The mech’s fist, a crude assembly of riveted iron plates, retracted with a screech of tortured hydraulics. Its single crimson optic, the size of a dinner plate, swung to fix on Sybilla. Steam hissed from its joints, smelling of hot metal and ozone. Debris, thick with the grit of pulverized concrete, rained onto their heavy oak worktable. Levin, oblivious to the danger, clapped his hands. “Look, Corso! A big, noisy man!” Corso, still slumped in his wheelchair, stared at the gaping hole in his workshop wall. The raw edges of bent rebar jutted inwards, a jagged mouth framing the hulking, rust-colored monstrosity outside. His face, already pale, took on a distinct shade of chartreuse. “Gear-Teeth,” he whispered, a tremor in his voice. “They always use the Clank-Beasts. This workshop… my designs…” Sybilla ignored him. Her gaze was on the steam-mech, specifically its exposed, sputtering boiler casing. The Gear-Teeth built for brute impact rather than precision. Their machines ran on boilers primed close to bursting. She glanced at Corso, then at the brass cylinder lying on the table—his accidental invention, no larger than her thumb, engineered for precision flow control. “The valve,” Sybilla stated, her voice flat, cutting through the mech’s rhythmic thrum. “Can it handle a sudden, uncontrolled venting spike?” Corso blinked. “What? A sudden… you mean like a breach? It’s designed to *prevent* that. It can vent, yes, but to rupture a boiler of that size… it would need to be installed directly, precisely, and the pressure differential would be… catastrophic.” He shuddered. “Are you suggesting…?” “Answer the question, Corso,” Sybilla commanded. Her eyes, the color of cold steel, were already scanning the immediate surroundings. “Feasibility. Not ethics.” “Feasibility? With a direct insertion and a timed trigger, theoretically, yes. It would compress the chamber until the internal seams failed, then… *boom*.” He ducked his head behind his hands. “The Clank-Beasts use triple-redundant mechanical governors. You’d need to disable them first, or override them with something far more potent.” “We are not disabling them,” Sybilla said. She pocketed the brass cylinder. “We are overdriving them.” She snatched up a steel spanner, an iron chain, and a spool of insulated wire. She mapped angles and structural shear in two strides. The iron arm drew back for a second swing. “Corso, the Clank-Beast’s primary exhaust port,” Sybilla said. “Where is it mounted?” Corso, despite his terror, was a master engineer. His mind, even when addled, still held blueprints. “Under the main exhaust manifold. But you can’t get to it from here, it’s armored…” Before he finished, Sybilla was already moving. Lifting her hems, she vaulted over the low counter, landing boots-first in the plaster dust. The mech’s second punch tore through the wall beside her, spraying more debris. Levin squealed with delight. “Bigger bang, Sybilla! Bigger bang!” Sybilla ignored him, her focus absolute. She tested the spanner's balance in her palm. The Gear-Teeth thugs operating the mech, a pair of hulking men in oil-stained overalls, were visible now through the growing hole. They roared, clearly enjoying the destruction. One of them, a man with a scarred cheek, raised a thick-barreled steam-pistol. Sybilla did not break stride. She took a running leap, using a pile of discarded sprockets as a makeshift springboard, and launched herself towards the mech. The thugs paused, bewildered by her sudden, almost graceful assault. Her target was the exhaust manifold, a section of the mech’s back that was now dangerously close. She jammed the spanner into an open seam between armor skirts, using the tool as a step. The chain wrapped around her waist, providing purchase. She scaled the Clank-Beast’s side with the agility of a trained saboteur, surprising even Corso, who watched, mouth agape. “She’s… climbing it?” he stammered, aghast. “But it’s armed! And it’s moving!” At the manifold, she hammered the tapered handle into the copper bleed-line. Metal peeled back. A jet of scalding vapor hissed into the cabin, driving the pilots back. Binding the valve directly over the breach with three wraps of copper wire, she sealed off the main exhaust path. The component let out an ear-splitting whistle as internal steam rose past critical. “Overload imminent!” she barked, dropping straight down just as the scarred thug fired his sidearm. The bullet ricocheted off the wall behind her. She landed, rolling, then came to a crouch beside Levin, shielding him with her body. With a sound like a thunderclap, the Clank-Beast’s boiler ruptured. A blinding flash of white steam and shrapnel exploded outwards, tearing through the mech’s chassis. The entire machine buckled, then collapsed into a heap of twisted metal, showering the workshop with glowing embers and scalding steam. The thugs screamed, scrambling away from the wreckage, their faces blackened. One of them, the scarred man, lay twitching, a piece of shrapnel embedded in his shoulder. The other, surprisingly, was still running. Levin bounced on his heels, squealing. “Again, Sybilla! Again! That was the best one!” Sybilla stood, brushing a speck of ash from her sleeve. “Theatrical, but effective. Corso, make a note: prioritize more discreet demolition methods for future encounters. Less mess, lower collateral damage.” She turned to the still-paralyzed Corso. “You see? Practical application. Your valve