The door to Principal Stone's office closed behind them with a soft, final click.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Amir stood there in the hallway, his heart still hammering against his ribs like it was trying to punch its way out of his chest. The adrenaline that had flooded his system during the confrontation was refusing to drain away, leaving him jittery and hyperaware of every sound, every shadow, every flicker of the Aether-lamps mounted along the walls.
The Cog Master, by contrast, looked like he'd just finished a pleasant conversation about the weather. He adjusted his monocle with his mechanical hand, the gesture precise and unhurried, then reached up to straighten his top hat. His brown coat with the golden collar didn't have a single wrinkle out of place.
Behind them, through the closed door, Amir could hear muffled sounds—Principal Stone moving around his office, the creak of his chair, the soft clink of glass on wood. Probably pouring himself a drink. Probably needing one.
The receptionist sat frozen at her desk, her fountain pen gripped so tightly in her hand that her knuckles had gone bone-white. She stared at them with wide eyes, her professional mask shattered completely, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably close to raw fear. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she wanted to say something—offer some explanation, some apology, some desperate attempt to smooth over what had just happened—but no sound came out.
The Cog Master tipped his hat to her as they passed, his expression pleasant. "Good afternoon, madam. Do give Principal Stone my regards."
She didn't respond. Just watched them go, her face pale, her breathing shallow.
Amir waited until they were well clear of the office, until the sound of their footsteps on the polished wood floor was the only noise in the corridor, before he let out a long, shaky breath.
"Holy shit," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "That was—"
"Productive," the Cog Master finished, his cane tapping its familiar rhythm against the floor. Tap, tap, tap. "Stone is hiding something. Multiple somethings, in fact."
"You think?" Amir's voice came out sharper than he intended, edged with the kind of sarcasm that only came from stress and exhaustion. "The man practically admitted to covering up three student suicides. That's not 'hiding something,' that's—that's fucking conspiracy."
The Cog Master glanced at him, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Careful with your language. We're in an academic institution. Wouldn't want to offend the sensibilities of the students."
Amir gave him a look that clearly said what the fuck ever, but he didn't push it. His brain was still trying to process everything that had just happened. The way the Cog Master had systematically dismantled Stone's composure. The sweat on the principal's upper lip. The desperation in his voice when he'd talked about protecting the university's reputation.
Three students dead. Three families paid off. Three lives erased like mistakes in a ledger.
The thought made Amir's stomach twist.
They reached the end of the hallway and turned back toward the main stairwell—the same grand spiral staircase they'd climbed to reach the administrative offices. The university's Central Tower was built as a vertical stack: executive offices at the top where they'd just been, general administrative functions in the middle floors, and student services at ground level. They needed to go down, back through the levels they'd passed on their way up.
The Cog Master descended the spiral staircase with measured, deliberate steps, his mechanical hand resting lightly on the brass handrail. Amir followed, his boots making soft thuds against the dark grey marble, the sound echoing in the narrow space.
"But here's the thing," the Cog Master said, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful, more analytical. "Stone isn't the mastermind. He's a bureaucrat. A coward protecting his legacy and his position." He paused on the landing, his grey-green eyes scanning the corridor that branched off toward the faculty offices. "Someone else is pulling the strings. Someone who benefits from keeping those deaths quiet. Someone who needed them quiet."
Amir's mind immediately went to the most obvious name. "Finch?"
"Possibly." The Cog Master resumed his descent, spiraling down past the faculty level toward the administrative floors below. "Though the connection isn't clear yet. Finch owned the tannery. He owned VIC Plumber Company. Both places were sites of paranormal activity—rituals, entities, deaths. But what's his connection to the university? To the students? To the sounds in the walls?"
They descended another full rotation of the spiral, passing the second-floor landing. Here, the atmosphere was different from the executive levels above. The corridor that stretched before them was wider, busier, lined on both sides with heavy wooden doors bearing brass plaques. Unlike the upper floors—which were hushed, reverent, designed to project authority—this floor hummed with the mundane machinery of institutional administration.
Faculty Offices – Department of Applied Sciences
Student Disciplinary Committee – Director: Prof. Harland Grey
Financial Aid & Scholarships – Hours: 8 AM - 4 PM
The Cog Master continued down one more level, and they emerged onto the ground floor of the Central Tower—the same vast entrance hall they'd first walked through. The towering statue of Erasmus Varn still dominated the far end, one hand raised toward the vaulted ceiling. Students streamed across the polished marble floor in all directions, heading to and from the various wings of the university complex.
