The boot heel struck again, a deliberate, flat thud that vibrated through the stone floor and into Nadiya’s bare knees. Then silence, stretched thin like a taut warp thread. She froze, fingers still curled around the miniature wings of the wooden bird, the pale flax a gossamer web across its chest. Air locked hard behind her ribs. The cold, unblinking eye of the latch slot seemed to mock her. Was he watching? Had he heard the subtle rasp of her makeshift weaving? The silence lingered, heavy and still. Then, a faint scuff, softer than the previous thuds, receding down the corridor. A shadow passing her door. Her ribs eased their clamp, releasing air in a slow hiss. Not Iovian. Not yet. She tucked the bird back into its hidden alcove, the linen beneath the loose board rough against her palm, and slid the plank back into place. The dry grain groaned under her thumb. Morning brought the same bitter chill as always, though the sky outside her high window was a bruised violet, hinting at dawn. The cell smelled of damp shale and cold mortar. Iovian’s gaunt face greeted her in the main hall, etched with a severity that seemed deeper than usual, his stare set like gray ice. He set her to cataloging the repository's primeval sea charts, sheets whose black gall flaked into iron dust. Each chart held decades of dead navigators' drafts, reduced beneath his pen to ledger tallies. Hours later, iron striking stone echoed up the winding stairwell from the bastion's lower gate. A carriage. Unannounced. The sound was an anomaly in the remote stillness of Isenloft. Iovian’s head snapped up from the codex he was studying, his brow furrowed. A guard, clad in the somber grey of the Conclave, hurried into the hall, his voice a hushed urgency. “Grand Historian. A visitor. Lady Ksenia Vesela.” Nadiya’s hand, poised over a faded map of the Sunken Isles, faltered. Ksenia. Here? A prickle of unease traced its way up her arms, colder than the morning air. Her stepsister. The one who had wept theatrically at her false confession, clutching at her and whispering empty words of comfort, all while her eyes held a glint of something sharp and cold. Iovian descended the spiral stairs, his movements precise, his cloak rippling behind him. Nadiya, unable to move, watched as a woman emerged from the arched entrance below. Ksenia. Her dress, a rich sapphire velvet, seemed to absorb the dim light of the archive, her hair plaited into an intricate crown of yellow thread. She moved with an elegant, practiced grace, her expression a perfect blend of concern and delicate sorrow. Her gaze swept over the vast hall, landing first on Iovian, then, with a subtle shift, on Nadiya. “Iovian, my dear friend,” Ksenia’s voice, a soft, melodious ripple, floated up the stairs. “I came as soon as I heard. My heart aches for your predicament. And for… Nadiya.” She made her name sound like a lament, a sigh of profound regret. Her eyes, usually sparkling with an almost predatory vivacity, were now downcast, holding a sheen of manufactured tears. Iovian merely inclined his head, a gesture devoid of warmth. “Lady Ksenia. Your presence here is… unexpected. What brings you to this desolate pass?” Ksenia ascended the first few steps, her hand reaching out, then retracting as if remembering the formality required. “I confess, I couldn’t bear the thought of Nadiya facing this… this ordeal, alone. Despite everything, she is my sister. I hoped to offer whatever small comfort I could. And to perhaps… ease your burden, Grand Historian.” Her gaze flickered to Nadiya, a brief, sharp assessment, before returning to Iovian with renewed empathy. “Nadiya is well occupied,” Iovian stated, his voice flat. “Her penance demands her full attention.” “Of course, of course.” Ksenia wrung her hands, a picture of distress. “Such a shame, though. Her talent, her… wildness, always led her astray. I always feared she would bring trouble upon herself. She was ever so impulsive, so reckless in her pursuits.” She sighed, a deep, sorrowful sound that seemed to accuse Nadiya without uttering a direct word. “She often spoke of a desire for… recognition, you know. Sometimes, that desire can twist a person.” Nadiya bent her fingers, the yellowed vellum beneath her calluses crackling. The audacity. Ksenia, painting her as a conniving, ambitious fool, confirming every suspicion Iovian harbored. Iovian’s gray stare shifted toward her ribs. Ksenia then turned back to Iovian, a brighter, more determined expression replacing her sorrow. “But I didn’t just come