works.” Corso, staring at the smoking remains of the Clank-Beast, could only nod weakly. His terror was slowly being replaced by a strange, dawning awe. Sybilla inspected the crumbled masonry, estimating masonry costs at fourteen marks. Less than an hour later, as the foundry’s security teams finally arrived to clear the debris and question the fleeing Gear-Teeth thugs, the main door to their bunker creaked open. A tall, impeccably dressed man stepped inside, his smile radiating practiced concern. This was Yvan Korvesk, Sybilla’s uncle, Levin’s only other living relative. His tailored waistcoat was an expensive cut, his silver hair perfectly coiffed, and his eyes held a disarming warmth that Sybilla instantly recognized as a social construct. “Sybilla, my dear! And little Levin! I heard about the… unfortunate incident with the Gear-Teeth. Are you both quite alright?” Yvan’s voice was smooth, like polished brass. He glanced at the gaping hole in the wall, his smile flickering for a fraction of a second before re-solidifying. “And Corso, my boy. Still in one piece, I see.” Corso flinched under the veiled insult. Sybilla merely observed. A vein throbbed along Yvan's temples, betraying an accelerated pulse. His smile did not reach his eyes. Sybilla noted the discrepancy; this man had clearly arranged the strike. “We are entirely unharmed, Uncle,” Sybilla stated, her voice devoid of inflection. “And the Gear-Teeth have been… dissuaded from further trespassing.” Yvan chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “Indeed, Sybilla, your resourcefulness is legendary. Which brings me to my visit. This Lower Ward… it’s simply not safe for a Korvesk, let alone two. And with young Levin here, it’s a constant worry.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulling out a slim, engraved vellum document. “I’ve arranged a modest allowance for you. A tidy sum to ensure your comfort, and Levin’s education, of course.” He slid the vellum across the scarred surface, keeping his gloves clear of soot. “In return, to streamline things, I’ve drawn up the necessary papers for you to transfer the Korvesk geothermal deeds into my care. A small formality, my dear. For your own safety, you understand. Less for you to worry about, financially.” Sybilla picked up the vellum, her fingers cool against the fine paper. She scanned the terms. The ‘allowance’ was barely enough to cover a month’s rent in the Upper Tiers, a paltry sum designed to keep them dependent and isolated. The transfer of the geothermal deeds, however, would effectively strip them of their future. It was a thinly veiled attempt at seizure. The same man who hired assassins to eliminate them was now attempting to legally steal their only remaining asset. “Uncle,” Sybilla said, her gaze unwavering, “your concern is noted. However, your terms are… mathematically unsound.” She placed the vellum back on the table. “The Korvesk geothermal deeds represent a projected annual yield of 12,000 Galvan-Marks within five years, escalating to 30,000 with proper investment. Your proposed allowance is 500 Galvan-Marks per annum. This is not ‘safety,’ Uncle. This is a deliberate undervaluation, calculated to exploit our perceived vulnerability.” Yvan’s smile tightened, a barely perceptible flicker. “Sybilla, you always were so… precise. But managing such assets requires experience, connections. This is a complex world, my dear.” “Indeed,” Sybilla agreed. “Which is why we are no longer vulnerable.” She reached over, retrieving the gleaming brass valve from the workbench. “This, Uncle, is a flow-governing cylinder, invented by my husband, Corso Fennick. Its chamber profile increases steam-engine output by 27% while decreasing fuel consumption by 15%. It represents an opening market value of 50,000 Galvan-Marks within twelve months, doubling annually.” She held up the gleaming brass cylinder. “This is our financial shield, Uncle. An impenetrable fortress of wealth and firepower, soon to be expanded by a full line of prosthetic and industrial applications.” Yvan’s smile vanished completely. His eyes, usually so warm, turned to chips of ice. The carefully constructed façade crumbled, revealing a flash of genuine, cold fury. He looked at Corso, who shrank under the gaze, then back at Sybilla. “Remarkable,” he said, his voice now flat, devoid of its earlier warmth. “Always full of surprises, aren’t you, Sybilla.” He stood, gathering his composure. “Well, if you’re quite settled, I won’t impose further. Do ensure you both stay safe down here.” He paused at the door, turning back. “Oh, almost forgot. A small gift for Levin. A clockwork puzzle box. Heard he enjoys such things.” Yvan placed a small, intricately carved wooden box on the table. It was no larger than Levin’s hand, fashioned from dark, polished ironwood, with delicate brass gears and cogs embedded in its surface. A tiny, almost imperceptible ticking sound emanated from within. Levin lunged for the shiny toy. Sybilla snatched it first, fingers curling over the lacquered casing. The scent of fine clockwork oil was unmistakable, but beneath it, a faint, acrid tang of nitro-glycerine. Her eyes narrowed. The design was familiar, alarmingly so. It was a Model 7 “Pyre-Heart” incendiary device, restricted military ordnance, disguised as a child’s toy. And the ticking was not from a harmless mechanism, but from a short-fuse trigger. She felt its faint, steady vibration against her palm.

The Uncle's Allowance