The Cog Master turned left, following one of the brass inlay lines set into the marble floor. The line branched off from the main entrance area, leading toward a wing marked by small brass plaques embedded in the wall:
← REGISTRAR – STUDENT RECORDS
← ENROLLMENT SERVICES
← ARCHIVES
They followed the brass line down a wide corridor that extended from the entrance hall. This passage was more utilitarian than the grand spaces above—still impressive, still well-maintained, but clearly designed for function rather than intimidation. The walls were dark wood paneling on the lower half, pale stone above, and Aether-lamps hung at regular intervals, their steady glow illuminating the flow of students moving past administrative offices.
Students moved through the corridor in both directions—some alone, clutching papers and looking stressed, others in small groups, their voices echoing off the stone walls. Most of them were dressed well, their clothes clean and expensive, but there was a tiredness to them that Amir recognized. The exhaustion of people ground down by expectations and pressure.
One student—a young man with dark circles under his eyes and ink stains on his fingers—nearly walked straight into the Cog Master before jerking to a stop at the last second, mumbling an apology and hurrying past.
The Cog Master didn't acknowledge him. He just kept walking, his cane tapping steadily, his focus absolute.
They passed more doors. More offices. A small waiting area with wooden benches where a handful of students sat, staring blankly at the walls or reading from textbooks with the glazed expression of people who'd stopped processing information hours ago.
Then, without warning, the Cog Master stopped.
He stepped to the side, positioning himself near one of the tall, narrow windows that looked out over a small interior courtyard. The window was framed in dark wood, the glass clean despite the city's ever-present smog. Through it, Amir could see a patch of carefully maintained grass, a few benches, a fountain that burbled quietly.
The Cog Master reached up with his left hand—his real hand—and gripped the sleeve of his brown coat where it covered his right arm. With a single, fluid motion, he pulled the fabric up past his elbow.
Amir's breath caught in his throat.
The arm wasn't just mechanical. It was a absolute masterpiece.
From the elbow down, the Cog Master's right arm was entirely artificial. The construction was beautiful in a way that went beyond simple function—it was art and engineering fused into something that transcended both.
The frame was polished brass and darkened steel, fitted together in interlocking segments that moved with perfect, fluid grace. Each segment overlapped the next like scales, creating a surface that was both flexible and incredibly strong. The joints—elbow, wrist, each individual knuckle—were reinforced with tiny gears visible through small, transparent housings of treated crystal or glass. The gears turned and clicked in synchronized patterns as the Cog Master flexed his fingers, the movement so smooth and natural it was almost disturbing.
The "bones" of the forearm were hollow tubes of brass, threaded through with thin copper wires that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic glow. Aether conduits, feeding power to the mechanisms. The glow was subtle, almost hypnotic—a soft blue-white light that ebbed and flowed like a heartbeat.
The hand itself was the most striking part. Five fingers, each one articulated with impossible precision, each joint a miniature marvel of mechanical engineering. The fingers were covered in a thin layer of treated leather that had been dyed to match human skin tone, but up close, you could see the seams, the tiny screws, the way each knuckle was assembled from multiple parts working in perfect harmony.
And crawling out from beneath the wrist housing—emerging from a small, circular aperture no larger than a coin—was a spider.
It was mechanical, roughly the size of Amir's thumb, built from the same brass and steel as the arm itself. Its body was a smooth, oval shell, segmented and polished, and its eight legs were thin, articulated things that moved with a skittering, organic fluidity that made Amir's skin crawl despite knowing it was just a machine. Each leg ended in a tiny, needle-sharp point that tap-tap-tapped against the leather covering of the Cog Master's palm.
The spider paused at the edge of the palm, its body rotating slightly as if orienting itself. Then, with a motion so quick Amir almost missed it, it leaped.
It landed on the marble floor with a soft tink, its legs immediately adjusting to the new surface, distributing its weight with perfect mechanical efficiency. For a split second, it sat there, motionless.
Then it scuttled away into the crowd of students with a speed that was genuinely unsettling, its brass body catching the light as it wove between boots and disappeared into the shadows near the wall.
Amir stared after it, his mouth slightly open, his brain struggling to catch up with what he'd just witnessed.
Then his gaze snapped back to the Cog Master's arm. To the impossible engineering. To the seamless integration of magic and mechanics, of Aether and brass, of living will and crafted machine.
"What the—" The words tumbled out in a rush, his voice cracking slightly with teenage excitement that he couldn't quite suppress. "Is that—how does it even—can you feel with it? Does it run on Aether crystals or is it something else? How many spiders do you have in there? Can you control them all at once? Did you build it yourself or—"
"Focus," the Cog Master interrupted, his tone flat but not unkind. He pulled his sleeve back down with his left hand, covering the arm once more, the brown fabric settling smoothly into place as if nothing unusual had happened. "We have work to do."
"But—"
"Focus, Amir." The grey-green eyes fixed on him, and there was something in that gaze—not quite annoyance, not quite amusement. Just... expectation.
