Casimir’s hand clamped over Danica’s wrist, pulling her back from Mirella’s slack form. The contact was brief, but his skin felt like warmed steel against her sudden chill. “She needs a healer. *You* need a healer, Danica.” “Nonsense. I’m fine. Mirella—” Danica tried to push past him, but Casimir held firm, his grey irises fixed on her collarbone. He was impossibly close, the scent of damp earth and old parchment clinging to him. “You shielded her from that blast. There’s frostburn on your arm, Veles, even if you refuse to acknowledge it.” His gaze dropped to her exposed forearm, where a faint, crystalline rime now traced angry red lines beneath her skin, the chill stiffening the tendons in her wrist. “My observatory has treatments for arcane exposure. It is secluded. Private.” He didn't wait for a response, simply scooped Mirella into his arms with surprising ease and barked an order to a passing servant to fetch the manor’s physician. Then, with a firm, silent pressure on Danica’s elbow, he guided her out of the great hall, through winding passages, and into the moonless Oskolan night. *** The Observatory of Morana Keep was a hulking, soot-stained tower that scraped against the low-hanging mist, its upper reaches vanishing into the swirling grey. Inside, it was a cathedral of brass and polished obsidian. Grand lenses, intricate clockwork mechanisms, and star charts covered every surface, smelling faintly of ozone and ancient oil. Casimir led her to a small, private chamber tucked behind a vast celestial orrery, where glowing vials and neatly organized instruments filled shelves of dark, polished wood. He set a basin of steaming water on a small table and meticulously laid out soft linen cloths and a ceramic jar of amber salve. The copper kettle hummed on its iron stand while steam drifted against the brass trim. “Your sleeve,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He gestured to the singed wool of her jacket. Danica scowled, but her fingers fumbled with the intricate fastenings. The burn ached with a deep, bone-gnawing cold. Casimir’s large, calloused fingers were surprisingly deft as he helped her unfasten the stiff fabric, rolling it back to expose her arm. The frostbite was worse than she’d allowed herself to admit, the skin a mottled, angry purple-red, tiny ice crystals still clinging to the edges. A sharp, stinging pain flared as he gently dabbed a cloth soaked in warm, herbal solution over the area. Danica hissed, pulling back. “Careful, Morana. I’m not some delicate bloom.” “No,” he agreed, his gaze steady, meeting hers across the small, lamp-lit space. “You are a bramble that protects a rare flower. And that is why you are here.” His thumb, warm and rough, brushed a stray curl from her temple, his gaze lingering on the tight knot of her jaw. He saw too much, always. She bristled, but the protest died on her lips as he leaned closer, his scent of damp earth and woodsmoke enveloping her. He resumed cleaning the wound, his movements slow and deliberate. The heat of the herbal solution soothed the pain, and Danica found herself watching the meticulous care in his hands, a strange warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the salve. His calloused knuckles brushed her wrist as he bound the linen, fixing the hem with a bone peg. The burner hissed behind the glass tubing, casting long, sharp silhouettes of the brass gears across the flagstones. He reached for the jar of resin, setting it squarely between them. *** *CRASH!* The chamber door burst open, slamming against the stone wall with a resounding clang that made them both jump apart. Grigori Ozero stood framed in the doorway, wild-eyed and soaked to the bone, clutching a rusted, black iron link in his gloved hand. Water streamed from his hair and coat onto the polished floorboards. “Danica! Lord Morana! Forgive me for this intrusion, but I found something!” Grigori’s voice was hoarse with urgency, his gaze fixed on the fragment he held. “I was inspecting the rubble from my— my chandelier. And I found this.” He held out the iron link. It was choked with a thick, pulsating rust that wasn’t merely superficial corrosion. It was *alive*, weeping a viscous, black ichor that fizzed and corroded the metal right before their eyes. “The alchemists at the Guild of Ironwrights… they couldn’t identify it. They could not name it,” Grigori stammered, his chin dripping sleet. “They say the blight feeds on ruined metal and eats away whatever holds an alloy true.” Danica stared at the writhing iron. The same foul grease had coated the crushed ironwork beneath the ballroom floor, and the same black threads were rooted in Mirella's flesh. It was not brittle iron or poor casting. Something foul had bored straight through the steel. “The parasite in her neck,” Danica said, her voice dropping into the damp room. “The metal carries the very same rot.” She glanced up at Casimir, whose mouth had hardened into a sharp, flat contour. He had seen the threads. Just then, a frantic pounding erupted from the observatory’s main entrance. Footsteps hammered up the winding stairs, breathless and urgent. A young messenger, face slick with mist and panic, burst into their private chamber without so much as a knock, his chest heaving. “Lord Morana! Lady Veles! Forgive my insolence, but… it’s the manor! Mirella Veles has collapsed! And… and the Veles furnaces, they’ve all… they’ve all frozen solid!”

The Clockwork Heart