The metal tube shook in Oryn Vespera’s grip. Steam hissed from the pressure valve of the pneumatic driver, venting hot moisture into the chill of the corridor. “Relladon?” Oryn rasped. His bloodshot stare swept over her linen pinafore, the calico skirt, the damp hem caked with furnace soot. “The foundry barons? Their heirs died in the lower district purges or fled across the sea. Don't lie to me, girl.” Neva stepped toward him, ignoring the scrape of rough granite under her worn boots. Her voice abandoned every musical lilt, every chirping inflection she had practiced in mirrors for six months. It became crisp, clipped, and cold—the tone her father had used when examining ironworks invoices in the high tower. “Look at the crimp on that pneumatic hose in your pocket,” she commanded, pointing steadily. “That's a double-flanged hex fitting. Imperial standard four-twelve. My family held the patent on that pressure-feed system for thirty years until the Board stripped our charter. The primary valve doesn't rupture from impact. It shears cleanly along the threading when tempered improperly. Look at the edges.” Oryn’s thumb drifted across the sheared brass tip he had pulled from his coat. His intake of air snagged in his throat, then broke apart into a harsh rattle. “It was cut,” she said, her voice dropping into a steady register. “Someone used an acid scribe to score the inner brass before the carriage even left the courtyard. Then they torqued it beyond the safety tolerance. It failed not because Kestian drove reckless through the fog. It was timed to snap precisely at maximum velocity. Kestian never crippled your daughter. He was meant to burn along with her.” Kestian knelt on the flags behind her, rigid. A red trickle traced his jawline, dripping onto his wool collar. He stared up at her back as if the girl who baked almond pastries and hummed over dishwater had vanished into thin air, replaced by an apparition carved from marble and grief. Oryn slowly lowered the nail driver. The pneumatic line gave a dying hiss. His features crumpled, years of solitary vengeance colliding with cold mechanical logic. “Why would a Relladon scrub pots for a Dastran?” “Because survival doesn't care about coats of arms,” Neva replied, a tiny, brittle smile returning to the corner of her mouth—not the vacuous grin of the maid, but something sharper, bitter and sharp. “You want the person who ruined your girl’s legs? Give me twenty-four hours. Kill him now, and the real killer drinks vintage brandy in the upper tier while you rot in an iron gibbet.” Oryn stepped back into the mouth of the service tunnel. His coat fluttered against the iron piping like a bat’s wing. He reached into his belt and pulled out a heavy brass cylinder wrapped in coiled wire, tossing it onto the floor between them. It clattered against the stones with a dull thud. “Twenty-four hours,” Oryn whispered, his eyes sunken hollows in the gloom. “I have six canisters of sulfur-sludge wired into the boiler flues. Tomorrow at midnight, if I don't have a name and proof, I spark the primers. This tomb chokes on its own grease. And you die with him, Lady Relladon.” He melted backward into the steam-vent shadows. The iron hatch clicked shut behind him, the latch dropping home with the finality of a guillotine blade. Silence fell over the sub-level, broken only by the panting breaths of the puppy tucked into Neva's apron pocket. Barnaby let out a tentative whimper. Neva delayed turning around. Her ribcage felt tight, bruised by the sheer terror of hearing her own forbidden surname spoken aloud within these stone walls. The secret was dead. The safe, stupid scullery girl who knew nothing except how to scrub grease was dead. “Neva.” Kestian’s voice was barely a rumble. She braced herself, spinning around with her shoulders drawn high, preparing for the accusation, the disgust, the cold dismissal that cast her out into the lower districts where the enforcers were waiting. “If you require me to gather my things immediately, I understand. I forged the registry stamp on my work permit. The penalties under Dastran law—” He stood up. His tall frame wavered for half a second before he braced an arm against the masonry. He voiced no anger, making no demand to know how an aristocrat had degraded herself in his kitchen. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket and drew out a folded handkerchief of plain gray silk. He stepped close, blocking the draft from the dark passage, until the scent of cedar and bitter tea washed over her. He dabbed the silk against her cheekbone. She flinched. “You caught a sliver of stone when the nail hit,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the tiny drop of blood blooming on her skin. His touch was absurdly light, hesitant, like a man handling cracked porcelain. “Keep still.” “You heard what I said,” she whispered, her chin lifting defiantly even as her eyes grew wet with raw exhaustion. “I am Neva Relladon. My father was branded a traitor to the Industrial Board. My name is poison in Oakhaven.” “I don't care about the Board,” Kestian answered, wiping the crimson speck away. His voice possessed none of the razor-sharp contempt he showed the world. It sounded worn, stripped down to raw marrow. “And I don't care what they called your father.” He pulled the cloth away, looking directly into her face. The darkness in his expression had softened into something intensely fragile. “You make the kitchen warm,” he said, the words heavy and deliberate. “You pull this house out of the grave every morning. That is who you are here. Stay here.” Before Neva could process the sudden knot tightening in her throat, the heavy service door at the end of the corridor banged open. Rapid bootsteps clattered against the risers. “Neva! Kestian!” Bria tore into the passage, clutching her soot-stained skirts with one hand and a crumpled ledger sheet with the other. Her cap was crooked, red curls spilling wildly across her damp forehead. She skid to a halt, taking in Kestian’s bleeding temple and Neva’s frozen stance, before thrusting the paper forward. “The runners from the lower district depot just delivered it through the wash-chute,” Bria panted, her chest heaving. “You told me to keep the lines open on any quiet payments made before the carriage smash three years back. Look at this. Look at the signature on the work order.” Kestian snatched the parchment, holding it toward the flickering emergency sconce on the wall. Neva leaned over his shoulder, her breath mingling with his in the damp air. It was an invoice from an illicit chop-shop near the harbor docks, dated two days before the crash that had slaughtered Kestian’s kin and crippled Oryn’s child. The order specified a custom acid-etched brass fitting—the exact mechanism Neva had just described to Oryn. The payment hadn't been drawn from the Dastran estate accounts. At the bottom of the slip, stamped with an embossed violet seal and signed in delicate, flourishing script, sat a single, unmistakable mark: the personal credit voucher of the Lorn banking dynasty. Neva felt the breath leave her body in a single, cold drop. Cressa hadn't merely come to take over the Dastran monopoly after the tragedy. She had manufactured the slaughter from the very beginning, clearing out the entire family tree so only a broken, guilt-ridden survivor remained for her to claim.

Scraps of Truth