Amir clamped his mouth shut, forcing down the hundred questions that were screaming in his brain. The arm. The spider. The casual, impossible mastery of technology that shouldn't exist, fused with magic in ways he didn't understand.
Later. I'll ask later. If he doesn't kill me first for being annoying.
The Cog Master resumed walking, following the brass line deeper into the administrative section. "The spider is programmed with the names of the Galloway brothers—Thomas and Benjamin. It will search the dormitory registries, cross-reference class schedules, and locate them. Simple pattern recognition and mechanical tracking. Should take approximately fifteen minutes."
"And in the meantime?" Amir asked, falling into step beside him.
"We visit the registrar's office. Confirm which courses the brothers are enrolled in. Which professors they study under." The Cog Master's tone was matter-of-fact, clinical. "If Finch has any connection to this university—donations, faculty appointments, consulting positions—there will be a paper trail. The registrar keeps records of everything. Funding sources. Endowments. Faculty employment history. Student disciplinary actions."
They passed another cluster of offices, these ones smaller, more cramped. Through one open door, Amir caught a glimpse of a tiny room packed floor-to-ceiling with filing cabinets, a single clerk hunched over a desk, sorting through stacks of papers.
The bureaucratic heart of the university. Where the real power lived. Not in grand speeches or academic theory, but in records. In files. In the mundane machinery of institutional control.
"Speaking of which," the Cog Master said, his voice dropping slightly as they moved into a quieter section of the corridor, away from the main flow of student traffic, "you did well back there. With Stone."
Amir blinked, surprised. "I didn't do anything. You did all the talking."
"Precisely." The Cog Master glanced at him, his monocle catching the light. "You observed. You stayed silent. You didn't interrupt, didn't try to contribute, didn't break the rhythm of the interrogation." He paused, then added, "Many rookies feel the need to prove themselves. They ask stupid questions, challenge the subject, derail the entire conversation. You didn't. That shows discipline."
Amir felt a small, unexpected warmth in his chest at that. Something that might have been pride. "Thanks."
"Don't let it go to your head." The Cog Master's tone was dry. "You're still a rookie. You still have years of learning ahead of you before you're even remotely competent."
And just like that, the warmth evaporated, replaced by mild irritation. Of course. Can't let me feel good for more than five seconds.
They turned another corner, the brass line leading them down a narrower side corridor. The walls here were lined with smaller offices, their doors closed, their brass plaques bearing names and titles that meant nothing to Amir.
"Now," the Cog Master continued, his cane tapping that steady rhythm, "let me teach you something useful. How to detect when someone is lying."
Amir's attention sharpened immediately, his irritation forgotten. "I'm listening."
"Good. First principle: the body betrays the mind." The Cog Master's mechanical fingers drummed a soft, irregular pattern against the head of his cane. "When a person lies, their conscious mind is focused on constructing the deception—choosing words, maintaining the narrative, making it believable. But their unconscious mind, their body, reacts to the stress of that deception. And stress leaves traces."
"Like sweating," Amir said, remembering the sheen of moisture on Stone's upper lip.
"Precisely. But that's crude. Obvious. There are subtler tells." The Cog Master raised his left hand, ticking off points on his fingers. "Watch the hands. Liars often touch their face—nose, mouth, neck, ears—because the autonomic stress response triggers micro-itches in the skin. They'll also create barriers. Crossing their arms. Placing objects between themselves and you. A desk. A book. Even a teacup. Anything to create psychological distance."
Amir nodded, his mind already cataloging the information, filing it away.
"Second," the Cog Master continued, "watch the eyes. Not for looking away—that's a myth perpetuated by people who don't understand human behavior. Liars often maintain too much eye contact, overcompensating because they believe that's what honest people do. Instead, watch the pupils. Under stress, pupils dilate. It's involuntary. And watch the blink rate. Liars blink more frequently, especially when constructing complex lies."
"Okay," Amir said slowly, his brain working to absorb it all. "Hands. Pupils. Blink rate. Got it."
"Third: listen to the language itself." The Cog Master's voice took on a professorial tone, like he was lecturing a class. "Liars distance themselves from their lies. They use passive voice—'mistakes were made' instead of 'I made a mistake.' They over-explain, providing unnecessary details you didn't ask for. They hedge—'to be honest,' 'frankly,' 'to tell you the truth'—because honest people don't need to preface truth with disclaimers. And they repeat your question back to you to buy time to formulate an answer."
Amir's mind flashed back to the interrogation. Stone's voice echoing in his memory.
"Define 'unusual.'" "How many what?"
"He did that," Amir said, his voice quiet. "Stone. He repeated your questions."
