When Ilyari and Tazien turned down the street and walked the path back to Willowgrove, Brinna was already on the porch, arms folded, eyes scanning their faces with the intensity of someone trying to measure the storm before it struck.
Gorred, Elen, and Oliver peeked around the apothecary door, halting mid-task as they caught sight of their employers returning far too early.
Brinna didn’t wait. “You got kicked out, didn’t you?”
“No,” Ilyari said, setting down her satchel. “Not exactly.”
Tazien didn’t even stop walking. He stormed past them all, straight to the workshop.
Moments later, the crashing of glass and the scrape of furniture being dragged echoed through the garden. The sound of aggressive cleaning. Or destruction disguised as duty.
Brinna arched an eyebrow. “Should I ask?”
Ilyari sighed. “We were summoned by the Emperor. He accused us of funneling coin to spies. Said we were under surveillance.”
Brinna blinked. “What—how?”
“We don’t know,” Ilyari said. “Someone followed us. Fabricated reports. Or maybe twisted the truth just enough. Tazien confronted him, but it didn’t matter.”
Brinna looked stunned. And then, unexpectedly, her shoulders softened.
“I’m sorry, Ilyari,” she said. “You worked so hard just to get in that gate…”
Ilyari tried to smile. “I just need to change. Then I’ll be in the east gardens.”
Brinna nodded. “We kept the rest of the patch undisturbed. Thought you’d want to uncover it yourself.”
The clothes were folded away. Her hair was tied back. The dirt was under her nails again before the hour turned.
Ilyari took to the overgrowth with determination. The garden hadn’t regrown this time—not like the last few mornings—so she moved on. The next section had been waiting, veiled in tangled vines and half-buried stone.
It took work.
She pressed through a lattice of dry stems and overgrown hedges, kicking aside rotted mulch and sun-crisped nettle. But the farther she moved, the cooler the air became—tinged with moisture and something sweet. Not floral. Something deeper.
Then the tangle opened.
And what lay beyond stole her breath.
A wide pond, framed in river-stone and ringed with sun-dappled reeds, stretched before her like a forgotten painting. Pale green lily blooms floated across its glassy surface, interwoven with the waxy threads of pickerelweed and spiraled redroot. A willow tree, old and sagging, trailed its fingers through the far bank where the water flowed in from a small stream—a gentle inlet that trickled with clarity. On the other side, a matching exit stream spilled off into the woods with a quiet gurgle, keeping the pond fresh and alive.
Beneath the surface, darting flashes of silver caught her eye. Moonfin fish—small, quick, and iridescent—swam between lily stems, their movement stirring ripples that shimmered with glints of blue.
Spanning the pond was a long, gently curved bridge, half-draped in soft moss and twining bloomvine. It looked like it had grown there as much as been built.
And across that bridge—partially obscured by vines and time—stood a cottage.
Small, weatherworn, and perfect.
Tucked beside it: a partially open-air workshop, roofed in aged clay tiles, its walls stacked with old brewing racks, dried herb wreaths, and dusty copper piping. A distillery—one meant for refining meads, tonics, medicinal brews, and even volatile purifying infusions.
Large ceramic urns sat in quiet lines under a wooden beam. The scent of old hops, dried lemon bark, and ghostly lavender lingered in the air.
This wasn’t just part of the garden. This was an artisanal wing of the estate. A place made for craft.
Ilyari’s heart soared.
She jogged across the bridge, standing in front of the beautiful little cottage already imagining Tazien’s face when she showed him—
Then she heard it.
Scratch. Skitter. Hiss.
Her pulse stuttered and a flash from a previous dream went across her eyes and her breath hitched.
She squinted toward the sound—and saw them. They were already coming.
From beneath the crawlspace of the cottage, through overturned barrels and rusted crates, they poured: small twitching bodies, gnarled claws, eyes glowing like molten runes, and tails that spasmed like mana-struck wires.
Corrupted mice. Dozens—maybe more.
They moved in a wave, jerking and screeching with a sound like nails against glass. The flowers wilted in their wake. She could hear the snapping of their teeth as they darted toward her. Ilyari ran.
Through the weeds, over the stones, lungs burning—
She didn’t stop until she hit the edge of the front gardens, breathless, hair clinging to her cheeks.
And still behind her, the sound followed.
