The city of Gethrowne breathed like a great iron beast. Its lungs were the furnaces, pumping smoke into the gray skies. Its heart was the grand Aether Engine that throbbed at the center of the city, sending power through pipes and conduits that ran beneath cobblestones. Its veins were the endless canals of steam that hissed from vents in the streets, and its blood—the ceaseless flow of people who lived among brass and soot, driven by ambition, survival, and secrets.
Adrian Holt had always loved the city's rhythm. To him, Gethrowne was not a monster but a symphony—one of clashing gears, ticking clocks, and steam whistles harmonized by invention. From the window of his workshop perched above Brassmarket Square, he could see the endless churn of humanity below. Automaton hawkers shuffled on stilt-like legs, selling roasted chestnuts. Carriages powered by sputtering boilers rattled down the avenues. Towering mechanical cranes shifted goods at the docks. To a mind like Adrian's, every sound was inspiration.
Yet none of it mattered tonight.
On his workbench, beneath the wavering glow of aether-lamps, Elara Wynn lay pale and trembling.
Her breaths came shallow, her chest heaving with effort as though every intake of air demanded a war. The physicians had called it a "decaying of the heart," a cruel weakness that no medicine could mend. Adrian had watched helplessly for months as Elara's vitality ebbed, as laughter gave way to exhaustion, and as her once-bright green eyes grew shadowed with pain.
"Elara," he whispered, leaning close, his fingers brushing strands of chestnut hair from her clammy forehead. "Stay with me."
Her lips curved faintly, though the effort cost her. "I'm not going anywhere. Not yet. Not if you promise you won't lock yourself away entirely."
Adrian forced a smile, though the guilt pressed heavy. For weeks, he had vanished into blueprints and sketches, chasing an idea so wild it bordered on heresy. His colleagues would call it madness. The Guild of Mechanists would brand it sacrilege. But love was its own kind of obsession—and Adrian Holt was a man who could not surrender what he loved.
The idea burned in him: a heart of brass and gears, powered by aether itself.
He glanced at the prototype lying under a velvet cloth on the side table. It was small, delicate, yet terrifying in its audacity. A lattice of brass filigree wrapped around chambers of crystal and copper, with tiny pistons poised like muscles waiting to contract. At its center, a shimmering aether core pulsed faintly, glowing with pale blue light.
To create life from metal—was it invention, or was it blasphemy?
"Adrian." Elara's voice was no louder than the hiss of steam outside, but it drew him back. Her gaze sharpened despite her weakness. "Don't look at me like that. Like you've already lost me."
"You're not lost," he said firmly, clasping her hand in both of his. Her skin was ice-cold. "I won't let you go. Not to illness, not to fate. I will build you a new heart if I must."
She gave a soft laugh, catching her breath. "You always reach for the impossible. That's why I loved you in the first place. But Adrian… you can't fix everything with gears and fire."
"It's not impossible," Adrian whispered, though more to himself than her. "It's simply… forbidden."
Her eyes narrowed faintly at the word. "Forbidden things tend to leave scars. On the world—and on the soul." She studied him with a tired, knowing smile. "Promise me you won't lose yourself in saving me."
He said nothing. He could not promise what he already knew was a lie.
Instead, he rose and moved to the prototype. With reverence, he lifted the velvet cloth and cradled the clockwork heart in his hands. The glow of the aether core painted his face in pale firelight. The mechanism thrummed faintly, alive with potential.
"Elara," he said, his voice trembling between hope and fear. "I swear to you—before the furnaces, before the aether, before the gods themselves—I will not let your heart fail. If flesh betrays you, brass will keep you. If nature denies you, I will defy it. You will live. You must live."
Her eyes lingered on the glowing heart. For a moment, awe flickered across her face—followed by unease. "Adrian… if you do this, will I still be me?"
The question sliced deeper than any blade. He forced the lie through his teeth. "Yes. Always you."
Her gaze held his. Searching. Doubting. Loving. And then, at last, surrendering.
"Then I trust you," she whispered.
A gust of wind rattled the shutters, carrying with it the low toll of the clocktower bell. Midnight. The hour of endings—and of beginnings.
Outside, the city of brass and steam churned on, uncaring. But within the walls of Adrian Holt's workshop, a forbidden promise had been made.
And somewhere deep within the heart of Gethrowne, as if stirred by that vow, the Aether Engine gave a shuddering groan—like the beast of the city had heard, and disapproved.