Kordian’s warning hung, thick and sharp, in the stale air of the hall. Niko, usually so quick-witted, stared at the floor, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Irakli Makharov, however, simply adjusted his expensive tunic, his smile thinning to a sliver. The artificial warmth in his gaze had vanished, replaced by the calculating glint of a ledger keeper. He opened his mouth, no doubt to offer some smooth, cutting retort, but Kordian did not give him the chance. His voice dropped further, a low growl that vibrated through the floorboards.
“I believe you have an appointment with a shipment manifest, Guildmaster Makharov. Your driver has been waiting for some time.”
Irakli’s face tightened. He gave a curt nod, his eyes sweeping over Niko, then Lali, before settling on Kordian with an acidic challenge. “Indeed. A pity our discussion was cut short. Perhaps another time, ‘Nana’?” He bowed, a mockery of respect, then turned on his heel, his footsteps echoing too loudly down the corridor before a heavy thud signaled his departure from the manor. The tension, rather than dissipating, simply shifted, now directed squarely at Lali.
Kordian’s gaze, when it landed on her, was a physical weight. “Library, you say?” His words were slow, each syllable a pronouncement. “I was not aware my fiancée had such an interest in dusty tomes, nor such a sudden inclination to… catalog them. Perhaps you’d prefer to catalog the aether-flow regulators in the sub-basement? They’re rather less prone to being… bribed.”
Lali’s cheeks burned. “I only wished to ensure Niko felt useful, Kordian. He has a brilliant mind. And I thought it best to keep him occupied.” She held Kordian’s stare, refusing to yield. The lie felt flimsy, yet she had to sell it. He knew she lied, of course. He always knew.
He gave a short scoff, a dry, humorless sound. “See that he remains ‘occupied’ with matters that do not involve my rivals, ‘Nana’. Your dowry depends on it.” With that, he turned, a living shadow retreating into the deeper darkness of the manor’s labyrinthine passages. Lali watched him go, then rounded on Niko, her voice a fierce whisper. “What were you thinking, talking to him? He’s a viper!”
Niko shrugged, adjusting his spectacles. “He offered me a new chronometer. And he asked very specific questions about the sub-aetheric conduit. The one that runs under the manor and then… well, you know where it goes.” His eyes met hers, clear and earnest. “He knows about it, Lali. He knew about its output fluctuations. He even mentioned the specific frequency band.”
A harsh chill tightened across Lali’s ribs. Irakli knew about the conduit, not just its existence, but its technical details. This wasn’t just a rival trying to poach information; he was actively monitoring Kordian’s estate. The implications were chilling. “You tell me everything he said, Niko. Every single word.”
Hours later, the manor slept, its clockwork heart beating a slow, rhythmic thrum. Lali, restless, found herself staring at the intricate patterns of moonlight on her ceiling, Irakli’s oily smile replaying in her mind. A sudden, deep rumble shook the very foundations of the estate, rattling the leaded panes in her window. It wasn't a natural tremor; it carried the harsh clatter of stressed mechanisms.
She threw on her dressing gown, her heart thumping. This wasn't the first tremor since her arrival, but it felt different, more violent. Following the sound, a deep, resonant hum that seemed to pull at the very air, she found herself in the maze of Kordian’s workshop. The air here was thick with the scent of oil, ozone, and something else—a faint, sharp tang that Lali now associated with volatile power cells.
He stood hunched over a work table, bathed in the sickly green glow of a diagnostic display. His back was to her, but the posture spoke of immense strain. His left hand, the one fitted with scarred, prosthetic brass, trembled violently, a low rasp shuddering under its polished plates. Gears whirred erratically, struggling against some unseen resistance. His right hand, the living one, gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, a sheen of perspiration on his brow.
“Kordian?” Her voice was soft, barely a whisper in the cavernous space. He flinched, a sharp, involuntary movement, and the tremor in his prosthetic arm intensified. A small, brass cog, no bigger than her thumbnail, popped free from a housing near his wrist, rolling across the workbench and clattering to the floor.