But so did help.
She made it to the front gardens just as Galen Thorne and his men were loading tools into their wagon.
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“There’s something—something in the back! Mice—corrupted, twisted—they’re—”
Galen didn’t wait.
“Axes! Smoke glyphs! Gorin, bring the charm lanterns!”
The workers surged toward the eastern gardens like soldiers to battle, with Brinna grabbing a broom and charging in beside them.
The fight was messy. Squeals, snapping teeth, flares of repelling wards. A few scratches. One good bite on Oliver’s shin.
Even Tazien appeared—his shirt still wrinkled from furious sweeping, eyes shadowed with fury—and helped knock one off Ilyari’s skirt with the flat of a shovel.
It was over in minutes. Dozens of tiny bodies lay still in the grass. Tazien crouched near one, inspecting the residue of mana clinging to its fur. Then his brows lifted—for the first time all day—with a sudden spark of realization.
“We need PurrPurr beasts,” he muttered.
Ilyari blinked. “We what?”
“They’re mana-sensitive, natural rodent hunters. Affectionate with owners, vicious with corruption. And if we had a pack of them across the estate... we’d never see a corrupted mouse again. Acutally, they usually make anything corrupted think twice.”
“That sounds great, but where are we going to get that many?”
Tazien grinned, really grinned, for the first time since everything had fallen apart.
“If you can bait a trap,” he said, “I know a ruin about two ridgelines out. Dozens of PurrPurrs live there wild. I used to feed them scraps when we were younger.”
“And you think they’ll just... walk into a trap?”
He tilted his head. “If we use that weed from the south garden—the one with the fuzzy purple leaves? They’re obsessed with it. Like, addicted. You could throw a handful and summon a swarm.”
Ilyari crossed her arms, wary but curious. “And we won’t regret this?”
Tazien raised both brows. “They’re fluffy. They purr. And they kill corrupted vermin in under ten seconds.”
She sighed. “Fine. We’ll try it.”
He looked up at her and smiled.
Ilyari wanted to show them all—now.
The pond, the bridge, the cottage, the distillery. It felt like discovery blooming through the wreckage of everything they’d just lost.
But Galen’s face had gone pale the moment she mentioned corrupted mice, and Tazien—still bruised from the night before—shook his head.
“Not until we have something guarding us,” he said firmly. “I’m not risking another attack.”
Brinna agreed. “Let’s not go poking cursed nests until we have claws of our own.”
So instead, they cut a wide path through the rear edge of the estate, slipping through the overgrowth toward the south gardens.
The Frizzmint Vine, as Tazien called it—wooly-leafed and pungent with a strangely sweet tang—grew in thick carpets across the southern slope. Its scent was unmistakable: floral at first, then musky, and then something like roasted licorice and wet socks.
The PurrPurr beasts loved it.
Tazien grinned as he yanked a thick bunch free. “We’ve got enough to bait a hundred.”
By late afternoon, they were half a mile outside Willowgrove in a quiet, sun-warmed meadow clearing nestled between sloping trees. The field looked empty—just wind and tall grass.
But the low purring gave it away.
It rose like a vibration—soft, rhythmic, hypnotic. Dozens of faint, unseen voices purring from beneath wildflower clusters and shaded brambles.
“Welcome to the Drift,” Tazien said. “Home of the fluffiest murder squad this side of the Inner Ring.”
With him stood two brothers from the Lower Zone—scrappy teens who matched each other in height but not in spirit. The elder, Derrin, had a scar over one brow and a voice that rasped from too much rooftop running. The younger, Kael, was wiry, bright-eyed, and built like a slingshot.
They grinned as Tazien handed them bundles of Frizzmint.
“I thought you were joking,” Derrin said, testing the scent. “But if this is fresh? We’ll catch at least a dozen.”
“We brought the traps,” Kael added, thumping the three cage-like constructs they’d rolled out of a cart. “Simple doors, glyph-latched. Once the kitties go in, they stay in.”
Tazien handed Kael a bundle nearly as big as the boy’s torso.
“Stuff your sleeves, your boots, and your hood,” he instructed. “Then run. Three acres. Wide loop. Lead them past the traps.”
Kael blinked. “You want me to play bait?”
“You’re the fastest.”
“...Flattered.”
