“Tithe accepted.” The words hung in the air, a metallic scrape of sound that lingered against the plaster. Osenya felt the blood on her teeth, a metallic tang that mingled with the stench from the grate. Jorik’s hand, still clutching the compass, trembled. His pupils dilated, dark against pale irises, mirror-sheened with absolute fear. He pulled her back, away from the vent, stumbling over his own feet in his haste. The small, brass instrument in his grip spun wildly, a blur of polished metal and glass, its needle vibrating like a trapped insect. It pointed, not to the north, but directly at the now-empty, gaping vent. “Did you hear that?” Osenya whispered, her voice rough. “It sounded like me.” Jorik didn’t answer. He just stared at the vent, then at the single, dark drop of blood on the floor. His lips were a thin, pale line. He moved then, not towards the blood, but towards the small pile of coal in the corner, shoveling handfuls of it into the brazier. The iron glowed crimson, but the room felt colder than ever. They didn’t speak of it again that night. The quiet was thick with the implication of what they’d heard, what they’d seen. Every creak of the building, every groan of the ancient pipes, became a whisper. Every shadow a phantom. Sleep came eventually, a thin, shallow thing, broken by the distant, rhythmic grind that seemed to come from deep within the earth. Dawn brought the factory klaxon, a brassy shriek that ripped through the tenement walls. Osenya dressed quickly, pulling on her coarse canvas tunic and trousers. The blood on the floor still glistened, a chilling reminder. Jorik was already by the door, his face pale but resolute. He gave the vent one last, lingering look before they descended into the smog-choked streets. The Blackloom floor was a din of groaning iron, hissing steam, and the relentless clatter of a thousand frames. Soot-stained light filtered through the high, grimy panes, revealing endless rows of weavers hunched over their ironwork. The air hung heavy with brass dust and the sulfurous bite of tallow lubricant. Osenya reached station 72, an iron frame of revolving spools and rattling sliders. She started her shift, guiding coarse grey strands into crude canvas meant for shift-labor shifts. The cadence was deadening, an unending race against the tally clock. Sweat beaded on her brow, her muscles aching with the repetitive strain. Then, with a jarring *thunk*, her loom seized. The main drive, an intricate star-wheel cog, had locked. Fibers snarled, snapped, and the frame shuddered to a halt. The women at neighboring benches stiffened; an idle station brought immediate penalty. Before Osenya could even assess the damage, a shadow fell over her. An overseer, a hulk of a man with a face like pitted slag and eyes like chipped flint, halted at her elbow. His brass cudgel, scarred and heavy, swung loosely at his side. “Station 72, failure to produce,” the foreman rumbled, his voice scraping like river gravel. “Another jam, Yulva, and you’ll find yourself sorting slag in the deep pits. You understand?” Osenya nodded, not daring to speak. The labor pits were a death sentence, a slow suffocation in the acid fumes and perpetual darkness. She reached for the small tool kit under her loom, her mind racing. The star-wheel was notoriously fragile, its interlocking teeth prone to snapping under force. She needed fresh cord without delay. She spotted a fresh spool on the neighboring loom, Nadina Rost’s. Nadina Rost glanced up from her cross-tie, narrow eyes fixing on the halted bench. A flicker of something cold and calculating passed through them. Osenya made eye contact, a silent plea for the shared spool, a common practice in emergencies. Nadina’s lips curled into a thin, triumphant smile. Without a word, she snatched the spool, tucked it beneath her ribs, and threw her slider with furious speed. A murmur ran through the adjacent row. It was a brazen, cruel act. Fury, hot and sharp, flared in Osenya’s chest. She wouldn’t beg. She wouldn’t break. She examined the stalled frame, tracing the notched drive. The fault was not the twine; a sliver of brass had wedged itself between two cogs. It wasn’t broken, just stuck. It demanded a patient probe, not a heavy wrench. She took a deep breath, pushing down the anger. Her father, a street scavenger, had taught her to fix anything with ingenuity and a few scavenged tools. She drew out a curved pick from her pouch, ground down from an old clock coil. Her hands, calloused from line-work, set to the gap with steady care. She ignored the overhead thunder and the pale stares of neighboring girls. Her focus narrowed to the intricate gears. Nadina paused across the boards, mouth twisting. Her own frame emitted an uneven screech, the slider shaking off its rail. She tugged at a spiral wire with pliers, muttering under her breath. The piece was notorious for bucking out of true, requiring a backward torque few could gauge by feel. Few could master it. Osenya, her own loom still stalled, watched Nadina for a moment. Anger prickled her skin, but a calculated gamble took shape. She finished dislodging the brass shard from her star-wheel with a soft *click*. The star-wheel spun free, though she remained without spool-cord. She stood up, her eyes meeting Nadina’s. “Having trouble, Rost?” Osenya’s voice, though quiet, cut through the din. Nadina stiffened, jaw dropping at Osenya’s voice. “Mind your own loom, Yulva,” Nadina snapped, her face flushing. “Unless you want to join the slackers in the waste chute.” Osenya ignored the jab. “That tension spring. You’re twisting it the wrong way. It’ll seize if you keep at it.” She walked over, her movements deliberate. The other workers paused, watching the silent battle unfold. Interference invited the overseer's truncheon. To watch was simply to witness. “And what would you know?” Nadina spat, her pride wounded. “I’ve been on these looms for three seasons.” “I know a faulty mechanism when I see one,” Osenya retorted, her voice hard. “Give me your pick. I’ll fix it.” It wasn’t an offer; it was a demand. Nadina hesitated, her eyes darting to the loom foreman, then back to Osenya’s unwavering stare. The foreman was busy shouting at a worker whose bobbin had snapped. With a grunt of grudging concession, Nadina handed over her pick. Osenya took it, her fingers brushing against Nadina’s, an unexpected tremor passing between them. Osenya leaned in, her ear close to the grinding mechanism. