“You’ve just married a dead man, sunshine.” Nazmir’s dry murmur dropped like lead into the dining hall. Ozirun Vel, who had been preening beside Dilmura, blanched. His carefully cultivated bravado evaporated, replaced by a raw, unadulterated terror that rippled across his face like a glitch in a clockwork automaton. Dilmura, however, was a study in pure, incandescent rage. Her “prophetic dream” had promised wealth and power, not a perpetually coughing invalid who shed dark cogs like a broken music box. “Ayliva!” she shrieked, her voice cracking like stressed brass. “This… this is your doing, isn’t it? You tricked me! You always ruin everything!” Ayliva, still kneeling by Nazmir, carefully picked up the glimmering cog. It bit into her palm with the chill of deep frost. “Oh, Dilmura, dear, I assure you I’ve done no such thing,” Ayliva replied, her tone perfectly calm, even as the air around them crackled with Dilmura’s fury. She tucked the gear into her apron pocket, a curious, almost protective gesture. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Nazmir looks quite unwell.” Before Dilmura could launch another volley of accusations, a quartet of Council Enforcers, their polished brass helmets gleaming, materialized in the doorway. Their arrival was disturbingly swift, as if they had merely been waiting for the signal. One, a stern-faced woman with a silver braid, unrolled a parchment with a flourish that snapped in the suddenly silent room. “By decree of the Grand Council of Qel-Zaman,” she intoned, her voice devoid of inflection, “due to the documented ill health and unsuitability of Master Nazmir Talan, and the… *unfortunate* entanglement of the Zandesh and Vel bloodlines, the marriage contract between Lady Ayliva Zandesh and Nazmir Talan is hereby activated. The union between Lord Ozirun Vel and Lady Dilmura Zandesh is nullified. Furthermore, both Lady Ayliva and Master Talan are exiled to the Sunweaver Estates, effective immediately, until such a time as his research yields the promised atmospheric engine to avert the coming seasonal calamity.” Dilmura sputtered in disbelief. Ozirun, his jaw slack, croaked, “Exile? To the outlands? But that district is a ruin!” Ayliva, however, merely beamed. “Oh, wonderful! I’ve always wanted to explore those terraces! I hear they have the most delightful workshops, and everyone there is terribly clever!” She helped Nazmir to his feet, her cheerfulness a stark contrast to the grim pronouncement. “Come along, Nazmir! We have an engine to build!” * * * The district lived up to its reputation for ‘delightful workshops’ in the most chaotic sense imaginable. As their rickety sky-carriage, pulled by two perpetually disgruntled griffin-drones, clattered to a halt outside Nazmir’s ‘lab’—a listing, three-story structure that appeared to be held together by hope and several ingenious, if precarious, brass braces—a booming *CRUMP!* shook the very foundations of the district. Dust, sparks, and the distinct smell of singed hair erupted from the adjacent building. Before the echoes could fully dissipate, a whirling, serrated brass disc, about the size of a dinner plate, shot across the street with a furious *ZZZZIP!* aimed directly at Ayliva’s head. Nazmir, leaning stiffly against the carriage rail, choked on a cough. “Ayliva, look out!” Ayliva, however, was already reacting, though not in the way anyone would expect. She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t screamed, hadn’t even broken her pleasant smile. Instead, with the graceful ease of someone catching a stray butterfly, she simply lifted her hands. They were clad, quite inexplicably, in a pair of heavily padded, sunflower-yellow oven mitts she’d pulled from her picnic basket moments before. The rogue clockwork buzzsaw whirred harmlessly into the thick padding, its momentum absorbed with a soft *thwump*. “Oh, dear!” Ayliva exclaimed, inspecting the trapped disc with a thoughtful tilt of her head. “One of the blades seems a little dull. Perhaps a quick polish would do it good.” She then peered across the street, where a man with wild, soot-stained hair was emerging from the still-smoking doorway, coughing violently. “Are you quite alright, sir?” she called out, already rummaging in her picnic basket again. “Would you like a fresh-baked lemon-lavender muffin? They’re still warm!” Nazmir stared, utterly dumbfounded. His mouth, usually set in a perpetual frown, hung slightly agape. A magical buzzsaw had nearly decapitated her, and her response was to offer baked goods and culinary advice? His terminal grumpiness warred with a newfound, terrifying fascination. This woman was either a complete idiot or possessed an unnervingly powerful, self-preservation-defying optimism. It was like watching a particularly bright, fluffy cloud try to reason with a thunderstorm. “You… you just caught a runaway serrated death-disc with your *baking gloves*,” he finally managed, his voice raspy with disbelief. Ayliva hummed, carefully extracting the buzzsaw and setting it on a nearby crate. “They’re very good quality, actually. Auntie Periwinkle knitted them. She uses reinforced dragon-silk thread for extra heat resistance.” She then turned her full, beaming attention to him, her sapphire eyes sparkling under the Qel-Zaman sun. “Now, Nazmir, darling, let’s get you inside. You look quite chilly, even for someone who generates their own internal frost.” Nazmir recoiled, a faint glint of dark rime crusting along his outstretched sleeve. “Don’t touch me!” he snapped, his voice rough. “My condition… it’s not just grumpiness, Ayliva. It’s the creeping gloom. It feeds on my despair, and it… it freezes everything it touches. It could kill you. It will only get worse as the cold season nears. I’m a dead man, remember? I’m a walking blight. You shouldn’t be here. You should run.” Ayliva paused, her smile faltering for a fleeting moment. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the crumpled letter from her past self. Her eyes quickly scanned a specific, heavily underlined paragraph. *“He will try to push you away, claiming his gloomy affliction will freeze you to death. Foolish boy. He just needs aggressive cuddling.”* Ayliva’s smile returned, wider and more determined than ever. “Nonsense, Nazmir Talan!” she declared, her voice ringing with an almost divine conviction. “Nobody needs to be frozen! You simply haven’t had the right kind of warmth yet!” Before Nazmir could even register her words, before he could deploy another icy blast or protest further, Ayliva launched herself forward. She moved with an unexpected agility, tackling him into a fierce, no-holds-barred hug. His meagre frame was enveloped in her surprisingly strong embrace, his head buried against her shoulder. The murky chill gathering along his collar met the full force of Ayliva’s relentless cheer and the surprising heat of her woolen bodice. For a moment, nothing happened. Nazmir stiffened, a faint *crackling* rasping through his coat as the black rime fought back. But Ayliva merely tightened her hold, humming a cheerful, tuneless melody against his ear. Then, with a sudden, whooshing hiss, the darkness around Nazmir began to melt. The biting tendrils of black hoarfrost dissolved, not into water, but into thick, swirling plumes of warm, fragrant steam. It smelled faintly of old parchment and chamomile, strangely comforting. Nazmir gasped, a genuine, unforced gasp of astonishment. He felt a warmth he hadn’t experienced in years, a thawing deep within his bones. The steam billowed around them, momentarily obscuring their forms. When it finally cleared, dissipating into the bright afternoon air, a faint glow emanated from within Nazmir’s dilapidated workshop. He looked up, dazed, to see his massive prototype atmospheric engine — a colossal, intricate construct of polished brass, glass conduits, and polished etherium coils that had sat dormant for years — now humming with a soft, amber light. Its central crystal core pulsed with a steady rhythm, painting the floorboards in warm golden arcs. And nestled within a previously unseen recess, beneath a now-glowing pressure gauge, a small, circular dial had flared to life. Its intricate hand pointed squarely at the number *57*. Below it, in shimmering, arcane script, read a single, chilling phrase: “Days Until First Freeze.”

Welcome to the Boom Town