The thrum of Rhovis’s boots vibrated through the floorboards. Each step closer to the gleaming brass disc felt like a hammer blow against Brez’s ribs. Sarya, surprisingly still, held Miro tighter, a hand clamped over his mouth to muffle any accidental whimper. Her eyes, usually so soft, were flint-hard. She hadn’t expected this. Brez hadn’t either. The watch, a relic of a life she’d meticulously buried, now lay exposed. A trap she’d set for herself, years ago, on a morning meant for vows, not escape. Rhovis stopped. The air grew impossibly thin. Through the sliver, Brez could see the toe of his polished boot, inches from the watch. He bent, a slow, deliberate movement that stretched the silence taut. Then, he straightened, the familiar brass casing of the pocket watch nestled in his palm. His thumb traced the intricate clockwork etching, the unique sigil of the Caldani family. He knew this piece. He’d commissioned it himself. A gift for his bride. “An interesting find,” Rhovis’s voice rumbled, devoid of emotion, yet heavy with a quiet threat. “Continue the sweep. I want this wing sealed off from the rest of the grounds until further notice. No one in, no one out.” He turned, the watch still clutched, and stalked away. Brez watched his retreating figure, the cold dread a growing knot in her stomach. He hadn’t found them, but he had found *her*. Minutes later, the distant clang of a heavy door sealing shut echoed through the compound. Sarya released Miro, who coughed softly, his eyes still glassy with fever. “He found it,” Sarya whispered, a strange mix of fear and triumph in her voice. “Now he knows someone was here. Someone *important*.” Brez said nothing. There was no point. Sarya’s game had just escalated, but so had her own. With Rhovis holding the watch, the stakes were personal now, terrifyingly so. She had to move. “Stay here with Miro,” Brez commanded, her voice low. “Don’t make a sound. Don’t do anything to draw attention.” Sarya snorted. “And you? Where are you going?” “To clean up your mess,” Brez retorted, sliding the hidden latch on the closet door. She slipped out into the empty hallway, her gaze sweeping over the overturned cot, the lingering scent of Aethium. She had to ensure no other trace remained. As she finished wiping the faint residue from the floor, a sharp, metallic chime echoed through the estate’s internal comms system. It was Rhovis’s voice, colder than glacial ice. “All participants are to report to the Grand Vault immediately. Failure to comply will result in immediate disqualification and removal from the grounds.” Brez’s stomach plummeted. The Grand Vault. The most secure, most surveilled room in the entire facility. And he had her watch. He wasn't just searching for an intruder. He was searching for *her*. *** Gidgen pressed his trembling ribs against the mahogany panelling. The note Sarya had left—a scribbled plea for more ‘fever-reducing herbs’—had struck him as odd. Miro’s fever, while serious, hadn’t required this specific, rare concoction last week. And her ‘sick nephew’ story was wearing thin. Following his gut, he’d used a master key he’d ‘borrowed’ from a complacent attendant to slip into Sarya’s private quarters on the East Wing’s upper floor. The room was sparse, tidy, almost sterile. Too tidy for someone supposedly caring for a sick child. He ran a hand along the underside of the ornate writing desk, searching for a hidden drawer. His fingers brushed against a rough patch of wood, a barely discernible seam. A quiet click, and a shallow compartment slid open. Inside, tucked beneath a stack of innocuous letters, were folded parchment sheets covered in intricate diagrams. Gidgen pulled them out, his brow furrowing. They weren’t schematics for a clockwork engine, nor medical notes. These were blueprints. His eyes darted across the detailed illustrations: pulsing conduits, a central reservoir, a network of fine needles. The title was scrawled in an elegant, spidery hand: ‘Aethium Siphon – Mark II: Optimized for Juvenile Bloodline Extraction.’ A cold sweat broke out on his skin. This wasn’t about healing Miro. It was about draining him. The drawing on the final page, a simplified portrait of a child with glowing veins, confirmed his worst fears. Miro. “Brezala,” he whispered, his voice catching in his throat. “She’s not just after the prize. She’s after *Miro*.” His hands trembled, clutching the horrifying documents. He had to get these to Brez. He had to warn her. *** The Grand Vault was a vast, circular chamber, its walls a mosaic of interlocking brass plates and gleaming steel. At its center, a single, highly polished desk stood like an altar, atop which lay Brez’s pocket watch, its brass glinting under the harsh overhead lights. Rhovis stood behind the desk, his presence filling the cavernous space. The other contestants, a nervous huddle near the entrance, avoided his gaze. Brez, her heart a cold stone in her chest, stepped into the room, her gaze fixed on the watch. She had to retrieve it. Rhovis’s gray irises locked onto her the moment she entered. “Ah, ‘Brez’. Come closer.” His voice, though low, carried absolute authority. Brez walked towards the desk, each step a deliberate gamble. Every gaze tracked her crossing, but none mattered as much as his. When she was within arm’s reach, Rhovis extended a hand, palm up, holding the pocket watch. “This is a peculiar thing to find in my mansion, boy.” His voice was soft, dangerously so. “Tell me, where did a lowly machinist like you acquire such a rare, custom-made artifact?” Brez met his gaze, forcing her expression into one of casual indifference. “Found it, sir. Or rather, bought it. Down in the Veridian Alley markets. Some fence was selling it for a pittance. Said it was broken, a family heirloom from some rich fool who’d gambled it away.” She tried to inject a note of dismissive contempt into her voice, hoping it would mask the tremor in her hands. “Figured I could fix it, make a decent profit.” Rhovis’s expression remained unreadable. He closed his hand around the watch, then slammed it onto the desk with a sharp *clack*. “A broken family heirloom, you say?” He leaned across the desk, invading her personal space, the scent of bergamot and steel enveloping her. His dark eyes drilled into hers, seeking the truth beneath her carefully constructed facade. “This watch was commissioned for my wedding day. It never left my possession until my bride vanished. It is not broken. And it was never gambled away.” His free hand shot out, slamming onto the desk beside her, trapping her. His voice dropped to a guttural growl, raw with a terrifying possessiveness. “Tell me, Brez. Who are you, really? And what did you do with my wife?” The words hung in the air, a phantom noose around her neck. This wasn't about the watch. It was about the gaping wound she had left in his life. Before Brez could formulate another desperate lie, before she could even breathe, a violent tremor shook the floor beneath their boots. The overhead gaslights flickered wildly, then died, plunging the vault into near-darkness. A deafening roar ripped through the air, followed by a blast of crushing force that threw Brez against the desk. The sound of splintering stone and twisting metal filled the air, a chorus of destruction that signaled only one thing. An explosion. A massive one. The Exhibition Grounds were under siege.

Tick of the Trap