The stench of ozone and scorched metal still clung to Tavira’s collar. Vadim watched her, noting the twitch in her jaw beneath the grime on her cheek. He had seen her like this before, cornered and baring teeth. But blood ran between her and the culprit this time. “She wouldn’t,” Tavira muttered, the words more a plea than a denial, even as her gaze remained fixed on the door, on the silent accusation in Vadim’s eyes. He hadn’t moved his hand from her shoulder. The pressure of his palm pressed through her coarse tunic, anchoring her to the cold flagstones. “I saw her, Tavira,” he repeated, his voice low, steady. “Fumbling with a conduit, a loose wire. It was Lissea.” Tavira flinched, pulling away as if burned. Vadim tasted leftover soot from the blast, his chest hollowed out by the sudden pull. “No,” Tavira whispered again, but the conviction had fled, replaced by a terrible, dawning dread. She scrubbed a hand over her eyes, smearing soot. “She’s… she’s my cousin. She’d never.” Vadim didn’t argue. He knew that kind of loyalty, the blind, fierce kind that defied logic. He also knew his own sister. He knew the depths of ambition and resentment that could fester unseen. He led her out of the workshop, past the curious stares of the Institute’s cleaning droids, and down a rarely used maintenance stairwell. His father’s name, Torvath, granted him clearance to the upper records wing, an inheritance he rarely touched. “We need answers,” he stated, pushing open a heavy, bronze-plated door that groaned like a dying beast. The air inside was cool, dry, tasting of aged paper and forgotten gears. “About that clocktower. About the timer.” The document halls formed a labyrinth of iron shelves, each stacked with schematics, engineering logs, and brittle blueprints. Vadim pulled out a stool, gesturing for Tavira to sit while he began methodically searching the indexed scrolls. It wasn’t long before a hushed, familiar voice drifted from deeper within the stacks. “Tavira? Is that you?” Lissea emerged from behind a row of colossal pneumatic diagrams, her usually neat uniform slightly disheveled, a faint smear of oil on her cheek. Her eyes, wide and innocent, fixed on Tavira, then flickered nervously to Vadim. “Oh, thank the Founders! I was so worried about you! After that horrid lockdown… Professor Vorlag said there was an incident in Sector Seven. I heard a bang. Were you alright? That gas… it’s awful.” Her voice was a practiced balm, laced with just enough concern to sound genuine, but Vadim caught the subtle tremor in her hand as she wrung it, the way her gaze skirted his own. Tavira stood abruptly, her chair scraping. “Lissea. What were you doing in my workshop before the lockdown?” A small, wounded gasp escaped Lissea. “Your workshop? Tavira, what a question! I was… I was looking for you! You left your data-slate on the main desk, and I thought you might need it for your filtration project. I just wanted to drop it off, but then the sirens went off and I had to leave.” She clutched her hands to her chest. “My arm still burns from that phantom touch, thinking about the Chem-Fog. I’m so sensitive to it.” Vadim watched Tavira’s face, the conflict warring in her eyes. The accusation had been clear, sharp. Now, Lissea’s performance was an unexpected counter-attack, forcing Tavira back into the defensive. He saw the doubt bloom, saw her loyalties pulling at her again. Lissea was good. Too good. “My data-slate was in my satchel,” Tavira said, her voice tight, but the edge had softened. “Not on the main desk.” Lissea’s face crumpled. “Oh. Well, then I must have been mistaken. Perhaps it was someone else’s? It was so dark. With the Chem-Fog, it makes everything so confusing. You know how I get with the stress. I’m just so glad you’re safe, cousin.” She took a tentative step forward, her hand reaching out. [ERROR: Target doubt insufficient. Plot Armor not acquired. Penalty: Scouring of minor blessing.] Lissea winced, a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of pain in her eyes, before she forced a smile. Vadim saw it. He saw the lie, the practiced ease of it. He saw her frantic craving for Tavira’s trust. Tavira, still wary, pulled back before Lissea’s hand could make contact. “Right. Well, we’re researching something important. You should go, Lissea.” Lissea’s eyes narrowed fractionally, a flash of something cold and sharp, before she forced a saccharine smile. “Of course, cousin. I’ll just… I’ll be in the main reading room. Do tell me if you need anything.” She gave Vadira a brief, dismissive glance before turning and retreating into the stacks. The air seemed to lighten with her absence. “She’s lying,” Vadim stated, turning back to his search. He pulled a thick, rolled parchment from a dusty pigeonhole. “Her story doesn’t add up. And that… that slight wince she just made. It was too quick, too contained. She’s hiding something.” Tavira didn’t respond immediately. He knew the words stung, that it was hard to hear. But he didn’t have the luxury of softening the blow. Not with a city ticking down to ruin. He unrolled the parchment on the sturdy oak table. It depicted a cross-section of the city’s undercroft, an array of load-bearing pylons and subterranean girders interlocking like teeth. In the center, highlighted in stark red ink, rested the tower mechanism from the anomaly. Its gears integrated directly into the primary bedrock supports. Each stroke of its escapement prompted a shift in the city’s weight distribution. Vadim’s finger traced the ink, freezing at the base of a central pillar where an insignia was pressed into the drafting paper: a gear encircled by laurel, the mark of the Torvath Foundry. A chill crept into his marrow. His bloodline had cast these plinths—these cracking, hollowed pillars. The thirty-day margin sharpened before him; the apparatus was not an isolated novelty, but a ruinous fuse stamped with the Torvath seal. Tavira leaned closer, her eyes scanning the diagram, then flicking to his face. “Vadim? What is it? You’re pale.” She followed his gaze to the emblem, then back to the foundational supports. “Torvath Foundry… your kin cast these?” Her voice dropped low, the sting of Lissea’s betrayal eclipsed by the drafted horror. He could only nod, his throat suddenly dry. The entire city, unknowingly, was built on a lie, on a structural flaw his ancestors had either missed, ignored, or actively engineered for reasons unknown. Thirty days remained before the metal sheared apart and dropped the districts into the smog. A boot scraped the threshold. Nadeya stood in the opening, coal smudges across her collar and red rings bracketing her irises. “Nadeya? What’s wrong?” Tavira asked, pushing away from the table. The blueprints mattered little beside the raw panic in her friend's stance. Nadeya strode quickly towards them, her gaze darting nervously to the main archive door. “It’s the others. The refugee transport. The patrols are tightening their net. Commander Borvan has tripled the outer gate guards. I can’t get them through the usual routes anymore. Not safely.” Her voice dropped to a harsh rasp. “The network has a way to slip people past the lower perimeter before the smog drowns them. A single window. But the outer iron won't unlatch without authorization.” Tavira’s face hardened. “Without what, Nadeya?” Nadeya stared back, pupils strained. “The Grand Overseer’s skeleton cylinder. It overrides gate interlocks and bypasses patrol relays. It stays locked inside the primary vault for crisis protocols.” Only the pneumatic tubes hissed overhead. That bypass was the sole route to pull Tavira’s kin and the slum refugees beyond the perimeter. The bronze door slammed open against the stone stop. The Grand Artificer towered in the frame against the bright corridor lamp, sweeping his eyes across the trio and the spread parchment. “Scholars. I trust your extracurricular inquiry proves instructive.” He paused, pinning Tavira with his gray stare. “The faculty has initiated an emergency field trial. Every senior candidate departs for the deep smog-mines at first light. The commendation for highest yield? My vault cylinder.”

The Rotten Foundations