A guttural roar tore through the sunken hall, not from the warden-construct, but from the very stone beneath their feet. The monolith pulsed, its light flaring. Osenya felt the construct's grip seize, a frantic, sparking tremor running through the brass arm that clamped her windpipe. Then, a low rumble, growing in intensity, vibrated through her bones, a sound that quickly escalated to a torrent. Water. A wall of it, dark and churning, burst through a newly opened chasm in the far wall, a hidden subterranean river unleashed. It struck the automaton first, a deluge of black, icy water that crashed against its mechanical form. Sparks flew, blue arcs jumping from his joints. The iron fingers spasmed, then failed. Osenya dropped, gasping, hitting the wet stone with a jarring impact. The world spun, but the sudden rush of air into her burning lungs was a miracle. She coughed, hacking up the residual soot and the taste of brass, scrambling backward on hands and knees as the floodwaters surged around her. The machine shrieked, a metallic scream of outrage and friction, internal coils shorting, bronze limbs snapping in jerky spasms. It stumbled, red glass lenses flickering wildly. The water rose fast, already past Osenya’s waist, dragging at her worn boots. Jorik, his bloody hand still on the terminal, watched the monstrosity tilt backward into the spray. “Nadina!” Osenya choked out, spotting her ally still half-buried beneath the fallen pillar, the water already rising to her chest. “The last blasting charge!” Nadina, sputtering and coughing, clawed at the sack of powder Jorik had dropped earlier. The water was a freezing shroud, threatening to pull her under. Her wet fingers slipped on the rough canvas, but then she pulled it free: a squat cylinder wrapped in oiled cloth, its fuse already dangling. Osenya didn’t wait. She launched herself forward, fighting the churning tide, her gaze fixed on the warden-machine. The automaton thrashed, its chest plating cracked wide, an intricate mess of brass gears and pulsing channels laid bare by the earlier blast. That was it. The heart-line. “Give it here!” Osenya yelled, lunging for Nadina. Her hand closed around the charge, ripping it from Nadina’s grasp. She turned, spit flying from her teeth. The machine, battered by the flood, clawed at the stone shelf to regain its footing near the central monolith. She moved with the desperate grace of a rat in a sewer, using the surge of water to propel herself. A burst of speed, a dive, and she was there. Its brass skull swiveled, red glass focusing on her, but the movement came too late. With a raw scrape in her throat, Osenya drove the bundle, fuse first, into the exposed gears of the machine's ribcage, twisting it deep into the mechanism. “For Room Four-Oh-Four!” she roared, her voice raw. She kicked back, pushing off the bulk of metal, clawing backward through the flood as fast as her waterlogged skirts would allow. Jorik was already shouting, his hand waving frantically, urging her to move faster. She was barely ten paces away when it detonated. Not with a sharp crack, but a deafening, concussive boom that vibrated through the water itself. A blinding flash of emerald light ruptured the machine's chest, throwing off a hail of bronze shards and severed piping. The frame tore open with an ear-splitting shriek of warped iron. Burning shards hissed into the rising flood, sinking toward the drowned flagstones. The blast did not stop there; the percussion smashed straight into the central pipe behind the wreck. A deafening crack echoed through the hall as the ancient column fractured, bronze plating peeling back like bark. From the gaping rift where the line had run, a howl broke loose—thousands of voices screaming in unison. The trapped souls, ancient and furious, were free. They were a green, swirling vortex of pure energy, tearing at the remaining brass foundations, screaming their vengeance. The entire temple shuddered, the ground beneath their feet heaving. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ancient ceiling, dust and smaller stones raining down. The roaring green mist surged upward, scouring the bedrock, tearing toward the grinding works overhead. “Nadina!” Jorik yelled, already wading toward the pinned loom-worker. Osenya joined him, the water now a violent, chest-high torrent. Together, they heaved. The pillar was heavy, but the ground was unstable, the water lifting some of the debris. With a combined, desperate effort, they shifted it just enough. Nadina clawed her way out, gasping, her face pale but resolute. “The stairs!” Osenya shouted over the din, pointing to a crumbling spiral staircase carved into the far wall, its entrance now barely visible above the rising floodwaters. “It goes up!” They didn’t hesitate. Jorik, still favoring his wounded shoulder, gripped Osenya’s hand. Osenya, in turn, grabbed Nadina’s arm, pulling her along. The water was a furious beast, trying to drag them back, but they fought it, fueled by a primal need for survival. The cries of the released souls were a monstrous symphony, reverberating through the ruins, shaking the very earth. Each step up the spiral staircase was a battle against gravity, against the rising tide, against the crumbling masonry that detached with every tremor. They climbed through the spray, lungs burning, the noise overhead morphing into groans of twisting iron beams and splintering wood. The green mist of the liberated souls swirled around them, not hostile, but a chaotic force of destruction. They could feel the Tenements above them shaking, groaning, giving way. The air grew colder, the light from the upper works filtering down as a dull, grease-stained glow through widening gaps. Finally, with a burst of adrenaline, they reached the top. A final shove, a desperate heave against a warped, brass-bound door, and it splintered inward. They tumbled through, hitting the oily floorplates of the lower mill. The air was thick with dust and the acrid smell of burning coal, but it was *air*, free of the crushing water. Jorik coughed, Nadina gagged, and Osenya scrambled to her feet, looking around. The Blackloom Tenements, their monolithic, brutal home, was collapsing around them.

The Rising Tide