But he grinned anyway and started jamming leaves into his coat. Soon he looked like a scarecrow stuffed with green fuzz.
Then he took off.
Kael ran like his life depended on it—arms pumping, hair streaming, zigzagging through the meadow. He veered between trees, dove under branches, and kicked up tufts of grass as he passed the traps at full speed.
Then he turned—
And the field erupted.
Dozens of cat heads popped up from the grass.
Big ones. Small ones. Long-bodied mousers with tufted ears. Round-bellied kittens with stubby tails. Their eyes dilated, ears flicking.
The scent hit.
They locked on.
And then came the stampede.
Kael screamed with laughter, dodging between bushes as the PurrPurrs launched from their hiding spots. One kitten leapt onto his head, burying itself in his collar with a determined squeal.
“TRAPS! OPEN THE TRAPS!” he shouted, half-running, half-flailing.
Derrin yanked the glyph-latches, swinging each trap wide. As Kael sprinted by, he reached into his sleeves and pant legs and threw clumps of weed into the cages.
The cats poured in.
In under a minute, the meadow calmed.
Three cages sat full—twenty-three PurrPurr beasts, purring, grooming, and rolling happily in their new beds of Frizzmint.
Kael collapsed beside a stump, laughing and wheezing, still covered in clingy fur and one very smug kitten.
By sunset, the caravan returned to Willowgrove with their precious cargo.
Ilyari, Brinna, Galen, and the workers stood along the bridge, watching as Tazien, Derrin, and Kael released the cages.
The PurrPurrs didn’t hesitate.
They sniffed the air, fur bristling.
And then—they charged.
With surprising coordination, they darted across the bridge, fanned out through the distillery field, and descended on the corrupted mice nests like silent lightning. Hissing. Pouncing. Biting.
In under an hour, the overrun garden was silent again.
But the mice weren’t the only ones affected.
A few PurrPurrs—satisfied with their work—wandered down to the south garden, curling beside the herb beds and pawing lazily at Frizzmint stalks.
Others sprawled on warm stones, tails twitching, eyes half-lidded in bliss.
Brinna blinked. “So… we just adopted two dozen magical murder cats?”
Tazien crossed his arms proudly. “Security system.”
Ilyari leaned against the bridge rail, finally smiling again.
“For once,” she said, “something actually went right.”
It was finally safe.
“Alright,” Ilyari said, crossing the bridge with a grin. “Now I can show you properly.”
Brinna followed close behind, flanked by Elen and Oliver, each of them wide-eyed with curiosity. Gorred carried a satchel of tools, “just in case.” Even Galen came, muttering about structural damage and ancient wood rot as he tucked measuring chalk behind one ear.
The bridge led them over the glistening pond, where moonfin fish danced just beneath the surface, and the willow tree’s trailing limbs brushed lazily across the water. The entrance stream burbled faintly from the far woods, keeping the pond fresh and alive.
The cottage stood just beyond.
Compact. Humble. Nestled in moss and trailing vines, half-forgotten by time—but still standing proud.
The group circled the side where the stonework had cracked, vines bursting through seams like veins of green through old gray. Galen frowned but nodded. “Repairable. The rest’s held up better than expected.”
Instead of breaking the door, Galen picked the old brass lock with quiet precision. The latch clicked. The door creaked open.
And they stepped inside.
The interior was cool and still—stained wood and dust, but no rot. Stone walls framed a warm open-plan layout, lit softly by sunlight streaking through latticed windows and cracks in the ceiling. A long table dominated the dining area to the left, scattered with old platters, wood bowls, and a single ceramic cup left behind as though its owner might return.
To the right, a small sitting area offered faded cushions around a stone hearth, and in the back, two bedrooms—one with a simple cot and small shelves, the other still holding a large bed draped in an old fur blanket. A wardrobe, trunks, and a side bench sat in quiet dust.
In the back left corner, a small washroom held a basin and water pump, the pipes long-silent but intact.
Brinna stopped in the center of the space and breathed in.
Then she smiled.
“I know this smell.”
They all looked at her.
“My father was a distiller. And ale maker. And a mead brewer. He taught me the basics before the last factory he worked at closed down. That…” she turned toward the side door, leading out to the open-air structure, “that’s where the magic really happened.”
normal again. A little safe. A little warm.