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, quickly found the precise point of friction. With a series of incredibly small, almost imperceptible adjustments, a delicate twist here, a gentle prod there, she worked the tension spring back into its proper alignment. It took less than a minute. When she pulled her hand away, the loom hummed, smooth and steady, the grinding sound gone. Nadina stared, her mouth slightly agape. A collective murmur went through the floor. It was a repair that had stumped even some of the senior mechanics. Osenya met Nadina’s eyes, a cold satisfaction in her own. “Now,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “about that thread.” Nadina, utterly humiliated, slowly, begrudgingly, handed Osenya the spool. Osenya took it, a silent victory. She walked back to her loom, threaded it, and started her machine. The shuttle flew, the bobbins spun, and the canvas began to unfurl, even and unbroken. The overseer, watching from the catwalk steps, tapped his brass truncheon against his knee. Meanwhile, across the factory floor, Jorik Harlen, his head bowed, pushed a rickety broom along the grimy catwalk that overlooked the main assembly line. His job as a cleaner was intentionally menial, a perfect disguise. He shuffled, he coughed, he looked perpetually lost. The perfect, forgettable fool. His gaze, however, was anything but. His eyes, though seemingly downcast, darted, absorbed, memorized. He swept towards the foreman’s office, a small, enclosed booth with a frosted glass window. It was usually empty during the shift changeover. Today, the square-shouldered overseer sat inside, hunched over the ledgers. Jorik froze. He had observed the brute near the weaving line minutes prior. The sudden appearance was unexpected. Jorik considered retreating, but he had waited too long for this chance. He shuffled closer, making sure his broom clanged loudly against the metal railing, announcing his presence. He bumped clumsily into the doorframe, muttering an apology. The overseer lifted his blunt jaw. “What are you doing here, Harlen?” Jorik flinched, playing his part. “Beg pardon, sir! Just… just cleaning the dust, sir. The high bits. Terrible stuff, sir. Gets everywhere.” He stammered, his hands trembling as he gestured vaguely with the broom. He tried to look as incompetent and terrified as possible. The burly overseer evaluated him without blinking. He stood up, towering over Jorik. “You seem to wander, Harlen. More than most cleaners. Keep to your assigned routes. And keep your eyes on the grime, not on my paperwork.” His voice was low, laced with a threat that made Jorik’s gut clench. “Understand?” Jorik nodded vigorously, almost bowing. “Yes, sir! Of course, sir! My apologies, sir. Just… just a bit clumsy, sir. Always was.” He shuffled away, his heart pounding against his ribs, but not before his gaze had flickered, for a split second, to the corner of the desk. There, half-hidden under a stack of production ledgers, was a rolled-up set of blueprints. He’d seen enough. He had what he needed. The rest of the day on the factory floor dragged. Osenya, her fury cooled, focused on her quota. Her bench, now running level, allowed her to recover lost yardage. But the image of the blood on the floor, and the mechanical voice, haunted her. During a brief lull, as the shift supervisor barked orders at a group of new recruits, Osenya took the opportunity to clean her loom more thoroughly than usual. She ran her hand along the underside of the main shuttle, feeling for loose threads, for hidden grit. Her fingers brushed against a rough patch, a slight irregularity in the smooth metal. Curiosity piqued, she pressed. With a soft click, a small, cleverly disguised panel sprang open, revealing a shallow compartment. It was not empty. Inside, packed tight, was a fine, grey-white powder that smelled faintly of old stone and something else, something vaguely organic. Bone dust. Her lungs seized. Buried beneath the dust, thin and brittle, was a tarnished brass nametag. She picked it up, her fingers tracing the etched script. *Elias Koldar. Room 404.* Elias Koldar. The previous tenant. The one whose blood they’d been told to clean. Later that evening, back in Room 404 amid the copper smell of dried drainage, Osenya turned the plate over in her palm. Jorik sat at their makeshift table, the small, ancient compass beside him. His face was grim. He unrolled the stolen blueprints, spreading them flat, revealing an intricate survey of the Blackloom foundation. It wasn’t merely tenements and textile halls, but an enormous sinkhole pit sinking brass bits through the sunken stone below Tarnoch. The compass, on its own, suddenly spun wildly, its needle pointing not at the vent, but straight down, into the floorboards beneath them.

Gears and Bone Dust