Orson's mind raced as he tried to assess their situation while they sprinted down the winding mosaic paths. The scream would undoubtedly bring around more guards, and the entrance they had used would soon be swarming with palace security.

They were at least fifteen minutes from the exit—more than enough time for the guards to intercept any escaping intruders.

Reisey was a smart man, and Orson believed he would flee if things became too dangerous. That was one less concern.

He stopped running, and after catching his breath, Leo began, "Orson—"

"Now's not the time," he answered brusquely, activating the Telos Eye as he surveyed the entire area.

"Oh, like there'll ever be a good time to talk of what the hell happened back there," Leo retorted, yanking his hand from his grip.

"Precisely the point."

From the mental map he made a while back, he remembered a few passages closest to the sharehouse. Now, if only he could pinpoint their current location.

"Can you get me up? I need to check something." It was risky to scan things from above since they could be spotted but he didn't have much of a choice.

Leo huffed, incredulous. "Orson, are you even listening to a thing I'm saying? The girl is dead!"

"I know that," he said impatiently. "And I know how you're feeling but now is not the time for this. Just get—"

"This isn't about my feelings!" Leo snapped. His gaze dropped to Orson's chest, where the Netherbloom was concealed. "That thing did something you know and what I need to understand is every bit of information you left out of the story you told us."

He didn't have time for this. "Look, I will properly explain things to you once we get out of here so, please, get me up there—"

"Would you stop trying to—"

He pulled Leo by the cloak, grabbing his mouth in a tight hold. Leo struggled futilely against his grip but Orson didn't budge. "We are two steps from getting caught and what should be the least of your concerns is this flower. Tishie is dead and fussing over that is going to end our asses in a rotting dungeon."

He threw Leo against the hedge and he sunk into the flowers. "You've got two choices here: either you shut the hell up and do as I say or I leave your deadass here."

Leo pushed himself off, glaring as he clutched his aching jaw. He crouched, touching the ground. Without warning, Orson found himself propelled upward then abruptly halted mid-air. Losing balance, he slipped, and a block of ice pushed out of the mass, catching him.

He hit the surface hard and threw a sharp look at Leo, who smirked in triumph. Orson said nothing. His time would come.

He jumped up to his previous position, and his pupils thinned. His mental map of the garden flitted through his mind, a vague sketch of corridors and the various plots and a particular corner, less than five minutes from their current spot, closest to the sharehouse. He signaled Leo to lower him.

The ice burst into tiny flakes and Orson plunged, only to slide down a thin sheet of ice last second. He skidded away once he reached the bottom before it disintegrated.

Leo extended a hand. He hadn't gotten rid of that annoying smirk. "Need help from down there?"

He slapped his hand away, rising. "Next time you try that I'll break your neck."

"Oh, I'm shaking," he said mockingly, wrapping his hands around himself.

They moved quickly toward the desired location and they soon reached. A section of the hedge walls near the back of the garden had thinned out, leaving multiple gaps in between them. Orson peered through and saw the green foliage looming beyond.

Without hesitation, Orson ducked under the trailing vines, and Leo followed.

They stepped into a small clearing, far from the main palace grounds. The area was overgrown with creeping ivy and wildflowers that hadn't been tended to in years. The garden behind them fell silent, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the soft scrape of their footsteps on the rough earth.

The path led directly into the forest and in the distance, they could hear the faint sounds of voices—guards and palace staff beginning to stir.

It didn't take long before they emerged from the cover of trees into the dim light of their temporal home.

Leo pulled Orson's cloak. He looked expectantly at him, silently urging Orson to speak.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You can explain yourself now," Leo said.

Orson scoffed. "The girl's death is not my fault. I warned you two plenty of times before I brought you along with me."

"Yes, but you forgot to include the part where it says it can quite literally kill us."

He had told the group about the flower during the first and second meetings, about what it could do and its intended use and they collectively agreed on his plan. Now, how could he be blamed for the ignorance of a careless girl who got her soul drained by the flower?

"The only way it can harm you is if your blood is exposed to it," Orson said.

"She wasn't bleeding."

"A Netherbloom was attached to her thumb." Orson tapped his temple with a forefinger. "That should tell you something."

The thought seemed to sink in. "Then when did she..."

Orson patted his shoulder. "And this is the perfect example of why you should always listen to your elders," he said. "That's a valuable lesson you should take from her."

Leo shrugged off his touch. "I didn't say I wanted to learn anything."

"But, in the end, you did."

He stepped into the light, heading toward the front door and after a moment, Leo followed.

* * *

Maids buzzed around the main palace, exchanging information about what they heard the night before and enlightening those who slept through the chaos.

"I'm telling you the man was none like I've ever seen," one guard narrated to the other workers. "He was huge, like a boulder but moved as quietly as a shadow. I didn't see him till I was hit."

