Vadim Torvath watched Tavira Morzhan from across the soot-choked fabrication bay. The air reeked of scorched flux and stale Chem-Fog. She wasn’t shouting, not yet, but the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she attacked the workbench with a series of percussive blows, spoke of a coiled fury. He’d seen that rage before, usually directed at him, but this was different. Raw. Primal. It vibrated with a dangerous energy that made the other students give her a wide berth. Instructor Kaelen, his face a dried scrap of leather, had barked out the morning task: construct a precision-alignment rig for the new Galdurast-pattern exhaust vents. Without her brass scribe, Tavira's most reliable layout tool, her chances were, by Kaelen's sneering estimate, 'less than a slag-rat's odds of finding suet in a refinery.' He watched her hands, calloused and quick, fly across the discarded components. She wasn’t merely adapting; she was inventing. Gears, springs, a salvaged gyroscopic stabilizer from a derelict steam-regulator – they began to coalesce into something entirely new. Her brow furrowed, a streak of grease across her cheekbone, her lower lip caught between her teeth. A sharp, unwanted begrudging respect cut through his usual disdain. The ticking mechanism in the flooded clocktower, the one they’d both seen, had made their rivalry feel suddenly… petty. Across the hall, Lissea Morzhan gripped her left sleeve, her knuckles blanching. She was supposed to be fabricating her own alignment device, but her eyes kept darting to Tavira, a flicker of something close to terror in their depths. Vadim had seen her do that before, a nervous habit. He wondered what it was about Tavira that always seemed to put her cousin on edge. Lissea flinched, a small, involuntary gasp escaping her lips. Her fingers dug into the sleeve of her tunic, as if pressing against a hidden pain. [ERROR. PLOT ARMOR ACQUISITION FAILED. TARGET’S ADVERSITY RESPONSE SURPASSES LUCK SYPHON. RECALIBRATING. INITIATING MINOR RETRIBUTION. ] A searing, invisible heat bloomed on Lissea’s forearm, just below the elbow. It felt like molten brass had been poured directly onto her skin, burning deep into the bone. She bit back a cry, tears stinging her eyes. This wasn't a punishment for *her* failure, was it? Tavira was supposed to be floundering without the compass, not building some impossible contraption. Kaelen's rasp cut through the room's metallic racket. “Time’s up! Bring your pathetic attempts forward.” He stopped at Tavira's bench, tapping a steel ruler against the scarred timber. "Well, Morzhan? Did your gutter instinct conjure a scribe from thin air, or are you packing for the smog-mines?" Tavira wiped her hands on a rag, her gaze steady, devoid of her usual fiery retort. "No, Instructor. I didn't conjure a thing." She held up her creation. It wasn't elegant, but it hummed with contained energy. A multi-toothed claw rotated on miniature counterweights, geared down to permit hair-split adjustments. "I built a gyroscopic alignment clamp with dynamic counterweights. It compensates for warped alloy and drafting flux. Faster than a static beam scribe." The nearby benches went dead quiet. Vadim leaned in over his anvil. Kaelen stiffened, his sneer faltering. “Preposterous. A slum rat’s junk-pile invention, no doubt. Prove it.” The challenge was to align three exhaust vents, each warped and skewed, within a hair’s breadth of perfection. The standard method, even with hardened calipers, took half a morning. Tavira, with her furious concentration, worked with a speed and accuracy that bordered on magic. The handheld jig whirred, its weights spinning true while tiny prongs bit into the flanged rims. A click, a soft hum, and the first vent was aligned. She moved to the second, then the third, each time a whisper of perfect calibration. In less than ten minutes, all three vents hummed in perfect synchronicity. A pure harmonic thrum rattled the floorboards, confirming unobstructed airflow. Kaelen stared, the ruler slipping an inch in his fingers. He stalked forward, inspecting the vents, then the device, then Tavira, his eyes narrowed. He looked for a flaw, any flaw, but there was none. “Impossible,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He scrawled a mark onto his ledger slate. "Morzhan. Top marks. Clear out." Every syllable tasted like copper shavings. Tavira merely nodded, a ghost of a victorious smirk touching her lips before she snatched up her tools and left, a trail of triumphant dust in her wake. The other students watched her go, a mix of awe and resentment on their faces. [ERROR. PLOT ARMOR ACQUISITION FAILED. TARGET’S INGENUITY UNPREDICTABLE. RECALIBRATING. MINOR RETRIBUTION ESCALATED. ] Lissea dropped to her knees, a choked cry finally escaping her. The burning on her arm intensified, spreading like wildfire, the phantom flames licking up her shoulder. She curled into a ball, trying to hide the agonizing pain, trying to quiet the metallic grinding in her mind. This was Tavira’s fault. Always Tavira. Vadim found Tavira later, striding down a less-trafficked corridor, her shoulders still rigid with purpose. “Morzhan!” he called, his voice echoing off the grimy stone walls. She stopped, turning slowly, her expression a mix of suspicion and exhaustion. “Torvath. Don’t you have some polished gears to admire?” she retorted, her voice rough, but lacking its usual bite. He ignored the insult. “The clocktower. The mechanism. What did you see? You went quiet after we got out.” Her mouth twisted tight. "A countdown, Torvath. Exactly thirty days until the whole tier drops. And my kit was picked bare. Stolen." Her pupils contracted to pins under the harsh gas lamp. "Lissea was there. She shove me toward the drop." He stared at her, the implication of her cousin’s betrayal sinking in. Before he could process it, a muffled thud echoed from a narrow alcove just ahead. Both of them froze. Tavira reached down, gripping the cold steel lever at her belt. “Who’s there?” she called out, her voice regaining its edge. A figure stumbled out, a satchel clutched tight to her chest. Nadeya. Tavira’s best friend. Her eyes, usually warm and bright, were wide with panic. A few loose sheets of paper fluttered from her grasp, landing on the grimy floor. Vadim’s gaze fell on them. They weren’t lesson plans or schematics. They were lists. Names. Addresses. And at the top, a smudged header: *Refugee Manifest – Sector 7 Displaced.* Nadeya gathered the sheets in a frantic scramble, tucking them beneath her coat. "Tavira! Vadim! What are you doing down here?" Her voice was thin, strained. Just then, a piercing, mechanical shriek tore through the Institute. The Chem-Fog sirens. Not the distant, mournful wail of the city’s general warning, but the urgent, localized blare of an internal lockdown. A heavy clunk echoed from the corridor’s end as massive steel shutters slammed into place. A low, ominous hiss began beneath the alcove door. The sickly-sweet, metallic scent of Chem-Fog, concentrated and acrid, began to seep into the corridor.

Forged in Spite