A jagged shard of phosphor glass, the size of my forearm, struck the marble floor mere inches from Vadim’s foot, exploding into a shower of dangerous light. The air filled with the shriek of twisting girders and the deeper groan of the city’s heart, a sound I’d only heard in the deepest parts of the smog-mines. Panic, raw and animal, clawed at the ornate Hall. Dignitaries, moments ago primped and preening, now scrambled, their silk gowns tangling. Vadim grabbed my hand, his grip tight, pulling me forward. "Nadeya!" he bellowed, his voice straining against the din. She was already moving, weaving through the chaos towards a side exit I knew led to the lower Institute levels, the ones closest to the slum gates. Smoke, acrid and biting, poured from the ceiling’s gaping wound, not just the Chem-Fog, but the stink of burning insulation and collapsing stone. “This way!” Nadeya’s voice cut through the pandemonium, surprisingly calm. She pointed to a service hatch, mostly obscured by a fallen velvet runner. We followed, Vadim shoving aside a terrified socialite. The hatch led to a cramped, dust-choked corridor built for maintenance drones rather than gala guests. The ceiling here was lower, groaning with every tremor, but at least we were out of the direct rain of glass. “The central gatehouse,” Nadeya stated, not asking. “It’s our only shot to get them out before the whole sector goes.” “Got it,” I gasped, already picturing the route. Past the old boiler rooms, through the disused sub-levels, then up to the fortified gatehouse that oversaw the slum district’s emergency egress. It was a long run, and the building was actively trying to kill us. Another tremor hit, harder this time, knocking us against the damp, grimy walls. A section of piping burst, spraying scalding steam across the passage. Vadim swore, dragging me clear just in time. We kept moving, a desperate, stumbling sprint through the dying guts of the Galdurast Institute. Then, a new sound. Not the groan of collapsing stone, but the heavy, deliberate tread of articulated limbs. A grinding whir that grew louder, closer. Vadim hauled us both into a shadowed alcove. The corridor ahead, illuminated by our dimming lumen-lamps, was suddenly filled by the towering form of a security patrol mech, its multi-jointed legs stomping. Its optical sensors, usually a calm, steady blue, glowed a manic, unstable crimson. And perched in its open cockpit, her face contorted into something wild and unrecognizable, was Lissea. Her usually composed features were a mask of raw fury, eyes wide and bloodshot, hair dishevelled. Phantom burns, angry red welts, pulsed on her exposed arms. She snarled, a guttural, inhuman sound that made my skin crawl. “My luck! My destiny! You took it from me!” Her voice was raw, shredded by a madness I’d never heard. “I’ll grind you both to dust! You won’t steal anything else!” She struck a control panel with her fist. The mech’s arm, usually armed with a sonic deterrent, now pulsed with an unstable plasma charge, ready to fire. “[FATAL SYSTEM ERROR. RETRYING PLOT MANIPULATION. WARNING: LUCK RESERVES DEPLETED. RECOMMENCING CORE COMMANDS: ELIMINATE THREAT. RECLAIM ARTIFICE. EXTERMINATE MORZHAN.]” The metallic, grinding voice shrieked in Lissea’s mind, audible even to us as a faint, high-pitched whine. Lissea howled back in sheer agony. She twisted the mech’s controls, aiming its cannon directly at us. “Die! Die, you filthy gutter rat!” “Run!” Vadim yelled, shoving me forward, but I didn’t. Not this time. Not when she was trying to kill us. Not with *my* city collapsing. My hand went to the hip sheath where my gyroscopic multi-spanner rested. The balanced brass-and-iron grip felt solid against my palm. I met Lissea’s deranged gaze, my own temper flaring, hotter than any phantom burn. “No,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to break my things. Not anymore.” I charged low, targeting its tripod struts rather than the weapon mount. The mech fired, a searing arc scorching the brick where I’d stood moments before. I ducked under its next sweep, the stench of ozone thick in the air. Its heavy iron foot descended, aiming to crush me, but I rolled beneath the stride. I drove the tool into the knee joint, twisting the internal flywheel to generate maximum torque. Gears shrieked, metal screeched, and a shower of sparks erupted. The mech wobbled, its balance thrown. Lissea let out a cracked wail of frustration. Its other foot came down, faster this time, but I was already moving, severing hydraulic lines and jamming hardened steel teeth into exposed servomotors. The mech’s leg buckled, grinding against itself, smoke billowing from the ruined joint. “Get her out of there, Tavira!” Vadim roared, distracting Lissea with a flung piece of debris that bounced off the mech’s cockpit. She turned the optical sensors, giving me precious seconds. I didn’t hesitate. I used the damaged strut as leverage, scrambling up the chassis. With a final, furious twist, I tore apart the main articulation point of its other leg. The unit groaned in a cacophony of dying gears and tearing bronze, then pitched forward, crashing into the flagstones with an impact that shook the corridor. Lissea tumbled from the cockpit, striking the paving with a dull crack. She lay there, convulsing, twitching, the red welts on her arms glowing with malevolent light. “No time!” Nadeya yelled, already at the next junction. “The gatehouse!” I spared Lissea only a single, cold glance before running. Vadim was beside me, his breathing ragged, but his eyes were sharp. We burst into the sprawling, cavernous space of the central city lock chamber. It was chaos. Thousands of faces, streaked with soot and grease, pressed against the wide, corroded steel gate that separated the slums from the Institute’s grounds. Nadeya was already directing them, her voice a clarion call over the din. “This way! The escape route! Hurry!” But the gate, the one true exit, remained stubbornly shut. I ran to the central console, its ancient, grimy controls caked in layers of dust and rust. The primary locking mechanism, a heavy brass wheel, was fused solid. Rust-colored corrosion had consumed the gears, welding them shut. No amount of brute force would turn it. “It’s locked,” I bit out, my heart sinking into my stomach. “Sealed tight. Too much rust.” “The master key,” Vadim said, his voice strained. “It has to override it.” I fumbled for the grand key, the one Lissea had held. It was heavy, strangely warm in my palm. The city shuddered again, a prolonged, tearing sound, like a giant being ripped apart. A roof girder, torn from the ceiling above, plunged downwards with horrifying speed. “Vadim!” I shouted, lunging forward, but it was too late. He shoved me back, taking the impact as the iron beam dropped, pinning his legs against the tiles. His face went white with pain, but he gritted his teeth, his eyes fixed on me. “The key, Tavira! Open it!” I jammed the ornate key into the rusted console, aligning its complex wards with the ancient lock. The key grated, resisting. Every instinct urged me to dig him out, but the crowd behind the gate hammered against the barrier. With a desperate sob that tore from my chest, I turned the key with all my might, twisting, forcing, pushing against the unyielding resistance. A sharp, sickening *CRACK* echoed through the chamber. The master key, the Grand Artificer’s last hope, snapped in half inside the console, its broken pieces rattling uselessly within the mechanism.

The Crumbling City