The metallic tang of the arena air, thick with the scent of ozone and over-oiled gears, did little to soothe the knot in my stomach. Standing on the precipice of the Lyceum’s Grand Obstacle Course, I had exactly one objective: don't get disqualified. A low bar, one might think, for the heir of a prominent noble house. For me, Tatiyana Koscheva, the ‘Iron Witch,’ it felt like scaling the jagged peaks of Mount Veridian in a ballroom gown. “Welcome, esteemed Lyceum competitors, to the annual Scythian Trials!” bellowed the announcer, his voice a booming echo through the vast, echoing hall of the Gearspire Arena. “Today, we test not just engineering skill, but resilience, ingenuity, and the sheer fortitude of spirit!” I rolled my eyes so hard I almost strained something. Fortitude of spirit, indeed. My spirit was currently occupied by the knowledge that a crucial piece of my cursed, mechanical heart was currently embedded in Sergei Orlov’s arm, likely festering beside a delightful acid burn. The irony, as always, was not lost on me, merely cataloged for future, bitter contemplation. My gaze drifted across the starting line. There, a few paces down, stood Sergei, looking decidedly un-festered. His left arm, swathed in thick, white bandages, rested in a simple sling, but his posture was as rigid and composed as ever. His eyes, sharp and assessing, met mine across the throng of eager classmates. There was no fury there, only that infuriating, almost scientific curiosity, like he was studying a particularly baffling insect. My cheeks warmed, and I quickly averted my gaze. Next to him, shimmering in a gown the color of candied almonds, was Lissette. Her smile, aimed sweetly at the crowd, was a practiced masterpiece of innocence. Her eyes, however, flickered to me with the cold, calculating glint of a predator sizing up a particularly inconvenient rodent. Just yesterday, she had visited my workshop, ostensibly to offer comfort, but had lingered a little too long near my personal gear-satchel, a scent of sickly sweet, floral jam clinging to her sleeves. I’d dismissed it then, but prickling suspicion now tightened my neck. “Cadet Koscheva, report to starting bay three!” My cue. I took a slow breath, adjusting the worn leather straps of my utility gloves. These were my primary tools for the trial, fitted with an array of intricate lever-springs and blue-crystal actuators, constructed to enhance speed and grip. I had spent weeks calibrating them, ensuring every pivot hummed with efficiency. I needed them to perform. My life, and the eradication of the curse, depended on every small victory. The starting pistol cracked, a sharp punctuation mark against the whirring backdrop of the arena. I surged forward, my boots clanking on the metal grating of the first obstacle: a series of rapidly rotating discs suspended over a caustic slime pit. I focused, my enhanced vision tracking the patterns, my brass leg braces synchronizing to my jumps, pushing me across with practiced grace. I wasn't just *not* falling; I was actually making decent time. Perhaps the universe had finally decided to give me a break. Then, as I landed on the fifth disc, a sudden, jarring *hitch* seized my right knee. A high-pitched whine emanated from the leg brace, a sound of grinding gears fighting against an invisible resistance. My balance faltered, and I stumbled, nearly pitching into the glowing green slime. I recovered just in time, heels catching on the greasy edge, but the delay cost me precious seconds. What in the blazes? I continued, testing my mechanisms. The next section was the ‘Cog-Wall Climb,’ a vertical expanse of interlocking, rotating cogs, requiring precise timing and powerful grip. My gloves, usually so responsive, felt sluggish. The tension-springs in my left glove, meant to lock onto cog teeth, stuttered. I had to exert twice the effort, my muscles burning, as I hauled myself up the wall, my fingers slipping on a patch of unfamiliar stickiness that smelled faintly of — *jam*? Treasonous syrup coated the knuckles. Lissette. The sugary scent, the subtle delay. She hadn't just sabotaged my equipment; she'd gummed up the delicate conduits with something calculated to jam the resonance. Crystal-disrupting sugarplum jam. Only Lissette would devise something so sickeningly saccharine and utterly devastating. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, punctuated by gasps and a few derisive snorts. I could hear the announcer, his voice dripping with thinly veiled pity, “Oh dear, it seems Cadet Koscheva is having some… mechanical difficulties today. A shame, after such a promising start.” I ignored him, my teeth gritted, sweat stinging my eyes. The final obstacle loomed: the ‘Titan Core,’ a colossal, multi-limbed automaton, its heavy, articulated arms built to block pathways and sweep entrants off their feet. It was meant to be deactivated by a sequence of pressure plates, but with my rigging failing, I needed every ounce of strength and agility I possessed. As I approached, half a dozen runners, having circumvented the earlier obstacles more smoothly, surged ahead. Lissette, annoyingly pristine, waved demurely from a landing far in front. My gloves were now failing completely, the internal coils seizing, my enhanced grip gone. My leg braces screamed in protest with every step. I scrambled onto the machine's steel stage, desperate. My hands, slick with the insidious jam, fumbled with a pressure plate. The metal giant swung a massive bronze forearm, sweeping towards me. My crippled rig offered no boost, no escape. I was frozen, my pride shattering into a million pieces. This was it. Public humiliation, and quite possibly, a rather messy end beneath the automaton’s unfeeling bulk. The shadow of the automaton's arm loomed, growing larger, closer. I braced for impact, a desperate, defiant glare fixed on the metallic limb. But the impact never came. Instead, a flash of movement, a blur of white bandage, and a sudden, sharp *whirr* of finely tuned craft. Sergei. He had moved with impossible speed, his good arm extended, a compact, intricate contraption unfolding from his palm. The device, a delicate array of shimmering spirit-coils and focused sonic emitters, pulsed with a vibrant blue light. A low, resonant hum filled the air, not violent, not destructive, but precise. The automaton, mid-swing, stuttered. Its enormous arm froze, then shuddered, its internal gears grinding to a halt. Its glowing eyes dimmed, and it collapsed, not with a crash, but with a slow, controlled descent, like a puppet whose strings had been expertly snipped. Sergei stood there, a few feet away, his expression unreadable. His gadget, still humming, slowly retracted back into his arm-mounted casing. The crowd, momentarily stunned into silence, erupted into a confused mix of cheers and gasps. The announcer, regaining his composure, stammered, “Unbelievable! Cadet Orlov… a display of unparalleled control! He has… disabled the titan! What an act of… *pity*! A true gentleman, saving Cadet Koscheva from certain defeat!” Pity. The word scraped across my raw nerves, a thousand times worse than any insult. I stood there, motionless, my own broken mechanisms a dead weight on my limbs, watching Sergei. His eyes, though, had never left mine. They held no pity, no triumph. Only that same, infuriatingly intense curiosity, and a hint of something else I couldn't quite decipher, a knowing glint that seemed to say, *I see you*. But what did he see? A failed Artificer? A clumsy witch? Or something more? The thought, unsettling and strangely hopeful, burrowed beneath my carefully constructed façade. He had saved me again, a piece of my cursed heart still buried in his arm, and now he was looking at me like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve. The humiliation burned, but beneath it, a tiny, unfamiliar spark flickered. What was he planning to do, now that he had two pieces of the Tatiyana Koscheva mystery?

Sabotage by Sugarplum