They listened intently as he continued to share his story.

One man couldn't help but express his distaste at the exaggeration of the story as he passed by. His other companion's account excluded a surprise attack and he explained they had thought the assailants were guards there for a shift change and had been easily overpowered by them.

It was amusing seeing him mask his incompetence with a twisted version of the incident to protect what little pride as a soldier he had.

The guard noticed the man's lingering gaze but he didn't bother to look away and rather continued to shamelessly stare. Confused, the guard cast his attention back to the listening crowd, possibly thinking how strange a man he was but he didn't care. It wasn't the first anyone thought so.

The man was guided to the gates of the royal garden and without confirming his identity, the soldiers stepped aside.

He proceeded without much regard for the imposing guards who ceaselessly questioned the frustrated gardeners, but of course, some workers indulged in the rare opportunity given to speak freely, rambling about things irrelevant to what was asked.

First, he had caught wind of subtle whispers of an apparent food shortage in the palace and now a supposed murder had occurred last night. The Crown Princess' wedding was a little over three months away yet problem after problem kept popping up. What at all is going on?

Finding where the body was wasn't difficult when it was all that people around talked about and showed directions to and the swarming number of soldiers gave the location away faster.

The body was covered with a long cloth stained with blood around the neck.

With one look at his clothes, the guards paved way to the body.

"Doctor," one said.

"Mortician's assistant," he corrected. It was easier to establish the fact that he dealt with the dead and not the living so they wouldn't build up any other expectations or ask if he could take a look at the strange rash on their nipples.

He squatted by the body, removing the cloth. Horror filled the faces of on-lookers, some gagging as the guards turned their heads away in disgust.

The scene before him wasn't exactly pretty—not that any had been—considering the raw, exposed flesh of the neck, the stunted look of fear on her discolored face, and the flies gathered around the injury on the back of her head.

The torn flesh seemed to be from excessive scratching, evidently from her nails, and judging from her bluish lips and popped eyes, bloodshot with burst vessels, the cause of death seemed to be asphyxiation. Ignorant folks had already ruled it as a murder when after other examinations, he found it wasn't.

His next thought was poisoning, but the smell from her mouth and the skin coloration proved him wrong.

Now, the only question was, if this young lady wasn't choked to death by a deranged individual, what did?

He noticed something sticking out of her cloak and he reached for it, pulling out a... flower? He was momentarily surprised by the randomness of the discovery.

He beckoned to one curious gardener who kept peering at the scene and wrongly pruning the flowers. The girl was caught off guard and had to point to herself to make sure she was the one he needed. He nodded and hesitantly, she came over.

"How may I help you?" she asked nervously, shears behind her.

"Yes," he showed her the dead flower, "I was wondering if you knew what this is?"

She squinted, scrutinizing it. "Mind if I...?"

He gave the flower to her and with this, she completed her study with a disappointing answer.

"I haven't seen anything like this here," she said. "Hold on."

She called over a colleague to have a look then another, but they all gave similar clueless answers.

"Thank you," he said to the gathered gardeners before they dispersed.

He thought the flower would play a part in uncovering the mysterious death, but perhaps it was nothing special.

"Isn't that a Netherbloom?"

He turned to the girl who had spoken. She set down her working tools before approaching.

"I'm Posey," she introduced. "I'm in charge of taking care of flowers from plot six to twelve." She nodded at the flower. "That's one of mine."

He twirled the flower. "Could you show me where they grow?"

He would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised when he saw the flowers. He bent down, passing a hand among the withered bunch. "They're all... dead."

Posey shook her head, chuckling. "They may look so, but they aren't. Never once has any fallen."

"Are they desert flowers?" he asked.

"Not at all. They come from the Kresbic Highlands."

"And do they hold any... poisonous qualities?"

She hummed, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "None that I know of."

At least he was clear on that.

He saw a lump from the soil then upon closer inspection, he saw two others.

"Miss Posey."

"Yes?"

"Have you transplanted any of these flowers recently?"

"Oh, no, not at all," she said. "Why do you ask?"

"Nothing." He stood up. "Sorry for taking so much of your time."

"Oh, it's no problem at all," she said.

He returned to the corpse and regarded it for a minute.

He could vaguely guess what this girl had come there last night to do—or take, to be more specific—but as to why, he couldn't tell. The question as to the actual cause of death was left to be answered.

The only other possibility was magic. Perhaps she fell victim to puppetry magic and was forced to commit suicide. Or she was attacked by telekinetic forces and choked senseless. After all, who knew what went through the twisted minds of the gifted?

"Take her away," he ordered the guards. They grabbed the cloth and covered the grotesquery once more, lifting her away.

He would leave the proper investigation to the appropriate authority to continue—though he doubted they could gather much beyond what he had found even with their unlimited resources. That was how useless these people were.

He trailed behind the soldiers as they left the premises.