Morning light struggled to pierce Brasswick's smoke-stained skies. Within the brass halls of the Ministry of Progress, gears ticked in solemn rhythm. The council chamber was a theater of iron balconies and steam-valves, every word spoken beneath portraits of monarchs framed in copper.
Elric stood before the council, his report in hand. Beside him, Selene lurked in the shadows, uninvited but unwilling to leave.
"Three dead in as many nights," Elric declared. "All Anomalists. All bearing the broken gear. This is no coincidence. The murderer studies them, exploits their gifts, leaves them as warnings."
From the high bench, Lord Rathburn — a rotund man with a monocle affixed by a brass chain — sneered."Warnings? Or proof that these so-called gifted are a danger to Brasswick itself? If they can be killed, then they are not gods. They are flaws of nature. Abominations."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber.
Elric's jaw tightened. "They are citizens. And someone is hunting them with precision. To ignore that is to invite ruin."
But his words fell heavy against iron ears. The council whispered of stricter laws, of confinement, of purges. Selene, listening from the shadows, clenched her fists until her nails cut her palms.
As Elric left the chamber, she hissed at him, "They'll turn on us. On me. You saw it in their eyes."
"I did," Elric admitted, his voice grim. "And I fear our enemy is the one stoking that fire."