“An accident?” Marek’s voice, a tight rasp, ripped through the parlor’s sudden silence. He seized the apprentice’s shoulders, his face a mask of disbelief. “What kind of accident, boy? Is Master Elian… is he hurt?” Zofia’s stomach twisted. This was it. The precipice. In her first life, the news had been delivered by a somber constable, hours later, confirming Elian’s death. The official cause: a boiler explosion, a tragic mishap. But Zofia, armed with the bitter wisdom of hindsight, knew better. Knew Koslov’s tentacles reached everywhere, even into the humble workshops of old friends. She shoved past Marek. “Where is the messenger? Take me to him.” “He… he left, Miss Volkov. Said he had to return to his master. Just said there was an incident with a new pressure valve, and Master Elian was ‘indisposed’.” The apprentice stammered, shrinking under her intense gaze. ‘Indisposed’. A polite lie. Or a truth withheld to soften the blow. Zofia wasted no time. Her family’s ruin began with a chain of seemingly unrelated events, each a domino pushed by an unseen hand. Elian’s death had been the first, clearing a path for Koslov’s acquisition of his specialized tooling patents, which in turn crippled dozens of smaller workshops, including, eventually, the Volkov Atelier. She snatched a cloak from the hall stand, its heavy wool smelling faintly of latakia pipe tobacco. “Marek, I need to go out. Don’t wait up.” Marek, still reeling from the double shock of the ruined music box and the news of Elian, could only gape. “Go out? Zofia, you cannot—the city at this hour…” “I’ll be careful.” Her voice was sharper than she intended, brittle with urgency. She didn’t look back, already halfway out the door, her mind a frantic map of Bryzsk’s winding, gas-lit streets. There was only one person who could give her the truth, or at least, the leverage to find it. The Broker. Her boots echoed on the cobbled thoroughfares, the gas lamps casting long, dancing shadows. Bryzsk was a city of perpetual twilight, its grimy elegance masked by a haze of steam and coal smoke. She ducked into an alleyway near the docks, the air thick with the scent of salt and rendered whale oil, and navigated a labyrinth of corrugated metal shacks and overflowing waste bins. The further she went, the more the city’s grand facade peeled away, exposing its true, rusting gears. She found his unassuming door, marked only by a chipped, brass plate, tucked between a fishmonger’s back entrance and a silent, boarded-up tea house. She rapped twice, a precise rhythm she remembered from her future life. A slithering sound from within, then a metallic click. The door opened a mere crack, showing nothing but pitch-black interior. “Identify yourself.” A voice, flat and devoid of inflection, emanated from the void. “Zofia Volkov. I’m here to discuss a matter of… urgent information.” The door swung inward onto a cramped, dusty anteroom lit by a single, sputtering oil lamp. The air here was strangely sterile, smelling of ozone and fine clockwork oil. A hulking man, his face obscured by shadow and a heavy, utilitarian cap, gestured deeper into the den. Zofia walked past him, her senses on high alert. No one followed. The main chamber was larger, circular, dominated by a workbench piled with intricate gears, springs, and half-assembled mechanisms. A figure sat hunched over it, his back to her, a magnifying loupe fixed to one eye. His presence was a ripple in the stale air, not a sound. The Broker. He appeared just as she had filed away in thought: a silhouette of predatory intellect. “Volkov,” he finally drawled, without turning. His voice was like grinding cogs, low and gravelly. “You’re early. By… a number of years, I believe.” Zofia’s spine straightened. A cold confirmation. He remembered their 'first' meeting, the one that hadn't happened yet. This was not a dream, not a delusion. Her timeline was irrevocably displaced. “You remember.” It wasn’t a question. He finally turned, his face a mosaic of sharp angles and shadows. His eyes, though, were piercing, the color of tarnished silver, holding an unnerving depth. A thin, almost invisible scar bisected his left eyebrow. He wasn’t old, not truly, but his gaze carried ancient fatigue. “Particular anomalies tend to stick in the memory. Especially when they arrive with such… peculiar foresight. You usually seek me out when the wolves are already at the door, Zofia. Not before they’ve even scented blood.” “The wolves are already here, Broker. They just haven’t shown their teeth to everyone yet. I need information on Zevran Croft. Specifically, his current holdings, his associates, and any weaknesses you might be aware of.” The Broker’s lips, thin and bloodless, quirked. “Zevran Croft. A surprisingly small fish for such an urgent summons. And what, pray tell, do you offer for this glimpse into the humble creditor’s ledger? Your usual currency of desperation and regret won’t do, not yet.” “The new Northern Trade Route,” Zofia said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Koslov Dynamics has been lobbying the Guild for months to open it up, claiming it’s a faster, cheaper route to the Arcturus Colonies. But their