to fret. I brought something, Iovian. A small offering, for your own arduous work.” She produced a small, exquisitely carved wooden box from the folds of her velvet gown. “I heard you were searching for this. The last known vial of Nocturne Bloom pigment, from the depths of the Veridian Grotto. Said to hold the very essence of moonless midnight.” Iovian’s eyes, which had been so distant, suddenly narrowed, a flicker of something akin to recognition, a flash of avarice he quickly suppressed. He took the box, his fingers tracing the delicate carvings. “Nocturne Bloom,” he murmured, a rare, almost reverent tone entering his voice. He opened the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark silk, was a small, ornate glass vial, holding a swirling, obsidian liquid that seemed to drink the light. “A token of my esteem,” Ksenia said, her smile broadening, triumphant. “And a silent hope that you will find some small solace amidst this… unpleasantness.” Iovian nodded, a almost imperceptible softening in his grim countenance. “Thank you, Lady Ksenia. This… is truly exceptional.” Ksenia’s eyes met Nadiya’s across the vast hall, a fleeting, triumphant gleam in their depths. The message was clear: *He sees me. He favors me. And you? You are nothing.* Later, as Nadiya recorded coordinates from an astronomical roll, Ksenia approached the timber desk. Iovian was engaged in a deep discussion with a senior archivist at the far end of the hall. Ksenia’s sapphire dress rustled softly as she leaned over Nadiya’s table, her perfume reeking of candied rose in the cold draft. “Still at it, sister dear?” Her voice was low, barely a whisper. “Such tedious work for a talent like yours. A shame you waste it.” Nadiya kept her eyes fixed on the scroll, her hand steady. “Some work must be done.” “Indeed.” Ksenia’s voice sharpened, losing its saccharine edge. “But some stains never wash out, do they? No matter how much you scrub.” She paused; lead seemed to drop into Nadiya's gut. Ksenia’s elbow bumped the inkwell on the corner of the table, not gently, but with a deliberate, calculated force. The heavy ceramic well tipped, spilling a dark, viscous stream of ink directly over Nadiya’s painstakingly completed inventory sheet, over the maps she had logged, over the cracked drafting. The black liquid spread, blurring the precise lines of her script, seeping into the delicate fibres of the sheet, staining the pale pulp dark. Nadiya gasped, a choked sound of utter disbelief and despair. Her day’s work, destroyed. The precious maps, potentially damaged beyond repair. Ksenia, feigning shock, cried out, “Oh, sister! How clumsy of me! I am so, so sorry! I didn’t see it there!” Her voice rose, just enough to catch the attention of Iovian, who turned, his gaze immediately falling upon the spreading black stain. Ksenia gave Nadiya a swift, venomous smile, her whispered words colder than the mountain wind. “Some stains never wash out, little weaver.” Iovian strode towards them, his face darkening with each step. He looked from the blackened vellum to Nadiya’s darkened fingertips, then to Ksenia’s posture. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice a low rumble of thunder. Ksenia immediately launched into a flurry of apologies, blaming herself, lamenting Nadiya’s 'unfortunate carelessness' in leaving the inkwell so precariously placed. Iovian listened, his eyes burning into Nadiya’s, and she knew, with a terrible certainty, that his conviction in her guilt, in her deceitfulness, had been thoroughly renewed. “Clean this up,” Iovian commanded, his voice devoid of any pity. “And for this… negligence, you will spend the remainder of your days here scrubbing the lowest crypts. Every stone, every inch, until they gleam. No more calfskin. No more cataloging. You will not touch anything of value again.” He turned, his cloak swirling, and led Ksenia away, leaving Nadiya standing amidst the ruin, the bitter scent of spilled ink filling her lungs, heavy and suffocating. As the last light sank behind the peaks, casting long, jagged shadows against the lower gate, a lone traveler mounted the stone ramp. Elder Matrona, her face etched with the wisdom of countless years, pulled a thick, wool shawl tighter around her shoulders against the biting wind. In her gnarled hand, clutched tightly, was a sealed letter, its wax bearing the imprint of a forgotten sigil. The watchman stared, unmoving, as the elder matriarch lifted her chin toward the stone tower, thin lips curving upward.

A Sister's Poison