Loria’s fingers brushed the delicate lace of her parasol. A cool, foreign lump, no bigger than a beetle’s thorax, nestled deep within the intricate embroidery. Her ribs tightened against her corset. It was a Guild-issue tracking node, its brass resonator vibrating against the weave. Vondra had planted it. The witch! And her threat… “Tomorrow, when the Royal Guild inspectors arrive, they’ll execute you for unauthorized machinery.” “Brixen!” Loria’s voice, usually a carefully pitched chirp, came out as a sharp command. She clutched the parasol, the diamond necklace suddenly feeling like a lead weight. The butler, who had been meticulously polishing a silver automaton shaped like a badger, nearly dropped his cloth. “Milady?” he asked, his usual haughty composure momentarily fractured. “The courtyard. Now. Every single cleaning automaton. Every tea-cart. Every scrap-digger. I want an absolute spectacle. Can you manage it?” Loria’s eyes, usually veiled by a 'simpleton's' blankness, blazed with a fierce, calculating fire. Brixen stared. He had seen glimpses of his mistress’s true nature, but never such unbridled intensity. “Chaos, milady? May I ask why?” “No time!” She pivoted on her heel, tearing toward the hidden laboratory hatch, the transmitter ticking like a pocket watch against her palm. “Just do it, Brixen! And make sure it looks like an accident!” The butler, a man who prided himself on orchestrating discreet espionage, found himself for the first time in his life faced with an order to create a public spectacle. A mischievous grin slowly spread across his face. “As you wish, Lady Cogwater. Chaos it is.” He snapped his fingers, and a squadron of clockwork spiders scurried from the shadows, their tiny optical sensors glowing with malevolent delight. Loria burst into the private atelier. The brass node buzzed against her knuckles while homing birds tracked the signal toward the grounds. She scanned the floor, her gaze falling on Garrond’s colossal harness, now gleaming with her clandestine improvements. The newly reinforced gyrostabilizers, the noiseless servomotors, the counterweights—all illegal. All grounds for execution. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” she muttered, already pulling tools from her belt. The suit, so nearly perfect, had to be dismantled. She ripped open access panels, her fingers flying across the complex circuitry, unscrewing, detaching, disabling. Her modifications were now liabilities. She worked with a desperate, practiced speed, sweat beading on her brow. The buttery-smooth movement she’d achieved would be a dead giveaway. She had to make it clunky again, loud, recognizably *faulty*. From outside, a metal screech pierced the air, followed by a chorus of whirring gears. Brixen was earning his hush-money. Perfect. The laboratory door slammed open. Garrond stood there, shirtless, a deep scowl on his face, his chest still crisscrossed with scars from the mining incident. He held a massive wrench like a cudgel. “What in the seven hells is going on out there, Loria? The grounds sound like a blacksmith’s holiday!” He took in her frantic activity, the strewn parts, the frantic, almost wild look in her eyes. “Are you… are you sabotaging my suit?” His voice was low, edged with a dangerous growl. “No! Of course not!” Loria stammered, trying to hide the offending parts behind her back. “I was just… admiring it! It’s so… shiny! And I thought… perhaps it needed… more shine?” She forced a simpering smile, pushing her hair back in a deliberately clumsy gesture. The Guild tracker gave a sharp, triumphant chirp. Just then, the outer courtyard exploded into fresh pandemonium. A giant automated tea-cart, its delicate porcelain teacups rattling violently, careened into a flock of cleaning vacuums, sending them skittering like startled metallic crabs. One particularly aggressive vacuum, designed for scrubbing stubborn soot, latched onto a gardener’s prized topiary and began systematically shredding it. The screech of peacocks added to the din. Garrond’s scowl deepened, but a spark of concern flickered in his eyes. “What in the name of the Cogfather is Brixen doing?” He glanced at Loria, who still looked utterly distraught. “Is that… a tea-cart trying to assault a hedge?” He spotted the crimson node in her palm. He didn’t know what it was, but it looked utterly out of place, dangerous. “I… I don’t know!” Loria wailed, clutching the brass bug. “The contraptions! They’ve gone mad! They’re coming for us!” She pointed vaguely towards the ruckus, hoping he’d be distracted enough to let her finish her desperate sabotage. Garrond set his teeth. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps, stripping away the airy act. He made a snap decision. He strode towards the half-disassembled suit. “Stay here, Loria. Lock the door. I’ll handle this.” “No, wait!” Loria cried, but it was too late. Garrond was already hauling himself into the frame. He knew the suit wasn’t fully functional, but he didn’t have time to consider the consequences. He had to protect her. He slammed the chest plate into place. “For the love of gears, Garrond, it’s not ready!” she shrieked, but he was already activating the suit’s core. The hum of the aether-engine, usually a grinding roar, now purred with an unsettling, *smooth* efficiency. He took a step, expecting the usual lurch, the heavy thud, the grinding protest of metal on metal. Instead, the armor glided. It didn’t lurch. It didn’t thud. With uncanny balance, Garrond crossed the stone floor like a polished pendulum. He cleared the doorframe with an effortless swing, sweeping into the hall. Loria stared after him, stunned by how seamlessly her alterations responded to his stride. Outside, the chaos had reached its zenith. Brixen, observing from a balcony with a delighted glint in his eye, saw the homing pigeons circling overhead, a dark cloud against the sky. Below, among fleeing gardeners, Garrond swept past a charging tea-cart, executing a pivot to pluck a rogue scrap-digger out of a rose bush. The carrier birds landed on the stone balustrade. Behind them, a sleek black air-carriage bearing the Royal Guild’s cog-and-wing crest settled on the flagstones. Two stern-faced figures in matching grey uniforms disembarked, their gazes sweeping over the chaotic scene. They stopped, their eyes fixing on Garrond’s impossibly smooth movements. “By the Cogfather’s sacred cogs,” one inspector muttered, a tall woman with an implacable expression and a monocle firmly affixed, “that’s no standard industrial chassis. Look at the balance, the kinetic transfer. It’s… revolutionary.” She turned to her subordinate. “An unauthorized artisan is hiding in this residence.” Her gaze fell upon Loria, who had stumbled out into the gravel, the crimson bug clutched in her hand. “And I believe we’ve found our culprit.” She marched towards Garrond, her voice cutting through the mechanical din. “Lord Skall! I am Inspector Krell of the Royal Guild’s Technical Standards Division. We have reason to believe this home harbors an individual engaged in unauthorized technological development.” Her eyes, sharp and unwavering, shifted from Garrond to Loria. “Your suit, Lord Skall, is an unregistered marvel. We demand full schematics and blueprints for this apparatus be delivered to Guild headquarters by midnight tonight. Fail to comply, and Lady Veldt-Skall will be arrested for suspected tech-treason.”

The Clockwork Panic