The shadow coalesced, not a trick of the lamplight, but a solid mass of tailored fabric and coiled menace. Rhovis Caldani stepped into the narrow tunnel, his presence blotting out even the faint, sour air. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hand moved with a terrifying, almost casual speed, a blur of dark leather. The scarred sentry, knife still raised, made a strangled sound as Rhovis’s open palm connected with his throat. The impact wasn’t loud, more of a sickening thud that vibrated through the brickwork. The sentry choked, his blade clattering onto the grimy flagstones. Rhovis didn’t pause. His other hand, equally swift, found the sentry’s collar, twisting the fabric until the man’s face turned a horrifying shade of purple. A single, brutal knee strike to the abdomen emptied the assassin’s lungs, a wheezing gasp the only sound. Rhovis released him, and the man crumpled, a boneless heap against the tunnel wall. He didn’t move. Rhovis looked down at the inert form, then at the discarded knife. A thin line of crimson bloomed on his left forearm, a shallow cut he seemed not to notice. He turned his gaze to Brez, his dark eyes like polished obsidian, devoid of any discernible emotion. Brick dust drifted down in the wake of the impact. “Foolish. To think he could threaten an Exhibition asset.” His voice was low, a rumble that vibrated in Brez’s bones. He didn’t sound angry, merely annoyed, as if swatting a fly. “You are a valuable contestant, Brez. Caldani investments must be protected.” “I can manage my own corners,” Brez said. The words came out brittle, a lie she needed to tell. He tilted his head slightly, studying the set of her shoulders. “Evidently not. Or you would not be cornered by a gutter scavenger. Come.” He gestured with his head toward the tunnel exit, the faint glow of the main workshop complex visible in the distance. “You’ll track mud and grime through my administrative offices if we take the long way. We’ll use the service passage.” He moved, not waiting for her reply, and Brez, still reeling, found herself following, a strange blend of terror and reluctant curiosity tugging her along. The fear of him, the raw power she’d just witnessed, was potent. They emerged into a brightly lit corridor, polished marble reflecting the glow of aethium-filament lamps. Rhovis led her into an office suite, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind them with a soft click. The air here was warm, rich with the distinct, calming scent of bergamot and something else, something sharp and clean, like polished steel. The room was a stark contrast to the labyrinthine workshops. Plush, dark fabrics, towering shelves lined with leather-bound tomes, and a massive, gleaming mahogany desk dominated the space. Rhovis moved to a side table, retrieving a small, ornate medical kit. He sat on the edge of his desk, pushing aside a stack of schematics. The cut on his forearm, a shallow crimson line, stood out against his pale skin. “A scratch,” he murmured, noticing her gaze. “Hardly worth mentioning. But you look… unwell.” “I’m fine,” Brez snapped, pulling her gaze from the wound. She hated feeling vulnerable, hated the way her hands trembled, the aftermath of adrenaline. She hated that he could see it. He didn’t press. Instead, he opened the kit, his movements precise as he took out an antiseptic wipe. “Hold still.” He reached toward her cuff, and Brez stepped back, her boot catching on the carpet fringe. He arrested the motion, fingers open. “You are trembling, Machinist. The scuffle rattled your nerves.” Reluctantly, she let him take her wrist. His fingers, long and surprisingly gentle, grazed her pulse point. The calluses along his palm scratched rough against her skin. He dabbed the antiseptic across the cut on his own arm, his focus intent. The subtle scent of bergamot intensified as he leaned closer, his dark hair brushing her temple. His eyes, fixed on the wound, were startlingly close. She could see the fine lines at their corners, the dark flecks within the obsidian. “You always did have a knack for finding trouble,” he murmured, his voice a low thrum that seemed to bypass her ears and resonate directly in her chest. His gaze lifted, locking with hers. He leaned in further, his breath warm against her cheek. “And for attracting attention.” He inhaled slowly, deeply, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second. He drew in the scent of brass filings and oil clinging to her woolen tunic. His nose brushed her temple, his lips a whisper from her own. Brez locked her knees, caught between the instinct to shove him back and the terror of his scrutiny. The memory of his touch, his scent, the way he had once devoured her with his eyes, surged forward, unbidden. *The cool night air of the Caldani estate’s arboretum, the scent of midnight blossoms heavy around them. His hands, strong and possessive, tracing the line of her jaw. His lips, urgent and intoxicating, claiming hers beneath the shimmering glow of aethium lanterns. She had melted into him, a willing captive to his fierce devotion, believing in a future that was never meant to be.* Four years in the grease pits had not dulled the raw ache his proximity dragged to the surface. Despite the terror, despite the constant threat he posed, a part of her, the broken, foolish part, still yearned for him. The quiet brutality of his attention had ruined her for any other life, and it threatened to ruin her now. A sudden, frantic banging erupted from the office door. “Mr. Caldani! Sir! It’s Gidgen! The main steam-valve on the Aetherium Conflux is… it’s sputtering! Like a dying pigeon, sir! We’re going to lose pressure across Sector Gamma!” Gidgen’s voice, high-pitched and panicked, was a welcome, if cacophonous, intrusion. Rhovis pulled back, his expression darkening, the spell broken. He gave Brez one last, intense look before pushing himself off the desk. “Keep your wits about you, Machinist. I’m not always available to protect my investments.” He strode to the door, yanking it open. Gidgen, a disheveled mess, nearly stumbled backward. “S-sir! The conflux! It’s going to—” Rhovis cut him off with a sharp hand gesture. “Lead the way, Gidgen. And explain clearly what ‘sputtering like a dying pigeon’ means in terms of aethium distribution.” He cast one last, lingering glance toward Brez before disappearing down the corridor, Gidgen trotting behind him. Brez stood there, trembling, the scent of bergamot still clinging to her. She pressed her fingers to her lips, a phantom pressure lingering. The ghost of his touch burned against her skin, but cold reality drove her forward. She had to get Miro to safety. She had to. She fled the office, ignoring the startled glances of the passing servants, her boots pounding down the grand staircase toward the secluded servant quarters where Sarya had promised to keep Miro hidden. She shoved the door inward, scanning the narrow, sparse room. The cot was empty. The small wooden toy Miro always clutched was gone. A folded note lay on the pillow. It was Sarya’s neat script. *He’s had another turn, Brez. I’ve taken him to a quieter place. Don’t worry. He’s safe.*

Bergamot and Blood