A searing heat bloomed on my forearm where his fingers rested. Through the thin fabric of my sleeve, a faint, rhythmic *tick-tick-tick* became audible, a sound only I should be able to hear. And then, as if burned by an invisible brand, the fabric of my sleeve began to glow, a stark, fiery outline of the chronometer on my skin, burning an intricate, pulsing ring straight through the cloth. I yanked my arm back in a violent spasm before Varek could properly register what he had seen. The glow instantly faded, leaving only a dark singe mark on the threadbare fabric, a circular imprint of the magical countdown. “Blast it all, Varek!” I snapped, my voice a little too loud, a little too sharp. I clutched my wrist, rubbing at the spot as if to soothe a real burn. “Careless fool, you nearly made me drop my arm into the solvent vat! What in the blazes did you put on your hands? Grease, corrosive, or just plain idiocy?” I shot him a withering look, trying to re-establish control, my mind scrambling for a plausible excuse for the inexplicable light. Varek’s hand hovered in the air for a moment, then slowly lowered. His eyes, the color of storm-swept iron, were fixed on my face, not my arm. There was no confusion there, no belief in my flimsy solvent story. Only a deep, unsettling stillness. He saw something, understood something, that he shouldn’t have. A flicker of worry, a shadow of suspicion, passed through those dark depths. He didn’t speak, didn’t challenge me, just watched. It was far worse than an argument. I forced a laugh, brittle and false. “Honestly, Varek, you spend so much time with your gears and cogs, you’ve forgotten how to interact with people. Next time, just *ask* before you grab. Some of us don’t fancy third-degree burns as a memento of our visit.” I turned back to the counter, my back to him, scrubbing with renewed, almost desperate vigor, pretending the entire exchange hadn’t happened, pretending I hadn’t just nearly revealed my impossible secret. The room settled into an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic *tick-tick-tick* that was now deafening in my skull. I kept my gaze fixed on a particularly stubborn smudge on the workbench, willing the silence to break. It broke with a crash. The heavy front door flew open with a bang that rattled the very foundations of the building. Rolo, the grocer’s boy, stood panting in the doorway, a wicker basket of cabbages clutched to his chest like a shield. His pale face was flushed a blotchy red as he gasped for air. “Tazien! Varek! Oh, spirits and cogs, it’s all gone wrong! He did it! He actually did it!” Rolo nearly tripped over a discarded brass pipe, scattering a few round leafy heads across the dusty floor. I spun around, my earlier tension replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Calm yourself, Rolo, before you hyperventilate into my freshly swept dust. Who did what, and why are you flinging perfectly good produce across the floor?” Varek, silent until now, pushed his wheelchair a fraction forward, his gaze on Rolo, a silent command for clarity. His usual stoicism was etched deeper now, a faint line appearing between his brows. “Jolvan!” Rolo finally managed, his voice a frantic squeak. “He’s cut you off, Varek! The ember-coal deliveries! Just this morning, Old Man Perion from the East Docks refused to load up! Said ‘orders from on high,’ whatever that means, but everyone knows it’s Jolvan! He wants to freeze you out, starve you out, stop your work! He said…” Rolo trailed off, gulping, his eyes wide with fear. “He said you wouldn’t last a week without his generosity.” A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach. Jolvan. Of course. Cutting off the ember-coal shipments wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a death sentence in Kravika’s biting winters, especially for someone reliant on heat for both comfort and intricate work. My protective instincts, simmering just below the surface, now boiled over. That worm. He thought he could break Varek by making him shiver? Not on my watch. “Did he now?” My voice was dangerously quiet, a stark contrast to Rolo’s frantic squealing. I picked up a fallen cabbage, tossing it back into Rolo’s basket with a sharp thump. “Well, he’s about to find out exactly how generous I can be with my retribution. Varek, you have spare piping, a pressure gauge, and a small, functional boiler from that prototype airship you were tinkering with last year, don’t you?” Varek blinked, clearly thrown by my sudden shift from Jolvan’s sabotage to scrap-heap logistics. “A… steam-heater? It’s not legal, Tazien. The city’s power grid is strictly regulated. And it’s dangerous if not properly vented.” “Legal?” I snorted, a derisive sound. “The man just tried to cut off your lifeblood, and you’re worried about city regulations? We’re building an independent system. You want to freeze, or you want to work? This isn’t a request, it’s an order.” I strode to a far corner, already scanning the piles of half-finished contraptions. “Now, where’s that ridiculous brass funnel you used for the atmospheric condenser? We’ll need that for the exhaust.” Varek sighed, a soft, weary sound, but I saw a faint spark in his eyes, a glint of the tinkerer’s curiosity that Jolvan’s petty cruelty couldn’t extinguish. “In the storage locker, to your left. Top shelf, behind the salvaged pressure plates.” I marched toward the narrow nook. It was less an alcove and more a sardine can of forgotten components, crammed floor to ceiling with scrap metal, spools of wire, and tools I couldn't even name. