Crimson beacons spun against soot-streaked ceiling beams as the fractured column spewed sour, copper-scented mist over the floorboards. Underfoot, the iron tie-rods beneath the floorboards vibrated so hard her teeth clicked. “Niko! South wing, now!” Kordian barked, his voice grating over the hiss of escaping steam. He shoved past an overturned worktable, his brass-grafted left hand hovering near the ruptured conduits as brass needle-gauges pegged against their stops. “The auxiliary evacuation route! It’s the furthest from the core!” Niko, already moving, hesitated. “But the automatons, Kordian! They’re still active throughout the manor!” “My central command relays are dead,” Kordian said without looking back. “They’ll follow Makharov’s commands exclusively now. The south wing is your only chance. It has reinforced blast doors.” He wiped a spray of oily fluid from his brow and swung round to face Lali. “Lali, take him. Go. Now.” Mortar dust drifted down like coarse gray snow. A deep, resonant *thrum* began to emanate from beneath the workshop floor, growing in intensity. The core. He would not order an evacuation unless he intended to stay. He wouldn’t ask them to leave unless he was staying. “No,” she said, her voice thin but firm. She planted her feet, refusing to budge. “What are you doing?” Kordian caught her shoulder, fingers biting through the wool of her jacket. “The core is destabilizing. The primary regulator is destroyed. There’s only one way to avert total catastrophe, to prevent it from consuming the entire city.” His prosthetic whined as the micro-servos strained. “Manual shutdown. From the containment chamber below. It requires direct engagement with the Aetheric matrix.” Direct engagement with an overloading Aetheric matrix was a death sentence. The raw energy would incinerate flesh, unravel bone. He was condemning himself to save Tibeli. “You cannot go down there,” Lali said, her throat dry. “You can’t just… sacrifice yourself.” “I built the manifold,” he said, his voice dropping into hard, flat cadence. “It’s my penance. My responsibility. Now go, Nana. Get Niko to safety. I can buy you time.” Niko appeared at Lali’s side, his small hand gripping her tunic. “Lali, he’s right. We have to go. We can’t just stand here.” His knuckles were pale against her coat. Lali looked from Niko’s terrified face to Kordian’s determined, despairing one. She was supposed to collect the bank notes, slip past the gatehouse, and ensure Niko's tuition at the Academy. Walking away now felt like biting on broken glass. The ledger she kept in her head—the calculated risks, the practiced smiles—cracked clean down the middle. “My name isn’t Nana,” she blurted out, the words tumbling out, raw and unbidden. “It’s Lali. Lali Vashadze. Nana ran away. I took her place. For Niko. For the dowry. Because we’re poor and desperate and I needed to save him.” Her chest ached, her voice cracking. “I came here to trick you, to steal from you, to use you. But I… I didn’t mean to…” She trailed off, unable to articulate the confession that felt too vulnerable, too dangerous, in the face of death. But Kordian understood. He lowered his hand from her shoulder, watching her through the drifting fumes. “I know,” Kordian said, his voice a low rumble above the escalating whine of the core. “I’ve known for weeks.” Air hitched in her ribs. He had watched her pick the study locks, butcher society etiquette, and forge inventory manifests, yet he had never summoned the city constables. “How long?” she said. A dry twist touched the corner of his mouth. “The real Nana could never decipher a Makharov cipher box, and she wept over a loose gear spring. You dismantled my pressure regulator on your third evening.” He hadn't been duped; he had chosen the counterfeit. “Then we go together,” Lali declared, her voice firm. “I’m not leaving you. You showed me how to re-tune your prosthetic. I can help. Tell me what to do.” “No, Lali, it’s too dangerous. The Aetheric field will tear you apart,” Kordian began, but his protest was cut short by a new sound – the grating scrape of stone against stone, as the massive blast doors leading into the workshop began to groan open. The crimson emergency lighting bathed the opening in a blood-red glow. Through the clearing smoke stepped Irakli Makharov, backed by two iron-plated sentry units with their brass claws locked forward. But it wasn’t just Irakli. He held a small, silver pistol in one hand, pointed not at Kordian, but at the trembling figure he held by the arm. A woman with dirt on her lace collar, pale cheeks, and hair curling in the exact copper wave Lali had spent hours pinning back. Nana. The hem of her silk traveling gown hung shredded over scuffed boots. Irakli’s oily smile spread across his face, even as the manor shuddered violently around them. “Running out of time, Sturua. What a pity. All that potential, about to be vaporized.” He tightened his grip on Nana, pulling her closer, her whimper barely audible above the screeching alarm. “But perhaps we can make a deal. One last, profitable transaction.” He aimed the pistol, the cold steel pressing against Nana’s temple. His gaze flickered between Kordian and the boiling steam around the main column. “The blueprints and your life’s work, Sturua. Or she dies.”

Disaster-in-Law