The writing hall of Fort Karst sat three stories above the dry moat, exposed on three sides to the shrieking wind that poured down from the crags.
Ren sat on a backless oak stool before an inclined drafting desk, the oil lamp beside him sputtering in the draft. The flame threw long, shivering shadows across the stone floor, lighting up the two objects Tribune Harl had left in his hands.
The lit up spirit-silk of the baronetcy patent gleamed with cold prestige. Its gold-leaf border was inscribed with dynastic laurels. That left a wide, spotless blank space below the declaration of hereditary lordship. Waiting only for a licensed keeper’s careful seal to certify the lawful transfer of Fort Karst. Beside it lay the small, lead-capped crystal ampoule. The Perpetual Stasis Unguent inside swirled with a faint, rainbow-bright azure glow, as bright and steady as distilled starlight.
Twenty years of arrested decay. Twenty years where the smoky quartz in Mira’s veins would cease its inexorable march toward her heart.
Ren stared at the glass vial, his chest tightening until every rib felt banded in hot iron.
His fingers, stained permanent violet with dark oak-ink, hovered over the velvet-lined case. His defining curse—the sick terror of closed doors, the wild, all-consuming need to keep every thread unbroken—screamed in his skull like a cathedral bell.