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and machine oil. I fumbled in the gloom, trying to reach a shelf that was clearly designed for someone with an extra foot of height and three more elbows. “Can’t you just use that grabber tool you made?” I grumbled, stretching on tiptoes, my knuckles brushing against cold iron, then something soft and fibrous. Dust. Always dust. “It’s on the far side,” Varek said, his voice closer than I expected. I hadn’t heard him approach. His wheelchair bumped gently against the doorframe, blocking what little light filtered in. “Easier if I just… ah.” He had maneuvered himself into the tiny, cramped space, his chair making it impossible for either of us to turn. I was pressed against a stack of tarnished brass gears, my back to the wall, and Varek was directly in front of me, his knees almost touching mine. The space was so tight I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of charcoal and steel that always clung to him. His arm brushed mine as he reached past me, feeling along the shelf just above my head. My throat closed up. His proximity was sudden, overwhelming. I could see the individual strands of his dark hair, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his linen shirt stretched taut across his shoulders. His hand grazed my cheek, a light touch that raised goosebumps down my neck. I stiffened, my sarcasm-shield momentarily forgotten, replaced by a strange, unsettling awareness. “Got it,” Varek murmured, his voice a low rumble, closer than before. He pulled a gleaming brass funnel down, his knuckles brushing against my hair as he lowered it. His dark gaze reflected the dim light of the cupboard and the charged closeness of our shared space. A faint flush crept up his pale cheeks. We froze, the air thick between us, before he cleared his throat and clumsily rolled his chair back out. I took a jagged inhale, stepping out into the relative expanse of the room, feeling a mixture of irritation and a strange fizzing under my skin. “Right,” I said, forcing my voice to be brisk. “Rolo! While Varek and I are busy making sure we don’t freeze solid, you have a crucial mission. Jolvan uses the Cleftgate Docks for all his major deliveries, yes? He won’t expect anyone to interrupt his coal supply *there*.” Rolo, who had been trying to silently re-stack his spilled greens, looked up, his anxiety temporarily eclipsed by a spark of importance. “The Cleftgate Docks? But… it’s far, and full of rough types, Tazien. And Jolvan’s men…” “Precisely,” I interrupted, a predatory smile touching my lips. “Go. Find Old Man Perion, or anyone who looks like they’re expecting a delivery. Tell them Jolvan Cright is bankrupt. Tell them he’s been caught bribing the city council for permits, that his assets are frozen, that his credit is worthless. Be loud. Be convincing. Be everywhere. Spread the word like a plague. Make sure no one, not a single dock worker, loads so much as a pebble for him for the next three days.” I pressed a few tarnished coppers into his hand. “This is for your troubles. Now, off you go. Make me proud.” Rolo’s jaw dropped slightly, fear and excitement warring on his face. He nodded vigorously, clutched the coins, and scurried out the door, his leafy greens bouncing precariously in his basket. It was a risky play, but Jolvan’s arrogance was his biggest weakness. He’d never expect a mere grocer’s boy to undermine his haulage. Hours later, the workshop hummed with the soft hiss of the newly constructed steam-heater. Varek, his face smudged with soot but his eyes bright with the familiar glow of innovation, watched the pressure gauge intently. A faint warmth began to spread through the perpetually frigid space, chasing away the damp chill of Kravika. I sat nearby, meticulously polishing a brass gear, a small, triumphant smile playing on my lips. Jolvan’s little scheme had backfired spectacularly. Just as I was about to declare victory, the door burst open again, more violently this time. Rolo stumbled in, his clothes disheveled, hair sticking out at odd angles, his face pale with genuine terror. He was panting, not from exertion this time, but from sheer panic. “Tazien! Varek! It’s worse! Much, much worse!” he shrieked, his voice cracking. “Jolvan didn’t just cut your coal—he reported Varek to the Temporal Wardens for illegal tinkering!”

The Grocer's Gossip