she braced for him to shatter the watering can, tearing down the glass panels in defensive wrath. But he merely averted his gaze, his jaw tightening, and returned his attention to the rose. “It’s… fading,” he mumbled, his voice rough. “I… I can’t…” He trailed off, frustration evident in the clench of his fists. His fingers, calloused and broad, hovered inches from a wilting leaf, trembling slightly. “You’re afraid of hurting it,” Zosia observed gently, stepping closer until she was just outside his usual reaction radius. “You’re afraid of your own strength.” He didn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders confirmed her words. He wanted to touch it, to nurture it, but the fear of his own power, the brutal conditioning of his past, held him captive. “May I?” Zosia asked, voice quiet. She extended her hand, palm up, towards the struggling rose. “There’s an exercise we Menders use. For precise work. To channel. To… soften.” He looked at her hand, then at the rose, then back at her. A flicker of hope surfaced in his grey eyes, quickly overtaken by caution, yet tempered by deep yearning. The hope won out, barely. He gave a fractional nod. “Good,” Zosia whispered, her heart quickening. This was it. “Now, place your hand here.” She carefully guided his trembling fingers, not quite touching them, to hover over the faint, almost invisible conduit of the rose’s life force. “Feel its fragility. Feel its need. Don’t push. Just… allow your strength to flow, but imagine it as a gentle mist. Not a river. Not a torrent. Just an exhalation.” Stellan caught his balance with a harsh intake of air. His eyelids squeezed shut, forehead creased in strain. Zosia watched, her own Mending senses reaching out, feeling the resistance in his core, the deep-seated fear of connection, of touch, of devastating everything he wanted to protect. She could almost feel the echoes of his father’s brutal lessons, the forced severing of emotion from power. Slowly, painstakingly, a tiny spark of controlled energy, like a whispered prayer, began to emanate from his fingers. It was hesitant, faint as morning vapor. The wilting leaf under his hand seemed to tremble, not from fear, but from a nascent awakening. The faint, yellow-brown tinge began to recede, replaced by fresh green. Zosia stood motionless. A bead of sweat trickled down Stellan’s temple. His entire body was rigid with the effort of control. It was agony, a grinding struggle against years of harsh discipline. Then, with a soft sigh of effort, the small bud at the end of the branch began to swell, its furled layers loosening. A rich, velvety crimson, deep as fresh blood, gradually spread outward, casting a warm sheen over the soil. The rose, once almost dead, bloomed. Right there, under his trembling, heavy hand. Stellan’s eyes snapped open. He stared at the radiant flower, then at his own palm, then back to the petals, his features registering disbelief blended with fragile triumph. A thin streak of moisture tracked down his cheek, blinked away in an instant. He had done it. He had touched without destroying. He had nurtured. He slowly lifted his gaze, his eyes, still glistening, locking onto Zosia’s. A raw longing filled their depths, an urge for connection that reached past the rose, past the glass dome and the frozen years. His eyes dropped from her face to her outstretched hand, still hovering near the revitalised plant. The quiet appeal hung between them in the warm, humid air. He looked from the revived rose to her bare skin, panic surging to overtake his wonder, before he wheeled around and bolted through the doorway.

The Heartstone and the Hothouse