Kordian’s grip on Lali’s arm had gone cold, as if the aide’s words had siphoned the warmth from his bones. His gaze, usually so sharp and cutting, blurred with a horrifying recognition. The opulent gala, the murmured conversations, the clink of crystal—all faded into a dull echo as a single, searing memory clawed its way to the forefront of his mind.
***
The air in the Central Reactor dome vibrated with a triumphant hum, a sound Kordian, younger then, his face unmarked, had once believed was the symphony of progress. The Ardenite Flux Regulator pulsed with a steady, emerald glow, its complex network of circuits breathing life into the experimental conduit. “Almost ready, Elio!” he’d called, his voice bright with unconcealed glee. His younger brother, a whirlwind of boundless energy, had been perched on a scaffold beam, sketching in a worn leather notebook. Elio, with his quick, curious eyes, was Kordian’s shadow, his biggest admirer, his only family.
“Can I see the current flow?” Elio had asked, his voice barely a chirp over the thrumming. He’d clambered down, his boots clanking on the metal grating. Kordian knelt, pointing out a delicate pressure gauge. “See how stable it is? The syndicate's new arterial component is performing flawlessly. This will revolutionize the Guild, little brother. No more power fluctuations in the outlying districts.”
Elio had grinned, his small hand tracing the schematic Kordian had laid out. “You’ll be famous, Kordian! The greatest Artificer ever!”
A sudden, piercing whine sliced through the steady hum. A crimson alarm flared on the main console. Kordian’s eyes darted to the syndicate component, a sleek, polished cylinder that suddenly pulsed with an erratic, dangerous light. The pressure gauge needle swung wildly. “No,” he’d breathed, his heart seizing in his chest. “That’s not right.” He lunged for the emergency shut-off, his mind racing to comprehend the impossible malfunction. He’d calibrated it himself, checked every connection. It was impossible.
“Kordian, what’s happening?” Elio’s voice was high, laced with fear. The emerald glow intensified, then fractured into a blinding, raw white. The dome shook. A deafening crack ripped through the air, followed by a searing wave of heat that twisted the metal around them into grotesque forms. Kordian shielded Elio, throwing his body over his brother’s, the world erupting into a kaleidoscope of shrapnel and pure, agonizing force. He felt his own flesh tear, bone splinter, but his only thought was the small, fragile body beneath him. Then, nothing but a black, echoing void.
He had woken to pain, searing and omnipresent, the scent of ozone and char. The dome was a ruin. His left hand was a mangled mess. He had crawled through the debris, calling Elio’s name, his voice raw. He found him beneath a collapsed beam, still clutching his notebook. His small face was serene, untouched by the inferno, but his eyes were closed. Forever.
***
“Artificer Sturua!” The aide’s panicked voice dragged Kordian back to the present, the screams of the past still ringing in his ears. His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. “The Western Quarter,” the aide repeated, “it’s on the verge of critical overload! The arterial feed from the Makharov conduit is the source. It’s replicating the *Ardenite Flux failure signature*.”
Kordian didn’t spare another glance for Lali. His face was a mask of cold fury, but his eyes held a terror she recognized—the ghost of a past catastrophe. He shoved past the aide, storming out of the gala hall, his ruined hand clenched into a fist. The crowd parted for him, whispers like sharp needles following his departure.
Lali watched him go, a grim satisfaction twisting in her gut. The gala was a disaster, but a useful one. “Niko,” she murmured, subtly tapping the earpiece hidden beneath her coil of hair. “Operation ‘Retribution’ is a go. Makharov’s private suite. Now.”
Niko’s voice crackled, alert. “Already on it, Lali. The corporate tower’s security network is a sieve after Kordian’s system-wide alert. Diverting the primary sentinel patrols to the Western Sector. You have ten minutes, maybe twelve.”
She slipped away from the bewildered socialites, her borrowed silk gown surprisingly nimble as she navigated the servant corridors. The conglomerate's corporate tower loomed over the city’s financial district, a monument to Irakli’s avarice. It was only a few blocks from the guild hall. The sudden exodus of Guild members towards the Western Quarter, driven by Kordian’s hasty departure, provided the perfect cover.
