We floated among the gears.
Trying not to feel.
Trying to deny the bond.
Trying to survive through emotional dishonesty.
The air tasted of copper and time—metallic on the tongue, thick in the lungs, carrying weight of centuries compressed into mechanical space. Around us the endless gears turned with deep grinding rhythm, each rotation marking seconds in bronze teeth, each click measuring moments we couldn't afford to lose.
But it wasn't working.
Astro's mark kept glowing.
My proximity kept aging him.
The blood oath kept betraying us.
The golden light from his mark painted everything in warm illumination—catching on gear teeth, reflecting off bronze surfaces, creating shadows that danced with each pulse. I could feel the heat of it even from this distance, could sense the magic radiating outward in waves that made the air shimmer.
Then the gears shifted.
Not their rotation.
Their purpose.
