The air around Tullia carried the brassy ozone of the archive room's climate vents. The number, 17,000 celestia, was a figure that haunted her waking thoughts, a mountainous sum that had stolen her sleep for months. He knew. He knew the impossible burden. Her gaze flickered to Bastien, still engrossed in his work. A tremor ran through her, a mix of alarm and a strange, unfamiliar ache. What did he want? Why reveal this knowledge now?
Before she could fully process the implications, a low thrum vibrated through the very foundation of the Morvath Estate. It wasn't the usual rumble of Veltrac’s distant industrial districts. This was closer, deeper, a growl that intensified rapidly. The tall outer panes, usually a silent shield against the smog-choked city, began to hum.
A flash of sulfurous orange erupted beyond the upper tiers, followed milliseconds later by a concussion that hammered the glass walls. The bay panel overlooking the lower soot yards fractured into webs with a shriek like tearing iron. The next instant, the glass exploded inward.
Shards rained down, glittering like deadly diamonds. Tullia ducked, shielding her skull with her algebra primer. A heavy weight crashed against her, not sharp glass, but a solid, unyielding mass. Bastien. He had lunged across the vast study, shoving her roughly behind a massive archival console, his body shielding hers from the torrent of razor-edged shrapnel.
A sickening thud reverberated through her as something sharp struck him. He let out a choked gasp, a sound of pure pain, before his full weight pressed her further against the console’s cold metal. Burnt reagent fumes stung her throat while sirens wailed in the streets far below.
When the cacophony subsided, leaving only the mournful whistle of wind through the shattered aperture, Bastien pushed himself away from her, a grimace etched on his face. He swayed, reaching a hand back to his shoulder. Dark crimson bloomed through the fine weave of his midnight-blue tunic. A vicious gash, deep and ragged, scored his left deltoid.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was hoarse, strained, his grey eyes stripped of their usual flat reserve. He hadn’t even asked if *he* was hurt. He was checking on her first.
Tullia shook her head, speechless, her own hands trembling. “You… you’re bleeding.”
He dismissed it with a wave, though his face was pale. “It’s superficial. Internal guards will arrive in seconds.”
Enforcers in matte visors swarmed through the archway, shouting status codes into lapel radios. Tullia watched Bastien being led away by an attendant, protesting that he was fine, his shoulder still weeping blood. The chaos was absolute.
This was it. Her chance.
Tullia slipped through the shattered archway, blending into the rush of panicked servants. The Morvath house maintained a sub-level dispensary, stocked with synthetic remedies rarely seen below the spires. Remedies Aerian desperately needed: sterile bronchodilators and chelating agents for the soot settling in her lungs.
She navigated the ornate corridors, boots of patrol squads echoing off marble risers. The medical wing was on the third sub-level, a heavily restricted area. The entry was a sleek, unadorned plasteel door, requiring a retinal scan and a six-digit code. Tullia knew the code. She’d overheard Ondine Carrow inputting it once, years ago, when a kitchen apprentice had scalded his hand.
Her ribs ached with every shallow draw of air as she punched in the six numerals. The door hissed open. The air inside was sterile, tinged with the metallic tang of sterilizing agents and the faint, sweet scent of sedatives. Tall metal lockers lined the room, packed with labeled ampoules, sealed syringes, and synthetic solutions.
Tullia moved quickly, her hands sure, her years working in the factory clinic a grim advantage. She scanned row after row, locating the potent 'Veridian Salve,' broad-spectrum 'Chrysalis' phials, and the rare aerosol ampoules her sibling's neighborhood physician had prescribed but could never source. She filled a small satchel, her movements precise, almost mechanical.
“And what, exactly, are you doing, Gevran?”
Tullia froze, the cool glass vial clutched against her palm. The voice, sharp as a whetted blade, belonged to Ondine Carrow. The head maid stood in the doorway, her posture rigid, her face a mask of cold fury. Her pale eyes, usually calculating, now burned with something akin to betrayal.
“Head Maid Carrow,” Tullia began, her voice steady despite the tremor that ran through her. She forced a customer-service smile, brittle and false. “Just… assessing the damage. I thought, perhaps, I could assist with inventory.”
Ondine’s gaze dropped to the satchel, then to the vial in Tullia’s hand. Her lips thinned. “You lie with the grace of a broken automaton. Those are not common stores. They are restricted reserves. Are you stealing, Gevran?”
Tullia’s smile vanished. “My sister is choking to death. She needs these. The ward clinics charge a month's wage for saline, and the spires leave these sealed in a vault.” The words were bitter, raw, stripped of her usual careful detachment.
Ondine’s face remained impassive for a long moment, her eyes fixed on Tullia’s. Then, a flicker. A subtle shift in the hard lines around her mouth, a softening in her gaze. She stepped fully into the room, the door hissing shut behind her. The click of the lock mechanism was shockingly loud.
“That solvent,” Ondine said, her tone dropping its stiff precision. “My husband. He needed that. In his final weeks.”
Tullia’s breath caught. She knew Ondine’s husband had died years ago, of the same industrial plague that ravaged the working class districts. But Ondine never spoke of it. Never showed an ounce of vulnerability. Yet now, the admission hung in the sterile air, a fragile, shared sorrow.
“He suffered,” Ondine continued, her gaze locked on the labeled row within the cabinet. “The gasping, the coughing… I saw the bills. I saw the way the clinics bled us for useless tonics. He passed in the seventh cycle.” She turned back to Tullia, her eyes clear, resolute. “Put that lung-wash back. Without an infusion pump, it burns throat tissue. It would kill her faster than the plague. But take the Chrysalis. Take the Veridian. And this.” She reached into a locked drawer, pulling out a small, intricately carved wooden box. “These are the last of my husband’s palliative tinctures. They won’t cure her, but they will ease the pain. Tell the ward doctor you acquired them through an off-grid broker.”
Ondine then walked to the main console, her fingers flying over the holographic interface. “There was no intrusion here. The blast tripped a system malfunction. Nothing was taken. Do you understand, Gevran?” Her eyes, though still conveying a deep, hidden pain, held a fierce, unyielding loyalty. “Do not fail your sister. Do not fail *me*.”
As sirens died down outside, Tullia crept back toward the wrecked study, the satchel concealed beneath her apron. Bastien was back, a fresh bandage stark against his dark tunic, but he looked grim, his usual exhaustion deepened by a new, sharp tension. He sat before his data slate, but his focus was not on corporate reports. A projected screen shimmered before him, displaying a heavily encrypted live broadcast. The image was grainy, distorted, but the figure at its center was unmistakable.
Darius Vencel. The saboteur. His face, etched with a cold, righteous fury, filled the screen. Behind him, the ruins of the lower chemical works spewed grease-black plumes into the bruised Veltrac sky.
“Morvath,” Vencel’s voice, raspy and amplified, echoed through the damaged library. “Your poison factory is dust. A down payment. Surrender your life, or the main estate reactor will follow.”
Bastien leaned over the console, eyes locked on the static-streaked transmission, silent as the timer in the corner began to count down.