The rhythmic clang of an auto-loom on the tier above was a perfect accompaniment to Osha Tassari’s feigned slumber. Her head, nestled against a stack of discarded schematics for a hydro-kinetic pump, was strategically angled to catch the stray breezes from the open archways of the Grand Crafter’s Atrium. Below, students in their pristine ivory tunics toiled over intricate cog-assemblies, their focused murmurs a pleasant hum. Osha, draped in her famously oversized, muted grey cloak, looked every inch the uncultured, indolent noblewoman Rovian Velt had so disdainfully branded her. Her outward appearance, however, was a meticulously crafted lie, a silken curtain drawn over the mind that had once, in a moment of reckless brilliance, woven outlawed harmonic current into a delicate silver lotus ornament. Her eyes, barely slits beneath a fringe of auburn hair, tracked the shifting light of the Atrium. Sunlight, refracted through the giant bioluminescent flora that gave the floating city its botanical charm, painted fleeting patterns across the polished brasswork. Today, a new, more aggressive light pulsed near the central spires. A floating holographic projection, shimmering gold, materialized above the main crafting stage, casting a stark, unwelcome glare across the workshop. It was a bounty poster. Rovian Velt, her fiancé, stood beneath it, his jawline sharp with a familiar, predatory focus. He was talking to a stranger, but her gaze remained fixed on the poster itself. It rotated slowly, revealing a series of images. The first was a stylized rendering of a soaring kestrel, Pellam’s crest. The second froze the air in her lungs, a soundless pause no one nearby noticed. It was a luminous, three-dimensional image of *her* lost silver lotus. The metal, imbued with a soft, internal glow that shifted with the ambient current, looked impossibly vibrant in the projection. The intricate filigree, the delicate, curling petals—every detail stood revealed in horrifying clarity. Sweat dampened the back of her neck. This was no polite inquiry for lost jewelry. This was a direct, public hunt for her most dangerous secret. Her pathologically lazy facade almost cracked. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her throat. She fought it down, forcing her eyelids heavier, her breathing shallower. She was a useless noblewoman, remember? Too vapid to notice anything beyond the latest gossip on the air-skiffs. Below, Rovian's companion was sleek and too eager, his tunic a shade too gaudy. He carried a faceted glass prism, barely larger than his thumb, nestled in a velvet pouch. “Lord Velt,” the man purred, his voice oiling its way up the tiers. “As promised. I have footage. From the Terrarium Suite lobby. My contacts there are… discreet.” Rovian merely nodded, his gaze still fixed on the holographic hairpin. “Does it show the metalworker?” Rovian asked, his baritone clipped and sharp with impatience. He was a man accustomed to having his will obeyed, and this hunt, Osha knew, had been proving surprisingly difficult for him. The informant preened. “A figure, my lord. Blurry, yes, but distinctive. And a flash of the silver flower, worn at the nape of the neck, just as your agents described.” He extended the velvet pouch, revealing the storage prism within. It pulsed with a faint, stored light. “My finest work, Lord Velt. Captured the harmonic pulse too. Unique, utterly unique.” Osha’s mind raced. The Terrarium Suite. That night. She had been so careful. So, *so* careful. She had slipped out of her family’s private garden-islet, using a masked frequency to cloak her passage, to attend the clandestine guild exhibition. It was a yearly rebellion, a chance for those who dared to push the boundaries of clockwork art to showcase their forbidden inventions, far from the watchful eyes of the Holy Office. She had worn the silver ornament that night, a foolish flourish of defiance, a signature of her peerless skill. It had tumbled loose in the scuffle when church enforcers, tipped off by an informant, raided the hall. Now, Rovian’s aggressive pursuit made sense. He wasn’t just looking for a lost trinket. He was looking for *her*. He despised her, wanted to annul their arranged marriage with all the fervor of a man swatting a particularly annoying gnat. But this… this was different. A new voice cut through the chamber, sharp and commanding. “Lord Rovian, a word.” Osha subtly shifted her position, her ear twitching towards the sound. An overseer from the Holy Office stepped forward, robes trailing behind two heavy-booted sentries. Such intrusion onto the guild tiers was unheard of; the church tribunal rarely meddled openly with master fabricators, preferring to carry out sentences behind bolted cellar gates. Rovian’s shoulders stiffened. “Magistrate,” Rovian said smoothly. “I wasn’t aware you were interested in my personal affairs.” “Your affairs intersect with sacred law, Lord Velt,” the official replied, flat and cold. “That silver trinket holds an aberrant frequency. My acolytes detected raw, unbound harmonics woven through its core. The craftsman is a rogue operating outside doctrine. The bounty is no longer yours to claim; custody belongs to the tribunal.” Osha’s carefully constructed composure shattered internally. *Unbound craft. The executioner's block.* The threat settled like lead in her stomach. Rovian wasn’t just trying to divorce her anymore; he was unwittingly hunting her down for a capital offense. And the tribunal had claimed jurisdiction. This was no longer a squabble over a broken betrothal, but a march toward the scaffold. “Execution?” Rovian’s voice was clipped, a flicker of surprise in his rigid posture. “For a decorative piece?” “Purity of mechanism is paramount,” the official intoned, watching the apprentices freeze over their benches. “Anyone who tampers with untamed power invites catastrophe. The maker will be found and condemned.” He turned to the informant. “Show the recording.” The man fumbled with the lens apparatus, bowing nervously. “Yes, Excellency. At once.” He thumbed a brass stud on the cylinder. The projected bloom flickered out, replaced by a low-resolution playback. The Terrarium Suite lobby. Guests milling about. Then, a figure, hunched and moving with a frantic urgency, darted across the screen, disappearing behind a towering fern display. The footage was grainy, but the oversized, muted grey cloak, too large for the frame, was unmistakable. The same cloak Osha Tassari wore every single day. The same cloak she was wearing right now.

The Golden Bounty