Reaching the tower’s service entrance, Lali found it surprisingly unguarded. Niko’s digital ghost had evidently done its work. The internal elevator whirred upwards, past floors of deserted offices, to Irakli’s penthouse suite. The ornate door, emblazoned with the corporate sigil, yielded to a quick, precise manipulation of its internal tumblers. Lali stepped inside.
The chamber was exactly as she’d imagined: ostentatious, tasteless, overflowing with polished dark wood and gaudy gold trim. A massive desk dominated the room, its surface clear save for a single, half-empty decanter of amber liqueur. Her gaze swept over the room, searching for anything out of place, a hidden compartment, a subtle seam.
“Niko, anything?” she whispered, her fingers tracing the back of a large, framed portrait of Irakli himself, smirking. She noted the slight gap where the frame didn’t quite meet the wall.
“His personal safe is behind that portrait,” Niko’s voice confirmed. “It’s a biometric lock, but I’m flooding the system with phantom fingerprints. It should confuse it enough for a manual override. Look for a pressure plate beneath the bottom right corner of the frame.”
Lali pressed. A soft click echoed in the silent room as the portrait swung inward, revealing a gleaming steel safe. It was smaller than she expected. With a twist and a careful pull on a disguised lever, the safe door hissed open. Inside, nestled among a few ornate trinkets, lay a stack of rolled vellum—blueprints.
Her hands trembled as she unrolled the first set. These were official Guild schematics for the Ardenite Flux Regulator, complete with Kordian’s signature and the Guild’s seal. They looked pristine, flawless. But beneath them, concealed in a false bottom, was another roll, older, the parchment yellowed at the edges. She unfurled them. Her breath caught.
Here were the *original* blueprints, dated years before the disaster. The differences were subtle but damning. A crucial component, designed by Makharov's workshop, was depicted with a structural flaw—a microscopic fault line in the conductive alloys, almost imperceptible, yet strategically placed to fail under extreme stress. A calculated weakness. There was a handwritten marginal note, too faded to read clearly, but the initial, ‘I.M.’, was undeniable. Irakli Makharov.
This was it. Proof. Absolute, irrefutable proof of his sabotage.
“I’ve found them, Niko,” she breathed, her voice thick with triumph. “The original blueprints. He engineered the failure. He killed Elio.”
“Lali! You need to go! Now!” Niko’s voice was shrill with alarm. “A single security detail is diverting back. Their patrol route just updated. They’re heading straight for Irakli’s floor. Less than two minutes!”
Lali quickly re-rolled the incriminating documents, tucking them into a hidden pocket in her dress, but it was too late. A distant, metallic clang from the hallway echoed through the silence of the room. The click of heavy boots drew closer, growing louder with each terrifying step. One minute.
She looked around, frantic. The door was a death trap. Her eyes landed on the expansive casement overlooking the bustling cityscape. Below, far below, a refuse barge, piled high with discarded materials from the city’s manufactories, was making its slow journey along the canal.
Thirty seconds. The footsteps were at the door. Her ribs ached as pulse thudded hard in her throat. She had no choice. She flung open the casement, the cold night air rushing in, and without a moment’s hesitation, vaulted onto the sill. She heard the handle of the suite door turn, heard a sharp intake of breath as the guard, a hulking brute in Makharov livery, stared directly at her.
With a desperate lunge, Lali pushed off the sill, plummeting into the darkness. The fall was stomach-lurching, the wind ripping at her dress and hair. She braced for impact, twisting her body to land amidst the softer detritus of the barge. A bone-jarring thud. Pain flared, but she was alive. She lay there, winded, amidst a pile of discarded catalytic filters and broken mechanisms, the stench of industrial waste assaulting her nose.
She pushed herself up, wincing, and looked back at the towering building she’d just escaped. High above, framed high above in the open frame, was a silhouette. It was too slender to be the guard, too still. The figure wasn’t peering down, but looking out, seemingly oblivious. A chill that had nothing to do with the night air crept up Lali’s spine. The curve of the neck, the delicate set of the shoulders… It was unmistakable. It was Nana.