"Exactly." The Cog Master's smile was sharp, predatory. "He was stalling. Calculating. Every second he bought was a second to construct a better lie, to find a narrative that would satisfy us without revealing too much." He paused. "Though in his case, the truth was so damning that lying would have been pointless. He knew we already suspected. So he gave us just enough truth to seem cooperative, while withholding the details that would truly incriminate him."
They walked in silence for a moment, the corridor narrowing further. The Aether-lamps here were spaced further apart, creating pockets of shadow between pools of pale blue-white light.
Then Amir spoke, his tone more serious now. "I found something. In the sewers."
The Cog Master's gaze flicked to him, sharp and focused. "Go on."
Amir pulled the small, cloth-wrapped bundle from his coat pocket. The weight of it felt heavier now, more significant. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing the glass shard—a broken piece of one of Johnathan's alchemical vials—and resting on top of it, the piece of black, rubbery flesh.
The Cog Master stopped walking. His entire body went still, his eyes fixing on the sample with an intensity that made the air feel heavier.
"This is from the Misfire," Amir said quietly. "The one we fought. Me, Pyotr, and Johnathan. In the sewers beneath the VIC Plumber Company."
The Cog Master didn't touch it. He just stared, his expression unreadable, his mechanical hand gripping his cane slightly tighter. "Interesting."
"The Inquisition cleaned up the scene," Amir continued, his voice low. "They removed the bodies, secured the area, did their whole procedure. But they missed this. It was stuck to the floor, half-buried in the muck. I thought..." He trailed off, then forced himself to continue. "I thought you might want to examine it. To figure out what it is. What it was."
The Cog Master was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out with his mechanical hand and carefully took the glass shard, holding it up to the light. The black flesh glistened wetly, its surface too smooth, too uniform, like rubber that had been molded to imitate organic tissue but hadn't quite gotten it right.
"Good work," the Cog Master said finally, his voice quiet but carrying weight. "This could tell us how the Misfire was created. Whether it was a failed Tuner who used a corrupted artifact... or something else entirely. Something worse." He wrapped it back up carefully and tucked it into his own coat. "After we leave the university, we'll take this to my workshop. I have equipment there—chemical analysis, harmonic resonance testing—that can tell us what we're dealing with."
They resumed walking, the corridor opening up ahead into a slightly wider space. The brass line on the floor led them to a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. The door was dark, polished, marked with a brass plaque that read:
REGISTRAR – STUDENT RECORDS & ENROLLMENT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
The Cog Master reached for the handle.
And then he froze.
His head snapped up, his gaze fixing on something beyond the small window set into the door. His entire body tensed, the casual, unbothered demeanor evaporating in an instant.
Amir followed his gaze.
Through the window, across a small, enclosed courtyard—one of the many green pockets scattered throughout the university's architecture—he could see one of the residential buildings. It was four stories tall, dark grey stone, its facade marked with tall, narrow windows that glowed with the warm, steady light of Aether-lamps from within.
But on the roof—
A figure stood at the very edge.
Small. Feminine. A girl, her silhouette sharp and black against the grey afternoon sky.
She was standing on the lip of the roof, right at the boundary where stone gave way to empty air. Her arms hung loose at her sides, her posture slack, her head tilted downward as if she were staring at the courtyard four stories below.
And she was swaying.
Not from wind. The air was still, the smog hanging heavy and motionless over the city.
She was swaying from hesitation. From the internal war between the part of her that wanted to step forward and the part that wanted to step back. The kind of swaying that came right before a decision was made.
Right before a fall.
The Cog Master's expression shifted instantly—from calm analysis to cold, absolute focus.
"Shit," he breathed.
Then he moved.
He didn't walk. He ran.
The cane clattered to the floor, forgotten, as he turned and sprinted back down the corridor with a speed that seemed impossible for a man his age, for someone who'd been walking with measured, deliberate steps just seconds before.
His coat billowed behind him, the golden collar catching the light, his boots pounding against the marble floor with heavy, echoing thuds that made students scatter out of his path, their voices rising in startled confusion.
Amir didn't think. Didn't hesitate. Didn't question.
He just ran.
His boots slammed against the floor as he tore after the Cog Master, his lungs already burning, his ribs—still tender from the beating they'd taken in the sewers—screaming in protest with every breath.
They hit the spiral staircase and the Cog Master took it upward, his mechanical hand gripping the brass rail, hauling himself up three, four steps at a time with inhuman strength.
Amir followed, his legs burning, his vision swimming slightly at the edges from exertion and the adrenaline flooding his system.
Students pressed themselves against the walls as they passed, staring with wide eyes, some of them shouting questions that neither Amir nor the Cog Master bothered to answer.
Up. They needed to go up.
Because somewhere above them, on the roof of a residential building, a girl was standing at the edge.
And they had seconds—maybe less—to stop her from stepping off.