The scent of burning wood and stale soot clung to Laima, a sharp tang against the lavender water drifting over the lawns. Jurgis leaned heavily against her shoulder, his ruined artificial limb a buckle of sheared copper and raw skin. His breath came in ragged gasps, his gaze fixed on the main stage where Duke Valdemar, a portly man with a florid face, extended a hand toward the gilded vial Ignas Balodis held. Ignas, pale and trembling, was already mid-sentence, his voice tinny even from this distance. The nobleman’s lips parted, ready to swallow the draught. Laima glanced down at the ruined strut, calculating the cost of fresh spruce gum. The billion-cog prototype, their winter income, sat inside the rival pavilion, likely hoisted for the patrons. But Jurgis’s pain, the very real threat of that toxic elixir… a patent could be fought for later. A life, once lost, was gone forever. “Hold on,” Laima rasped, her voice rough from the smoke. She didn’t wait for a response, didn’t even glance at the ‘Ruta Varnas’s Innovation Showcase’ sign. Her focus narrowed to the stage, the Duke’s expectant face, the deadly glint on the vial. Every imaginary rule, every fabricated etiquette, evaporated. All that remained was the immediate, undeniable necessity of prevention. She broke into a run, a soot-stained specter charging through the meticulously arranged crowd. Gasps rippled in her wake. Elegant ladies in their gossamer gowns recoiled, their faces a mixture of disdain and genuine alarm. Laima ignored them, her tattered dress flapping around her as she vaulted a low, decorative hedge, landing with a jarring thud. Her throat burned with bile as she darted past ruffled waistcoats and velvet capes, leaving Jurgis braced against a stone sundial. “Ignas!” she bellowed, her voice cracking but carrying, cutting through the polite murmur. “Stop!” Ignas froze, his jaw dropping slack as he took in her scorched apron. The Duke, already reaching, paused, his hand inches from the vial. A sharp hush snuffed out the courtyard chatter. All eyes were on Laima, this dishevelled, furious woman bursting onto the impeccably pristine stage. “This is an outrage!” Ignas stammered, his face blanching. “How dare you interrupt His Grace, the Duke Valdemar!” “It’s poison!” Laima cried, her hand shooting out. With a swift, unthinking motion, she slapped the vial from Ignas’s trembling fingers. The delicate glass shattered against the polished stage floor, spraying a noxious green liquid that immediately began to hiss and bubble, corroding the brass accents of the Duke’s ceremonial pedestal. A pungent, metallic odor filled the air, acrid and sickening. A murmur rippled back through the silk-draped rows. The aristocrat staggered back, mottled purple creeping up his collar. “What in the name of the grand gears was that swill, Balodis?” he boomed, rattling the crystal pendants on the canopy. Before Ignas could formulate a stammering defense, a shrill, delighted shriek pierced the sudden silence. Ruta Varnas, resplendent in a gown the color of fresh-minted brass, emerged from the conservatory rotunda, smirking beneath an ostrich feather. “Perfect timing, my dear cousin!” she crowed, completely misreading the room. “While Laima disgraces herself, I shall present true innovation!” She gestured dramatically to a velvet-draped pedestal at the edge of the stage. “Behold, Ostrava-Krin! The revolutionary ‘Ruta-Cog Mechanical Limb’!” With a flourish, she ripped away the velvet, revealing their resin-brass leg, glittering under the gas lamps. It was beautiful, undeniably so, but Laima’s gut twisted. Ruta hadn’t understood the resin. She couldn’t have. Ruta, oblivious, beamed at the crowd. “This device, born of my visionary insight, integrates human biology with clockwork precision, all thanks to a unique, flexible resin!” She pressed a polished brass toggle on the calf strut. A low whirring sound filled the air, followed by a violent shudder. The resin, improperly mixed and cured, didn’t flex; it *strained*. A thick, black sap, resembling tar, began to ooze from the joints, spraying in greasy arcs across the pristine stage and, to Ruta’s growing horror, onto the impeccably dressed socialites in the front row. The whirring turned into a grinding shriek, the brass cogs seizing, then buckling. A large gear, coated in the sticky black muck, broke free and shattered against an overhead gas bracket, raining hot glass onto the stage floor. Chaos erupted. Ladies shrieked, clutching their gowns, trying to wipe off the viscous, foul-smelling sap. Gentlemen bellowed in outrage, pointing accusing fingers at Ruta, whose face had gone from triumphant to a ghastly shade of pale green. The courtyard instantly dissolved into stampeding taffeta and bellowed curses. Amidst the bedlam, Ignas Balodis, his composure utterly shattered, stumbled forward. The sight of the corrosive elixir, the exploding prosthetic, Ruta’s utter humiliation, broke him. “It’s… it’s true!” he blurted, his voice high-pitched and desperate. “The elixir, it’s not a cure! It’s… it's lethal! I tried to tell her, but she… she insisted!” He pointed a trembling finger at Ruta. “She forced me! She swore it was preordained by heaven!” Laima seized the moment, her voice cutting through the din. “Preordained?” she scoffed, stepping forward through the rising steam. “There are no divine omens, no Karmic rules, no balance sheets of the soul! It’s a scam! A grift! Invented by Borys the Undertaker and his cronies to extort the naive elite!” She pointed to the oozing prosthetic. “And this… this isn’t Ruta’s invention! It’s ours! She stole the blueprints, but she never understood the heart of it!” Despite his mangled leg, Jurgis pushed past Laima, his face grim but resolute. He planted his good foot firmly on the stage, drawing all eyes. “The resin, you see,” he began, his voice surprisingly clear and calm over the remaining chaos, “is not merely an adhesive. It’s a living bond, designed to flex and integrate with the very physiology of the user. Without the precise botanical knowledge, without understanding its organic principles, it can only fail. Ruta, in her haste, used a commercial sealant, assuming all flexible resins were the same. This device, the true prototype, was crafted by Laima Varnas and myself.” He gestured to the corroding stage floor, then to the sputtering remains of Ruta’s 'innovation.' “The difference, my Lord Duke, is plain to see.” Ruta, aghast, stared at Ignas, who now stood openly weeping, his confession echoing in the stunned silence. Her stolen fortune, built on half-remembered futures, lay pooled in boiled pitch. She made a desperate lunge for Ignas, her hand raised, but he flinched away, turning his back on her completely. He walked off the stage, shoulders slumped, his 'miracle cure' and his reputation utterly destroyed. The Duke, who had been observing the entire debacle with a mixture of horror and growing intrigue, now stepped forward. He looked from the destroyed vial to the sap-splattered prototype, then to Laima and Jurgis, standing defiant and soot-stained on the stage. A slow, calculating smile spread across his face. “An incredible disaster, to be sure,” he mused, his eyes gleaming. “But that resin… truly extraordinary. Tell me, who holds the *true* patent for this remarkable, flexible material?”

The Solstice Showdown