projections are flawed. They’ve miscalculated the prevailing currents through the Caligo Straits. The route will be slower by two weeks than the traditional passage, and far more dangerous. If you invest in the companies planning to use it, short them. You’ll make a fortune.” The Broker’s silver eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine interest sparking within them. “A two-week delay through the Caligo Straits? That’s… quite specific. And quite damaging to certain futures.” He leaned back, his gaze unnervingly fixed on her. “How can you be so certain?” “I’ve seen the manifests. I’ve read the reports of the first exploratory voyages. I know what happens when they push through the winter storms.” Zofia omitted the part where she had read about it in an archive after the bankruptcy, a detail that now seemed painfully irrelevant. “It’s guaranteed.” He considered her for a long moment, the only sound the faint tick-tick-tick of a half-assembled mechanism on his workbench. “Very well. Zevran Croft. A man of humble origins, but with a surprising number of connections to… less than savory enterprises. His primary weakness: an insatiable appetite for exotic mechanical relics, particularly those with a history, those with a ‘soul’. And he owes a significant sum to a man named Roric, who runs the under-market in stolen antiquities. Roric is not a patient man.” Zofia marked the detail down. A collector. That could be leveraged. “And the price beyond the shipping route?” The Broker smiled, a chilling, humorless baring of teeth. He reached into a drawer beneath his workbench, producing a small, intricately carved clockwork token no larger than her thumbnail. It was fashioned from dark, polished brass, with tiny, interlocking gears that shifted with an almost imperceptible hum. “A favor. At a time and place of my choosing. When I call, you will answer.” He held out the token. As Zofia reached for it, a minuscule spike, finer than a needle, extended from its surface. It pricked her index finger, a bead of crimson welling up and staining the brass. The gears whirred, absorbing the drop of blood. A cold, binding sensation, like a tiny lock clicking into place, settled deep in her bones. “The agreement is sealed,” he murmured, his voice laced with an ancient finality. Before Zofia could respond, a distant clang echoed from outside, followed by the unmistakable thud of heavy boots. The Broker’s head snapped up, his silver eyes flashing. “Trouble,” he stated, a note of detached annoyance in his voice. “Koslov’s hounds, by the sound of it. They’ve been sniffing around my operations lately.” “Koslov?” Her breath caught in her teeth. Already? Her actions had been noticed, her immediate, desperate shifts in the timeline had drawn the attention of the city’s most dangerous magnate. “Looks like you’re not the only one ahead of schedule, Zofia Volkov.” The Broker pointed to a loose brick in the wall beside them. “Behind that. A service tunnel. It will lead you to the Old Grinder’s Alley, three blocks east. Be quick.” Zofia didn’t hesitate. She pulled the brick, uncovering a narrow, dust-choked opening. She squeezed through, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and rust. Behind her, she heard the heavy thud of the outer door being kicked inward, followed by the Broker’s calm, almost bored voice. “Gentlemen. To what do I owe this… unscheduled visit?” She scrambled through the cramped tunnel, the sounds of distant shouting and breaking glass fading behind her. The Old Grinder’s Alley was a forgotten artery of the city, choked with discarded machinery and belching steam vents. She emerged, coughing, into the cool night air, running without looking back. Koslov. It was always Koslov. Her desperate gamble to save Elian, to break the future, had merely put her on his radar sooner than expected. She ran until her lungs burned, until the city’s grimy backstreets gave way to the more familiar, if still melancholic, avenues leading to the Volkov Atelier. The looming silhouette of her family home offered no comfort. It felt like a trap. A gilded cage. Pushing open the heavy oak door, she found the house eerily silent. No anxious craftsman. No worried mother. Only a faint light emanating from the master study. A knot of dread tightened in her chest. She approached cautiously, her hand instinctively going to the small, cold clockwork token in her pocket. She pushed the study door open, and the sight within froze her. Stellan Koslov. The man whose name was synonymous with their destruction, stood by the mantelpiece. In his hand, he held the shattered remains of the Larkspur Nocturne, the delicate brass gears and splintered wood a pathetic mockery of its former glory. He turned, his gaze falling upon her, sharp and unsettling. His eyes were the color of glacial ice, devoid of warmth, but burning with an intense, analytical curiosity. “Miss Volkov,” he said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that prickled the hairs along her forearm, despite her best efforts to steel herself. He held up the broken music box, its pieces glinting under the gaslight. “What are you so afraid of?”

The Broker's Price