He swore under his breath, a harsh, guttural sound, and straightened slightly, his shoulders drawn tight. He didn’t turn to face her, but his head angled, indicating he knew she was there. His breathing was ragged. “Get out.”
“You’re in pain.” It wasn’t a question. The metallic rasping continued, a distressed shriek now, and the entire arm bucked, threatening to tear itself apart.
“It’s nothing,” he gritted out, his voice strained. “A malfunction. I’ll handle it.” But even as he spoke, his scarred hand spasmed, clenching into a tight, useless fist. He tried to reach for the fallen cog with his good hand, but the spasm in his other arm wrenched through his torso, throwing him off balance. His gaze fell on the tiny gear, then on his useless, shaking limb. A flicker of frustration, raw and profound, crossed his features.
Lali stepped closer, ignoring his command. She bent, her fingertips nimble as they retrieved the miniature cog from the dusty floor. It was a complex piece, etched with minuscule teeth. “It looks like a regulator for a micro-oscillator,” she observed, her con artist’s eye for detail cataloging the mechanism even in this tense moment. “Needs to be seated just so, or it’ll shear the main coupling.”
He finally turned, his slate-colored irises clouded with pain and exhaustion. His face was drawn, the deep scars on his cheek and brow stark against his pale skin. For the first time, Lali saw past the ‘Beast’ persona, to something vulnerable, broken. He stared at the cog in her palm, then at her. A silence stretched between them, brittle and taut. Then, with a barely perceptible nod, he offered her his arm.
The prosthetic felt cold, unyielding beneath her touch, yet she could feel the frantic vibrations within its casing. She leaned in, her gaze fixed on the intricate workings near his wrist. The opening for the cog was almost invisible, recessed deep inside the housing. Her hands, usually steady from years of picking pockets and manipulating delicate locks, moved with surprising assurance. She positioned the cog, feeling for the tiny notch, then with a firm but gentle press, she reseated it. A soft click echoed in the silence.
The grinding sound ceased. The frantic whirring died down, replaced by the steady, rhythmic hum of the mechanism. Kordian’s arm slowly relaxed, the violent tremors subsiding. He exhaled, a long, shaky breath, and the tension drained from his shoulders. He watched her, his expression unreadable, as Lali carefully inspected her work. His gaze lingered on her hands, then lifted to her face. His eyes, though still guarded, held a different quality now, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher.
“Thank you,” he murmured, the words rough, as if unused. It was the first genuine appreciation she had heard from him. Lali felt a strange jolt, a warmth unfurling in her chest, utterly alien and unwelcome. She quickly pulled her hand away, the skin tingling from contact with the cool metal.
As she stepped back, her gaze fell to his neck. Beneath the collar of his simple workshop tunic, a thin chain was visible, from which hung a silver locket. It was plain, unadorned, clearly worn smooth by years of contact. Her eyes, ever curious, narrowed slightly as she caught a glimpse of the miniature portrait nestled within the locket’s open clasp. It wasn't the face of a beautiful woman, a lost love, as she might have expected. Instead, it was a young boy, perhaps eight or nine, with bright, intelligent eyes and a mischievous grin. He was unfamiliar, a complete stranger. Who was he to Kordian? The question gnawed at her, adding another layer to the enigma that was the Artificer.
She mumbled something about checking the manor’s power conduits, her mind reeling from the unexpected intimacy, the raw vulnerability, and the new mystery. She left him standing there, amidst his silent, gleaming machines, the green light casting long, dancing shadows. Back in her room, the moonlight now streamed through her window, illuminating her pillow. And there, sitting innocently, was Irakli Makharov’s Artifice puzzle box. It was open. Not fully solved, but a significant portion of its intricate mechanism had been unlatched, revealing a small, empty compartment inside. Resting beside it, a folded slip of paper. Lali snatched it up, her hands unsteady. The elegant, precise script was unmistakable.
*I’m waiting.*