A guttural snarl rippled through the air, low and wet, a sound of hunger. The klaxon’s shriek was a dull throb against Zyrine’s temples now, background noise to the frantic scramble. Three forms, vaguely canine but constructed from sinew and bone and gleaming metal sutures, burst into the chamber. Their strides were jerky, unnatural, like puppets on tangled strings. They had no eyes, only empty sockets that stared blankly ahead, yet they moved with a horrifying precision, unerringly zeroing in on the life-force radiating from Jorien’s platform. The first brute, its jaws a nightmare of sharpened femurs, lunged for the exposed cabling near Jorien’s bed. Vosskar, already moving with a predator’s grace, intercepted it. He met the beast’s charge with a brutal kick that sent it skidding into the wall, a shower of bone fragments and sparks. He did not hesitate, following up with a rapid series of strikes, each one aimed at the exposed sutures binding the construct together. His blows were a blur of calculated violence, a stark contrast to Thekkar’s panicked, flailing attempts to pry open the now-sealed door. “They’re blind!” Zyrine yelled, her voice raw over the alarm. “They track marrow!” She spun, searching the lab for anything useful. Her gaze snagged on a rack of unlabeled vials, nestled beside a fume hood. Distillation apparatus, a crucible, a stack of filters. Standard Othrysian issue. She snatched a thick-bottomed flask, its contents an oily, iridescent green. The second monstrosity, larger than the first, charged Zyrine. Its skeletal maw gaped wide, a grotesque parody of a smile. Vosskar, mid-grapple with the first, saw it coming. He pushed off the wall, a sudden surge of momentum, throwing himself between Zyrine and the beast. The beast's bone-claws raked across his side, tearing through the expensive fabric of his tunic, leaving deep crimson gouges on his skin. He grunted, a sharp exhalation of pain, but did not fall. Instead, he twisted, catching the skull in an iron grip and slamming it into the floor, the thud echoing sickeningly. “Vosskar!” Zyrine cried, a rare tremor in her voice. The iron scent of fresh blood, Vosskar’s blood, was now in the air, a potent lure for the remaining horrors. The third quadruped, drawn by the new aroma, abandoned its attack on Jorien’s machinery and bounded towards Vosskar, sickeningly swift. Zyrine, adrenaline surging, ripped open her own tunic, exposing the bare skin of her forearm. With a swift, practiced motion, she drew a small, serrated scalpel from her belt and made a shallow incision across her palm. A line of crimson welled up, bright and stark against her pale skin. The sharp, copper tang of her own deep vital fluid, a scent as potent as any pheromone, filled the air. “Thekkar! Get over here, you imbecile!” she shrieked, ignoring the pain. He was still fumbling at the door, useless. “Now!” He finally turned, pale with terror, seeing the red line streaming from Zyrine’s hand, the grotesque shapes. “Zyrine, what are you doing?” “Come here!” she commanded, her voice like cracking ice. When he hesitated, she lunged, grabbing a handful of his elaborate cravat and yanking him forward. The vile green liquid from the flask splashed over his face and chest, an acrid, sickening stench rising instantly. He recoiled with a choked gasp, sputtering and rubbing at his eyes. “What in the blighted pit is this?” he demanded, his voice high-pitched. “A masking agent. It’ll make you smell like rotten kelp to them,” Zyrine explained, not bothering to offer comfort. The first two constructs, temporarily subdued by Vosskar’s ferocity, were already stirring, their eyeless heads snapping towards the new, stronger scent emanating from Zyrine’s sliced palm. The third, momentarily confused by Thekkar’s sudden stench, now fixed its attention on her. They were responding to her, the purest, healthiest marrow in the room. “Get clear!” she ordered Thekkar, shoving him towards a cluster of medical equipment. He scrambled away, tripping over his own feet, a symphony of protests escaping his lips. Zyrine dashed towards the far wall, her dripping hand held out, baiting the ravenous horrors. The stitch-beasts, a frenzied blur of bone and metal, followed, their gnashing jaws snapping at the empty air where she had been. She wove between the archaic machines, their movements surprisingly agile for their cobbled construction. The third, still partially obscured by Vosskar’s struggling form, gave a final twitch, and then broke free, joining the chase. All three were now locked onto her scent. She spotted it: a large, circular grate, humming with an unsteady, low thrum, set into the wall. A smog-vent, she realized, thick with combustible vapours. She veered sharply, her injured hand still extended, drawing the creatures closer, closer. The pack, blindly obedient to the lure, lunged, their momentum carrying them directly into the open maw of the vent. Their composite bodies, heavy with scavenged metal and bone, acted as a perfect obstruction. With a final, desperate surge of speed, Zyrine threw herself sideways, tumbling behind a heavy, reinforced data console just as a blinding flash erupted from the vent. The roar of the explosion ripped through the chamber, shaking the very bones of the building. Fire billowed outwards, a searing wash of heat that blistered the air. The screams of the stitch-hounds were cut short, replaced by the rending shriek of tortured metal and collapsing masonry. The reinforced console shuddered violently, absorbing most of the blast, but debris rained down, a shower of dust and shattered plaster. When the echoes faded, silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by the crackle of dying embers and the persistent, throbbing klaxon. The vent was gone, replaced by a gaping, smoke-choked hole in the wall, half-collapsed and impassable. The exit, gone. Zyrine pushed herself up from behind the console, coughing violently. Her lungs burned, raw from the smoke and chemical fumes. A hot, metallic taste filled her mouth, and when she spat, it was a streak of crimson. The tremor in her hand had worsened, and the cut on her palm pulsed with a dull ache. The exertion, the trauma, the constant drain on her own marrow — it was taking its toll. Her vision swam at the edges, and nausea lurched in her gut. Vosskar was beside her in an instant, his own expression hard, his side dripping dark red against his torn tunic. He knelt, tearing a strip of fabric from his tunic and binding her sliced palm with surprising gentleness. His fingers brushed hers, calloused and firm. The mask of controlled ferocity had slipped, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. “You are a fool, Zyrine Halkos,” he said, his voice rough, eyes fixed on her pale, drawn face. “A magnificent, suicidal fool.” He met her gaze, and for the first time, she saw it: not calculated desire, not political maneuvering, but a stark, undeniable terror. “I chose you, you know. Not to spite Thekkar. Not for any game. I chose you because I have watched you, revered you, for years. Your mind, your hands… they are a miracle. And now you’re destroying yourself.” His words hung in the air, charged and heavy, a sudden, devastating intimacy in the dust-choked silence. Zyrine stared back, throat tight, a different kind of ache blooming in her chest. Before she could respond, a grinding, metallic screech echoed from the far end of the chamber, where the main blast door had been sealed. The massive door shuddered, then slowly, agonizingly, began to rise, revealing a sliver of dimly lit corridor beyond. Standing there, her face streaked with grime and tears, was Cyllia Miren. Her usually pristine gown was torn, her hands trembled violently, but clutched in her hand, glinting dully, was a small, ornate access key. Malus’s key. “Zyrine! Vosskar!” Cyllia’s voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible. “You have to get out of here. He’s moving it. The Sovereign… they’re moving the Leviathan. Tonight. To the Grand Gala.”

Stitch-Hounds and Shadows