Sarine stumbled, knees buckling as her boots scraped soot. The tether to her pocket-farm thinned to an icy needle, prickling against her temples. Inside that collapsing pocket, small claws scrabbled against stone, transmitting sharp bursts of panic. She straightened, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She wanted twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep on a goose-down mattress, but walking away from the beast that ferreted out her ginseng and grain was out of the question. It was hers, a rare luxury in a world of scarcity, and no one took Sarine Dal’s luxuries without paying a price. Tavner, his face still smudged with soot, appeared at her side, his hand reaching out. “Sarine? What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He had just navigated the chaos of the square, the frenzied shouts of the villagers still ringing in his ears. Exhaustion lined his brow, mingled with disbelief at the smoke rising behind them. She looked at him, her gaze sharp, decisive. “They caught my sable. Shut it in.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but the intent behind it was clear. “They’re trying to close the space permanently.” Tavner’s brow furrowed. “Sealed… what are you talking about? And what sable?” He had seen the small, dark blur often enough, but had dismissed it as a trick of his weary eyes, a figment of his wife’s strange recovery. “My… helper,” Sarine amended, choosing her words carefully. “It is trapped beyond the rift. An arcane ward is compressing the perimeter. If I leave it, the threshold collapses entirely.” Explanations could wait; ash from the torched archives still drifted down like black snow, bitter on her tongue. “Go in?” Tavner’s voice rose, incredulous. “Into an encircled vault? Sarine, that is madness! The patrol squads will swarm the sector looking for us.” “Exactly.” Sarine’s lips thinned. “Which is why we’re going directly to them. I have a direct route.” She extended her hand, her fingers firm. “Take my hand, Tavner. We’re going to pay a visit to whoever thinks they can steal from me.” Tavner hesitated, his knuckles white. Logic dictated slipping into the crowds while the guards choked on smoke, yet Sarine stood utterly still, her fingers steady. He took her hand. Sarine focused. The connection, though strained and agonizing, was still there, a thin, taut thread leading into the void. She tracked the prickling resonance across the boundary. Instead of opening the soil to crop growth, she split the seam by main force. A violet rent tore through the night air, humming with static. “Hold on,” she commanded, pulling him forward. The sensation was disorienting, like being stretched thin and then snapped back together. The air crackled with raw energy, the taste of ozone sharp on her tongue. One instant their soles rested on packed dirt; the next, boot leather struck patterned marble. They stood inside a vaulted rotunda smelling of tallow, cedar, and cold steel. Brass clockwork sentinels remained dormant along the fluted pillars. Iron strongboxes lined the wall, each stamped with the Republic's hawk insignia beneath a lattice of violet runes. In the corner, nestled among blueprint rolls, crouched her sable. A spiked lead band clamped tightly around the small animal's neck, pinning it to the flagstones. Sarine stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the runic anchors embedded in the masonry. They were directional dampers built to choke dimensional flux. A deliberate lure. Tavner, meanwhile, had spun around, his gaze darting across the room. Tavner stopped short. “This… this is the inner wing of the Polytechnic.” His voice was a strangled whisper of disbelief, then something darker, something akin to dawning horror. His eyes landed on a massive, half-built contraption dominating the center of the vault. It was a grotesque assembly of steel and copper, its core a pulsating crystal matrix, surrounded by an array of heavy-gauge pressure valves and intricate pneumatic cylinders. Bolted to its exposed frame, held in place by crude clamps, were stacks of yellowed parchment. His parchment. His designs. His engine blueprints. “No…” Tavner stumbled towards it, his hands reaching out, tracing the familiar lines of his schematics. “My prime engine… inverted. This was meant for deep-well irrigation.” Tavner reached out, skimming a calloused thumb over the brass housing. “They reversed the acoustic chamber into a sonic emitter. It will rupture lungs across an entire barracks block without firing a round. They never intended to build the power grid.” Sarine didn’t wait. She moved, swift as a shadow, ignoring the humming wards, ignoring the monstrous weapon. She scooped up the sable, tucking the quivering bundle inside her wool coat, and snapped the lead band with a hard twist of mana. Just as the last tendrils of the ward faded from the sable’s neck, a deafening clang echoed through the vault. The reinforced iron portcullises dropped into their floor grooves with an ear-splitting crash, locking the chamber tight. A loudspeaker horn above the doorway hissed with static before a smooth, haughty voice broke through: “So the elusive thief walks right into the parlor.” “I knew you couldn’t resist. A pity you brought the fool with you. Now let us test whether your unseen tunnels can breach solid lead.” A hiss filled the air. From vents along the ceiling, a thin, green mist began to swirl, curling downwards like tendrils of smoke. The sweet, almond-like scent of cyanide, unmistakable and deadly, began to fill the airtight room.

Into the Polytechnic