Brez’s vision blurred over the hurried, unfamiliar script, the words *‘won’t last the night. You must bring him here. Now.’* burning themselves into her mind. The paper trembled in her stiff thumbs, crinkling softly. A bitter cold, harsher than any back-alley enforcer's lead pipe, gripped her throat. Miro. Her Miro. Here? In this gilded cage, under Rhovis’s suffocating gaze? “My poor Brez,” Sarya’s voice, a saccharine whisper, pulled her from the abyss. “Such a terrible turn. I spoke with the nurse, and she sounded beside herself. It’s fortunate I was already planning a supply run to the servant’s district. I could... I could bring him back with me.” Brez’s head snapped up. Sarya, with her unassuming smile and neatly pinned hair, seemed a beacon of hope in the storm. “You would?” The words were raspy, barely audible. “Of course. It would be less conspicuous than you, a contestant, fetching a child. A sick child, no less. I’ll simply claim he’s a distant relative, taken ill, needing shelter in the servant quarters. Mr. Caldani is known for his… generosity towards his staff, in certain circumstances.” Sarya’s eyes, usually so placid, held a strange, calculating glint that Brez, blinded by terror for her son, entirely missed. “It’s the only way, Brez. Time is of the essence.” Time. The word echoed like a death knell. Brez nodded, hurried and sharp. “Yes. Please. Be careful. Keep him hidden.” Sarya offered a comforting pat to Brez’s arm, a gesture that felt less like solace and more like a claim. “Don’t worry. He’ll be safe with me.” The next hour was an eternity. Brez paced the cramped confines of her assigned room, the stale air thick with Gidgen’s rhythmic snores. She pressed her face against the dusty windowpane, straining to see the main gate of the Caldani Exhibition Grounds, a formidable arch of polished black stone and gleaming brass, guarded by automaton sentinels that clicked and whirred with sinister precision. Each shadow seemed to morph into Sarya’s slight figure, each distant carriage sound a false alarm. Then, a flicker. A small, unassuming service cart, pulled by a lone draft horse, approached the visitor gate. Sarya, cloaked and hooded, dismounted. Behind her, a smaller bundle, shrouded in dark fabric, was carefully lifted from the cart’s interior. Miro. Air caught behind Brez's teeth, locking tight in her ribs. The gate guards, two hulking figures in crimson livery, stepped forward. One, a man with a scarred cheek and eyes that missed nothing, leaned down, speaking to Sarya. He reached a gloved hand towards the bundled child. The blood roared in her ears. *No!* Sarya, in a moment of clumsy haste, shifted the bundle, and the dark fabric slipped. For a fleeting instant, a tiny hand, crisscrossed with faint, glowing cerulean veins, was exposed. The scar-faced guard’s head tilted, his gaze sharpening. A slow, chilling smile stretched his lips. He was no common watchman; Brez recognized the subtle symbol embroidered on his cuff – the coiled viper insignia of the underworld cabal, Sarya's true paymasters. He’d seen it. Miro’s Aethium bloodline, exposed. Just as the guard opened his mouth, a new, imposing presence overshadowed the gate. Rhovis Caldani, a figure of polished steel and dark velvet, emerged from a nearby archway, his silver-tipped cane striking the flagstones with an authoritative click. He’d been inspecting the perimeter, a regular, suffocating habit. His gaze, sharp as a diamond shard, swept over Sarya, then landed on the child. Terror kicked her forward. She vaulted down the winding servants' stairs two steps at a time. She had to get to him, to Miro, to shield him. But Rhovis was too close. She saw Sarya stammering, while the scarred sentinel watched with predatory stillness. Brez reached a vantage point just as Rhovis leaned in, his imposing height casting a long shadow over Sarya and the bundled child. He spoke, his voice a low rumble that carried even across the distance, “What is this? A new addition to the staff’s brood, Sarya?” Sarya’s face was a mask of strained sweetness. “My apologies, Mr. Caldani. This is my… my nephew, come from the provinces. He’s taken ill.” “Ill, you say?” Rhovis’s dark eyes narrowed, sweeping over the child’s shrouded form. “His color seems… vibrant for one so ailing.” He reached out, a single finger poised to lift the edge of the blanket. He was going to see. He was going to know. “My… my kin!” A shrill, theatrical squawk sliced through the tension. Gidgen, disheveled and wild-eyed, stumbled towards the gate, having apparently woken to find Brez gone and pieced together the situation. He threw an arm around Brez, pretending to lean on her. “Oh, my poor, ailing boy! Little… little Klevin! He’s always been prone to these sudden flushes. A peculiar family curse, you see.” Gidgen’s voice, usually so reedy, cracked with forced conviction. His eyes darted between Brez, Sarya, and the terrifying tycoon. He looked like a cornered field mouse. Rhovis’s hand paused inches from Miro’s face. His gaze, now icy, fixed on Gidgen. “Your nephew, you say? I was unaware of your familial obligations, Mister Gidgen. And you, ‘Brez,’ seem quite concerned for this… Klevin.” Brez forced herself to meet his stare, ribs thudding against her chest-wrap. She matched Gidgen’s frantic bluster. “Yes, sir! Gidgen’s told me much about his family. A truly… sickly lineage. We were just coming to offer our condolences.” She pulled Gidgen closer, feigning sympathy, her hand brushing over the small bundle of Miro, a silent, desperate caress. Rhovis studied them, his expression unreadable, for what felt like an eternity. The scarred guard, a flicker of disappointment crossing his brow, tracked the exchange with narrowed eyes. Finally, Rhovis gave a curt nod. “Very well. See that the boy receives proper care, Sarya. And you two,” he gestured vaguely at Brez and Gidgen, “return to your quarters. There are schematics to study, and no time for familial distractions.” The dismissal was sharp, final. Brez practically dragged Gidgen away, her legs trembling, not daring to look back. Miro was inside. But the danger had only just begun. Later, under the pretext of retrieving a specialized tool, Brez ventured into the sprawling subterranean network of steam tunnels beneath the mansion. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and hot oil, the rhythmic hiss of pressurized pipes a constant companion. She moved with purpose, the blueprints for the exhibition’s internal workings, gleaned from the novel, sharp in her mind. Her objective: secure a hidden, forgotten storage alcove she remembered, one deep within the labyrinth, perfect for stashing Miro away from prying eyes. The tunnels were a maze of twisting pipes and dripping valves, echoing with the distant thrum of the main Aethium generator. A narrow passage, barely wide enough for one person, led to a forgotten section, marked on her mental map as ‘Auxiliary Ventillation Trunk 7B.’ This was it. She squeezed through, her shoulder scraping against the rough brickwork, the dim glow of her oil lamp casting dancing shadows. She rounded a particularly tight bend, expecting only dust and disused equipment. Instead, a figure emerged from the deeper shadows, blocking her path. Tall, cloaked, entirely silent until now. The glint of a polished blade, extended from a dark sleeve, caught the faint lamplight. It was the sentry from the gate, the one with the scarred cheek, his features stripped of all pretense. He smiled, a cold, predatory baring of teeth. “So, the little machinist strays from the path. You’re more interesting than I first thought, ‘Brez’.” Brez froze, her wrench instinctively tightening in her grip. Her eyes darted for an escape, but the tunnel was a dead end behind him, and too narrow to pass. His gaze was fixed on her, assessing, calculating, like a viper ready to strike. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the blade glinting. “We need to discuss the boy. And his… unique blood.” Just as he raised the knife, a sudden, imposing shadow stretched across the brick wall behind him, long and impossibly broad, blotting out the flickering lamplight and plunging the assassin into a deeper, more profound darkness.

Shadows in the Steam