The Zamek Ironworks, usually a cacophony of rhythmic hammering and steam hisses, fell into an unnatural, pregnant silence, broken only by the incessant drip-drip-drip of Oksana’s personal raincloud. Grigori’s alarm, however, cut through the quiet like a rusted saw blade. “Five minutes!” he repeated, his face a mask of panic that entirely erased his usual smugness. “The original plot dictates a dramatic, heroic rescue! You’ve just handed the villain the means to *fight back* prematurely! This will be catastrophic!” Oksana adjusted the grip on her own wrench, still slick with rain. “Catastrophic for whom, exactly? The crown prince who decided he needed more drama in his life?” She glanced at Dragomir, who looked like a startled mole, clutching the siege engine blueprints like a security blanket. “And *you*,” she snapped at him, “stop cowering. Do you want your chimeras to be trophies for that preening peacock?” Before Dragomir could stammer a reply, the heavy iron-plated doors to the Zamek Ironworks’ central forge groaned under an immense impact. A crack, spiderwebbing with radiant cerulean light, appeared in the reinforced steel. Split rivets pinged off stone walls, followed by a shower of mortar dust from the rafters. Dragomir crouched behind a stack of discarded gears. Grigori’s obsidian pocket watch pulsed erratically in his palm, ticking out of rhythm. With a deafening crack, the doors blew inward, jagged shards of steel scattering across the flagstones. Cerulean fire flared in the opening, framing a tall figure amidst the wreckage. Crown Prince Casimir, draped in a tunic embroidered with the gilded sunburst of House Varlov, marched through the haze with nostrils flared. Behind him, a phalanx of his elite *Gryf* guards, their polished plate armor reflecting the ambient magical glow, fanned out, their steam-pistols and bladed gauntlets at the ready. Casimir’s voice, deep and resonant, boomed with an almost theatrical gravitas. “Dragomir Petyr! Abomination-maker! Destroyer of sacred order! Your blasphemous tinkering ends today! The Divine Right of House Varlov demands your immediate execution, and the eradication of your grotesque creations!” He swept a hand through the air, condensing the blue light into a crackling, razor-edged blade. “Oh, do spare us the sermon,” Oksana muttered, rolling her eyes. “It’s always holy mandate with you lot. Sounds suspiciously like ‘I want to do whatever I want without consequences’.” Casimir’s head snapped towards her, his eyes, the color of a winter sky, narrowing with undisguised contempt. “And who is this insolent wretch? Another of your foul experiments, Petyr? I will cleanse this den of iniquity, starting with *her*.” He raised his glowing hand, the conjured blade humming as he took aim at Oksana. Dragomir, for the first time, surged forward, his lanky frame momentarily shielding Oksana. “No! She… she has nothing to do with this!” he stammered, a desperate, pathetic plea. Casimir simply backhanded the air in dismissal, scoffing. Oksana, however, was already moving. Her eyes had scanned the cluttered workshop, cataloging discarded projects, half-finished constructs. Her gaze landed on a squat, multi-limbed contraption, crudely modeled after a burrowing beast, rigged with brass gears and exposed pneumatic tubing. It lay motionless on a workbench, its glowing, coal-fired heart down to a dull ember. She shoved Dragomir aside with an elbow. “Pathetic,” she hissed, not at him, but at the situation. “Always with the theatrics.” Her scarred fingers, calloused from decades of clockwork restoration, stripped open the construct’s side panel. She wrenched a power conduit loose, kicked a stuck hydraulic valve open, and twisted two frayed wires together. The construct's belly furnace flared orange, and its brass-rimmed oculars snapped awake with crimson light. “Fetch!” Oksana commanded, pointing a grimy finger directly at Casimir’s crotch. Her tone was sharp, devoid of mercy. With a sharp hiss of vented steam, the quadruped construct scrambled down from the bench on jointed steel claws. It moved with an unexpected ferocity, a blur of brass and grinding gears. Casimir, still mid-monologue, barely registered the low-to-the-ground threat before the chimera launched itself. Its jaws, serrated with razor-sharp steel teeth, snapped shut with a sickening *CRUNCH*. Casimir collapsed inward like a punctured balloon. A guttural shriek, high-pitched and utterly undignified, tore from his throat. The conjured blade dissolved into faint blue vapor. He doubled over, clutching himself, his face contorted in a horrifying rictus of pain and pure, unadulterated humiliation. His *Gryf* guards froze, exchanging frantic glances while two swallowed choked coughs to keep from snickering. [Plot Deviation Detected: Crown Prince Casimir’s Dignity Substantially Compromised. Unforeseen Variables Introduced.] Dragomir froze, his mouth falling open. His own creation, resurrected by this peculiar, prickly woman, had just performed an act of defiance he could only dream of. Dragomir pressed his back against the iron gears, his knuckles white around the scrap metal in his grip. Nobody had ever stood between him and Casimir's guards before. “You… you sicked a machine on his royal anatomy!” Grigori choked out, half-horrified, half-impressed. The miniature cloud above Oksana released a sudden sleet of freezing droplets, but she only swatted water from her eyelashes without looking up. Casimir, swaying on his feet, finally straightened, his face a mottled purple-red. His eyes, crimson-veined and bulging, locked straight onto Oksana. “You… *harpy*! You will pay for this indignity with your very essence!” He lunged, throwing an unrefined haymaker cloaked in crackling blue plasma. A coat swept past Oksana's shoulder. Grigori threw himself directly into the strike's path, grimacing before he even made contact. Grigori's obsidian-and-brass pocket watch snapped open, catching the prince's fist against its humming gears with a violent metallic chime and throwing the blue sparks into a bin of iron slag. [Plot Preservation Failure: Transmigrator Grigori Kladivo Intervened in Protagonist’s Attack. Core Directive Violation: Protection of Original Plot Integrity.] Casimir roared, a sound of pure, wounded animalistic fury. His eyes darted around, searching for a way to inflict maximum damage. His gaze landed on a large, ominous control panel embedded in the wall, glowing with a dangerous red light. It was the master control for the central forge’s steam pressures and blast doors. With a final, enraged scream of “You’re all going to burn!”, Casimir slammed his fist into the panel. Sparks flew. Alarms blared, shrill and deafening. The massive, reinforced blast doors that sealed the main entrance to the Zamek Ironworks groaned shut with a terrifying, grinding finality. At the same time, a series of gauges on the panel shot into the red, and the floor beneath their feet began to vibrate with an ominous hum. Hissing jets of superheated steam erupted from vents along the walls, rapidly filling the cavernous space. The air grew thick, scalding, and impossible to breathe.

Biting the Divine Right