Kytös. The anonymous benefactor. Vieno Rostova. The pieces clanged together with an unpleasant force, the mechanical precision of their fit doing nothing to lessen the shock. Vieno, the ‘Iron Moth,’ the woman who had publicly stripped him of his dignity, the one who embodied the cold, calculating heart of Valasky, was funding Iina’s treatment. The idea was absurd. It was a contradiction that gnawed at his carefully constructed image of her, unraveling the threads of his certainty. He crumpled the paper in his fist, the faint *tick-tick-tick* of the cipher-cog in his pocket a counterpoint to the frantic beat of his own pulse. He had to reach Klavs’s laboratory now, disregarding the official inventory protocol. The room sat on the eleventh floor, usually buzzing with the hum of temporal machinery, now stripped of sound. The door, usually left ajar, bore a freshly screwed plate: “VALASKY STATE ORLOJ – CLASSIFIED SEQUESTRATION IN PROGRESS.” Lennart pushed it open, the creak of the hinges echoing in the sudden quiet. The air inside was thick with the scent of ozone and burnt oil, a familiar comfort that now felt like a shroud. Vieno Rostova stood in the center of the room, her back to him, overseeing two clockwork drones systematically cataloging Klavs’s intricate tools. Her dark uniform, trimmed with the silver gears of a high-ranking analyst, seemed to absorb all light, making her presence a stark silhouette against the tall windows that overlooked the city. She turned slowly at the sound of the door, her eyes, the colour of a winter sky, fixing on him without a flicker of surprise. “Kaiho. You’re late.” Her voice was like the precise click of a master clock – cold, clear, and utterly devoid of warmth. Beside her, a portly man with a neatly trimmed beard, Councilor Orlov, a senior figure in the Orloj’s regulatory division, chuckled. “Ah, young Kaiho. Still dragging your heels, even after being granted the privilege of assisting our esteemed Analyst Rostova.” Orlov spoke with an oily familiarity toward Vieno, a casual ease that struck Lennart as peculiar for their public rank. Orlov was known for his rigid adherence to protocol, yet he spoke to Vieno with a certain possessive pride, like a mentor to a favored protégé. Lennart ignored Orlov, his gaze locked on Vieno. “I came as soon as I received the summons.” A lie, but a necessary one. He couldn't reveal Hannes's message. He scanned the chamber, searching for anything out of place, anything Klavs might have left for him. The usual organized chaos of a chronomancer’s benches was already giving way to the sterile order of quarantine crates. “The logging requires speed, Kaiho, not your characteristic dawdling,” Vieno said, her voice cutting. “Orlov, perhaps you could supervise the inventory of the Chronomancy Diagrams? I require Kaiho’s… *unique* talents for the less delicate task of crating.” She gestured to a stack of empty wooden boxes near the back wall. Orlov’s smile tightened, a momentary flash of displeasure before he smoothed his expression. “Of course, Analyst Rostova. Anything for the efficient continuation of the State Orloj’s work.” He cast a pointed, almost venomous, look at Lennart before turning to a shelf laden with Klavs’s design schematics. As Lennart moved towards the crates, he kept his eyes peeled. The benches held relics of Klavs’s craft—cut brass gears, glowing glass tubes of reagent, and half-assembled linkages. But where would Klavs hide something truly vital? He remembered Klavs’s love for misdirection, for hiding things in plain sight, or in the most inconvenient places. His gaze fell upon Klavs’s personal desk, a large, heavy oak slab usually buried under parchments and tools. It was now cleared, almost entirely, save for a single, ornate brass lockbox. It wasn't the kind of lockbox Klavs used for general storage; this one seemed too conspicuous in its simplicity. A faint, almost imperceptible etching on its surface caught his eye – a tiny, stylized gear, identical to the one on the cipher-cog in his pocket. The mark matched. The box had to be his target. “Kaiho, are you quite finished admiring the dust?” Vieno’s voice cut through his thoughts. “The crates will not fill themselves.” He snatched a crate and began placing spare copper coils inside, feigning indifference as he edged closer to the desk. Orlov was still at the far end of the room, sifting through diagrams, his back mostly to them. Vieno’s attention remained on the brass units, guiding their rigid movements with clipped commands. This was his chance. He reached into his pocket, his palm closing around the cold, familiar metal of the cipher-cog. He moved with a practiced nonchalance, picking up a stray wrench from the desk, letting it clatter softly against the coffer. His thumb found the hidden groove, the small, almost invisible keyhole that matched the cog’s unique shape. He inserted it, a soft *click* barely audible above the whirring of the mechanical porters. The lock mechanism disengaged with a barely perceptible sigh. He pushed the lid open, revealing a single, leather-bound volume: Klavs’s research ledger. Its pages were filled with Klavs’s elegant script, intermixed with diagrams and mathematical equations. This was it. The truth. He started to pull it out, his skin prickling with cold sweat. “What are you doing over there, Kaiho?” Orlov’s voice, sharp and sudden, cut through the air. He had turned, his eyes narrowed, fixed on Lennart’s hand hovering over the open coffer. “That’s restricted material!” Before Lennart could react, Orlov lunged forward, his portly frame surprisingly agile. He didn’t aim for Lennart, but rather for a tall, precariously balanced shelf directly behind him, laden with glass beakers and flasks of volatile blue reagents. His arm swung wide, catching the edge of the shelf with a sickening *CRASH*. Glass shattered, liquids splattered, and a harsh, acrid smell immediately filled the air. A stray spark from an exposed copper conduit ignited the spilled solvents. A whoosh of orange flame erupted, licking up the wall, consuming the delicate parchments and wooden shelves with terrifying speed. “Fire!” one of the clockwork units blared, its horn jarring. “Chemical ignition! Evacuate!” The room became a blast furnace of kerosene and smoke. Lennart stumbled back, the heat intense, his eyes stinging. Through the haze, he saw Orlov, standing amidst the chaos, not attempting to extinguish the flames, but staring at him, his face illuminated by the flickering firelight. There was no panic in Orlov’s stare, only an unblinking, deliberate intent that locked Lennart in place. Vieno, her face stark with ash and alarm, was suddenly beside him. She snatched the ledger from the chest, gripping the leather binding with iron force. Her face, usually so composed, went taut as she tracked the advancing flames. And for the first time, Lennart saw it – not malice, not disdain, but raw, unadulterated fear. She shoved the ledger into his hands, her voice a harsh whisper, barely audible over the roar of the flames. “Get it out of here. Now.”

The Iron Moth's Workshop