“…is to forge the Eclipse Orrery.” The words hung in the vast, echoing silence of the exhibition hall, heavy as un-forged Star-metal. The lingering scent of ozone and the metallic tang of Void-metal still pricked the air, a phantom reminder of the recent chaos. My gaze remained fixed on the creeping black vine etched into my wrist, the Void-rot a chilling promise of oblivion. Iskandar’s hand, warm and firm, closed over my forearm, his thumb brushing the cool, rough skin around the spreading darkness. “Roshanak,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, “we need to go. Now. Before the wards fully reset and the Curators begin their investigation. We have that shard, and we have a lead.” I nodded, my pulse fluttering against the cold band on my arm. Iskandar guided me swiftly through the hushed, deserted corridors, his presence a solid anchor against the swirling panic in my gut. We ascended winding staircases, passed through gates that hissed open and shut with arcane precision, until we reached the highest spire of the Vault of the Heavens: his private observatory, the Celestium Scriptorium. It was a circular chamber, vast and open to the night sky, its domed ceiling a kaleidoscope of painstakingly etched constellations, each star a pinprick of captured starlight. Telescopes, polished bronze and ancient wood, pointed through automated apertures, their lenses gleaming like colossal, watchful eyes. Astrolabes of every design, from simple navigational disks to intricate, multi-layered planetary models, lined the walls on glowing plinths. The air hummed with a quiet, scholarly energy, a stark contrast to the volatile chaos we’d just escaped. Iskandar moved smoothly to a central console, a shimmering table of polished obsidian inlaid with silver orbital lines. He carefully placed the Star-glass shard Omid had slipped me onto a recessed platform. “This is a Chrono-Shard,” he explained, his fingers dancing over intricate runic controls etched into the obsidian. “It doesn’t just record sight and sound; it captures the temporal resonance of a moment, allowing for precise playback and analysis of magical signatures. Omid knew exactly what he was giving you.” He pressed a glyph. The shard flared with an inner light, projecting a shimmering, three-dimensional image onto the air above the table. It was the Grand Exhibition hall, empty and still. A figure appeared, small at first, then larger as Iskandar zoomed in. Tahmineh. Her movements were fluid, precise. She stood before a replica of my *Arkadia Ascendant*, not the completed, enchanted piece, but a rough, un-energized study model. She held a small, weighted brass sphere. She lifted the sphere, checking the trajectory. It struck the replica *Arkadia Ascendant* with a dull thud, not enough force to shatter Star-metal, but enough to show the *angle*. She repeated the motion, again and again, adjusting her stance, her wrist, her follow-through. Each time, she’d frown, mutter to herself, then refine her technique. “Too wide,” her projected voice murmured, tinny but clear. “Needs more arc.” Or, “Not enough deflection, they’ll see the intent.” This wasn’t clumsy. This was meticulous, almost surgical. She was rehearsing, perfecting the precise, ‘accidental’ angle Iskandar had described. The dates projected at the corner of the image flickered: two weeks ago, then ten days, then five. Each session showed a slight improvement, a more deliberate carelessness. The final recording, from the day before the exhibition, showed her executing the throw flawlessly, the leaden bead hitting the replica with a soft *thwack* at the exact point of critical failure. “She wasn’t just drilling the throw,” Iskandar said, his tone hard, cutting through the spectral echoes of Tahmineh’s mutters. “She was rehearsing the *act*. The stumble, the gaping horror, the perfectly timed wail.” He magnified her face in the final recording. Her expression after the 'successful' strike was not one of dismay, but of a subtle, cold satisfaction, quickly replaced by a rehearsed grimace of distress. The chill that spread through me was colder than any Void-rot. It was the icy realization of how deeply, how calculatingly, I had been wronged. All those years, all those supposed ‘accidents’ that had set me back, stolen my designs, or ruined my materials—how many of them had been meticulously choreographed rehearsals? My kindness, my willingness to always give the benefit of the doubt, had been her most potent weapon. “This… this is undeniable,” I finally managed, the words rasping in my throat. “This proves everything.” Iskandar deactivated the Chrono-Shard. The projection vanished, leaving only the silent, star-mapped dome. “Indeed. With