The Phantom Gear

The Sump Pits were exactly as she had left them. Dark, violent, and indifferent.

Nyx sat in the shadows of an abandoned boiler room, wrapping a bandage around her sliced arm. She had been running for twelve hours. Every screen in the city was broadcasting her face, labeling her the "Traitor Viper."

She felt hollowed out. A machine running on empty. She had run because she was terrified of Silas betraying her. But the deeper she hid in the smog, the more she realized she was terrified of something else: she was terrified that he *wouldn't* betray her, and that the Shadow Cabinet would kill him for it.

She pulled off her bloodstained weapons belt to clean her remaining knives. As she unclasped the heavy leather buckle, a small, folded piece of thick, Presidential stationary fluttered to the dirty floor.

Nyx froze. She slowly picked it up.

It wasn't sealed. The handwriting was sharp, elegant, and hurried. Silas must have slipped it into her belt during the chaotic ride back to the Spire, before she had fled the med-bay.

* Nyx. I know Thorne is behind the attack. I know they will try to frame you using your past. Do not trust them. Do not trust my advisors. Run. Hide in the Sump.*

Nyx’s breath hitched, her eyes flying across the page.

* I will not sign the warrant. To flush Thorne out, I am invoking emergency powers to call a mandatory session of the Grand Parliament tomorrow at noon. I am walking into his trap without security to force his hand and expose the Syndicate ties. I will likely not survive it. Forgive me. Live well, my shadow. - S.*

The paper crumpled in Nyx’s fist.

He didn't betray her. He had pushed her away to protect her, choosing to walk to the slaughter alone just to clear her name and break the corrupt system.

"You stupid, idealistic idiot," Nyx whispered, a fierce, wet heat pricking her eyes.

The heavy, cynical ice around her heart didn't just crack; it shattered completely. She was not a monster. She was not just a weapon. Silas had seen the human beneath the brass, and he was dying for it.

Nyx stood up, dropping the bandage. She strapped her trench knives to her thighs. She loaded the heavy revolver. The clockwork gears in her spine began to whir, not with the cold, calculated precision of an assassin, but with the roaring, furious fire of a woman who was going to save the man she loved.

She looked at her pocket watch. It was 11:30 AM.

The Viper was going to Parliament.