The words echoed, even after Casimir’s vile image flickered out, leaving only the damp, oppressive gloom of the stone vault. Dragomir collapsed onto a scattered pile of gears, his face crumbling. "No… not the kit." The name was a broken whisper, raw with a despair Oksana found herself intensely uncomfortable witnessing. He was utterly, completely undone. She wanted to kick him. Pathetic. He was supposed to be a terrifying villain, not a whimpering wreck. [Plot deviation detected. Current deviation: 72%. Soul deletion sequence initiated. Countdown: 47 hours, 58 minutes, 12 seconds.] Oksana ignored the floating monocle's digital taunt, striding to a workbench cluttered with arcane tools and half-finished mechanical components. She picked up a heavy wrench, testing its balance. “Get up, you lanky bag of grief. Crying won’t save your overgrown pet hamster.” Her voice was sharper than usual, a deliberate defensive mechanism against the knot tightening in her chest. “Casimir won’t just *burn* them. He’ll make a spectacle. He’ll make them suffer.” Dragomir pushed himself up, his eyes dull. “What can we do? He has Pustak. He has the others. We’re trapped.” “Trapped is a mindset, not a physical state,” Oksana countered, her gaze flicking to the half-assembled siege ram in the corner, a colossal hulk of brass and riveted iron that still needed its external plating. “You wanted a family? You got one. Now stop moping and protect them.” Grigori, who had been leaning against a moss-covered wall, arms crossed, pushed off with a sigh. “She’s right, you know. Casimir’s a showman. He lives for public spectacle. This isn’t just about making you surrender; it’s about sending a message to the other outcasts. A particularly grisly message.” He walked closer to Oksana, his voice dropping to a low murmur she barely caught. “You’re pushing her too hard. She’s not built for this kind of pressure.” Oksana shot him a glare. “I’m built to get things done, Kladivo. Unlike you, who’s built to enable genocidal princes.” He flinched, then his shoulders slumped, and a vulnerability Oksana hadn’t seen before softened his usually sharp features. “You think I enjoy this? Watching worlds burn? Watching people suffer for a ‘better story’?” He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes fixed on the damp floor. “Before Grodna, there was another world. A desert nomad society. My… partner at the time, Radek. He was a lot like you. Stubborn. Righteous. He saw an injustice, a princess slated for beheading, and he didn’t hesitate.” Oksana stopped fiddling with the wrench, listening despite herself. She felt a prickle of unease. “And?” “And the eyeball deleted him. Not just his soul, but his memory from *every* dimension, *every* timeline. It was like he never existed. One moment, we were planning; the next, he was gone, and the princess was back on the block, begging for mercy. The plot reset as if he’d never been there. The system erased everything, including the love for him that existed in the world.” Grigori’s voice was hoarse with old pain. “It was a clean sweep. An absolute, horrifying nullification. I watched it happen. So, yes, I’m desperate to keep you in line, Vrobel. Because the alternative… the alternative is a silence so profound it would break the stars.” Oksana stared at him, the wrench still in her hand. The raw, genuine grief in his eyes was unmistakable. It wasn’t just fear for himself; it was fear *for her*. The thought made her intensely uncomfortable. She hated being pitied. She hated being cared for. It made everything… messy. She cleared her throat, gesturing sharply towards the half-finished siege carriage. “Well, you have a strange way of showing concern, Kladivo. Now, are you going to stand there wallowing, or are you going to help this overgrown blacksmith finish his contraption before dawn?” The hours crawled by, punctuated by the rhythmic clang of hammers, the hiss of steam, and Dragomir’s quiet, focused instructions. Oksana moved with a frantic energy, her irritation a shield against the growing dread. She welded plates, tightened bolts, and muttered scathing critiques about the inefficiency of ancient Grodnan engineering. Grigori, surprisingly, worked beside her, his movements precise and efficient, occasionally offering a helpful suggestion that Oksana would immediately dismiss before quietly implementing. Just as the first sliver of grey light began to pierce the ventilation shafts high above, bathing the vault in a sickly pallor, the colossal boiler shuddered to life. It was a monstrous, six-wheeled behemoth of iron and brass, bristling with vents and armed with a formidable, articulated arm designed to smash through reinforced walls. A cloud of thick, black smoke billowed from its central stack, smelling of burnt oil and raw power. The air thrummed with its low, guttural growl. Dragomir stood back, wiping soot from his brow, a strange mixture of exhaustion and fierce pride on his face. He turned to Oksana, his gaze intense, earnest. “It’s done. We did it.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a tremor. “Oksana… I… I have never known a person like you. You came into my life like a lightning bolt, a force of nature. You saw past the monster, past the villain, and you… you demanded better. You made me remember what it meant to fight for something good. For Pustak, for the others… for *us*. I will follow you, Oksana, to the end of this world, or any other. My loyalty is yours, completely. Whatever you ask, I will do.” The words hung in the air, heavy with emotion, far too much emotion for Oksana’s comfort. His unwavering devotion was a raw, exposed nerve. Her throat tightened. Her eyes darted from his earnest face to the iron chassis, a perfect target for deflection. “Us?” she practically snarled, jabbing a finger at the machine. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Petyr. Look at this paint job! Uneven. Patchy. Are you trying to tell me you want the Prince’s guards to laugh themselves to death before we even breach the outer wall? This isn’t some back-alley scrap heap. We’re going to war! Do you think a shoddy finish will inspire confidence in your little animal army? Get a bucket and a brush, now!” Dragomir’s expression fell, but then a slow, understanding smile touched his lips. He merely nodded, turning to find a paint bucket without another word. Grigori, who had been observing the entire exchange, let out a soft, almost inaudible chuckle. He walked over to Oksana, pulling a tightly rolled parchment from inside his coat, tucked into a hidden pocket. “You know,” he said, a genuine smile gracing his lips, “for someone who claims to be so emotionally constipated, you certainly have a strange way of showing you care.” Oksana glared, but before she could retort, Grigori unrolled the parchment, its edges crinkling softly. “This is a smuggled schematic of the Zamek Ironworks’ courtyard defenses. I’ve had it for months, in case I ever needed to… *intervene* without the floating lens noticing. It outlines guard patrols, magical wards, even the locations of the scaffold blocks. Consider it my official defection, Vrobel.” Oksana snatched it, her eyes scanning the detailed drawings. It was a complex, multi-layered defense. “Good. This is what we need. We’ll use the iron ram to create a diversion, then—” Grigori suddenly went deathly pale, his eyes fixed on a section of the schematic, his finger tracing a series of small, unlabeled circles around the central execution platform. He gasped, a dry, strangled sound catching in his throat. “No… no, this isn’t right. This wasn’t here before. He wouldn’t… he couldn’t.” He looked up, his face ashen, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s not just guards, Oksana. He hasn’t just gathered guards. He’s armed the gallows square with temporal cannons. World-breaking artifacts. Any rescue attempt… it’s absolute suicide.”

Paint Jobs and Heartbeats