this, Tahmineh’s career in the Vault is over. Not just banished from the hall, but stripped of her apprentice rank, her privileges, her future.” He reached for a small, velvet pouch on his console. “We should take this to the Arch-Artisans’ council immediately. They are still in session, debating the Void-metal breach. This evidence will cut through any lingering sympathy.” Just as he was about to secure the shard, a sudden, jarring clang echoed from far below, followed by a shouted exclamation. The sound carried up the spires, sharp and clear. Iskandar paused, his hand hovering over the pouch. A frown creased his brow. “What in the—the security wards shouldn’t allow anyone unrestricted access to the upper levels during council proceedings.” Before he could investigate further, the heavy bronze doors of the Celestium Scriptorium burst open with a reverberating crash. Two Temple Guards, their faces flushed, stumbled in, their spears nearly clattering to the floor. Behind them, disheveled and weeping, stood Tahmineh. Her usually pristine robes were rumpled, streaked with what looked like dust and faint smudges of ash. Her hair, typically styled in elegant braids, was loose and wild, framing a face contorted in a mask of tearful despair. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, fixed on Iskandar and then, with a venomous flicker, on me. “Arch-Astronomer Iskandar!” she wailed, her voice thick with false misery, loud enough to ring off the domed ceiling. “How could you! How could you so cruelly banish me, your most dedicated student, from the very halls I have dedicated my life to? All because of *her*!” She pointed a trembling, dramatic finger at me. “She has clearly enchanted you, poisoned your mind with her conniving ways! Your judgment is clouded by blind infatuation!” Iskandar’s posture stiffened. The Grand Council chambers were directly below us. Every word would be amplified, filtered through the acoustic channels directly into their ears. Tahmineh wasn’t just making a scene; she was making a public accusation to the highest authority. “I demand justice!” Tahmineh shrieked, her voice cracking. “I demand a public Star-forge Duel! To clear my name, to prove my innocence, and to expose *her* for the charlatan she truly is!” My mind reeled. A Star-forge Duel? The most sacred and dangerous of all trials, where artisans poured their very souls into the metal, the magic reflecting their inner being, watched by the entire city. Losing one meant public disgrace, often the end of a career. Iskandar, however, remained unnervingly calm. He slowly stepped away from the console, his gaze unwavering, fixed on Tahmineh’s performative distress. He didn’t deny her accusation of infatuation. Instead, his voice, though quiet, resonated with an authority that silenced even Tahmineh’s sobs. “You accuse me of infatuation, Tahmineh?” Iskandar’s lips curved into a chillingly thin smile. “Perhaps you are right. My devotion to Roshanak is absolute, a clarity of conviction that you, with your shallow deceptions, could never comprehend. It is not blind; it is utterly, fiercely intentional.” A gasp rippled through the two guards, who stood frozen, gawking at the unprecedented declaration. Even Tahmineh’s wails faltered, her carefully constructed facade momentarily cracking against his blunt admission. “You wish for a Star-forge Duel?” Iskandar continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr, his eyes like chips of glacial ice. “Very well. As Arch-Astronomer, and with the full authority vested in me by the Imperial Charter, I grant your request. A duel it shall be. But know this, Tahmineh: the stakes will be higher than mere reputation. If you lose, if you fail to prove your ‘innocence’ against Roshanak’s formidable skill, you will be stripped of your magic forever. Every channel of celestial energy within you will be severed, your connection to the cosmos extinguished. You will be a mundane, a shadow of your former self, unable to ever touch Star-metal again.” The color drained from Tahmineh’s face. The full import of his words settled upon her, heavier than any physical blow. To be stripped of magic was a fate worse than death for a smith of the stars, a living void where her soul’s purpose once resided. Her tears dried, leaving ugly trails on her smudged cheeks. Iskandar turned, his hand reaching for mine. He pulled me close, his arm wrapping securely around my waist, pressing me against his side. His lips brushed my ear, his tone low and resonant, meant for me alone, yet carrying in the shocked silence of the chamber directly to Tahmineh and the gaping guards. “Now, show them the monster I know you can be.”

The Crocodile Tears