The palace carried the smell of last night's rain into morning, a quiet metal-cold scent that followed Asha to her workshop. Sunlight edged through tall windows, throwing soft gold over the gears and coils scattered across her bench. Each piece of the forgetting clock gleamed like a promise she hadn't yet decided to keep.
She worked with her sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands steady, eyes tracing the fine teeth of a new gear. When she tilted it, the light caught a thin seam of silver she hadn't noticed before—a flaw or a hidden design. She lifted it to her ear; even the smallest click of metal on metal sounded like a secret.
Behind her, the door opened without warning. She knew the cadence of those steps now.
"You should announce yourself," she said.
"You always know when I'm near," Kairon replied, his voice quiet enough to blend with the ticking clocks. He crossed the room with the controlled ease of a soldier who could vanish into silence at will. "What is this piece?"
"A heart," she said, holding up the gear. "It will keep the mechanism breathing. But it listens differently than I planned."
He studied the gear, his gloved hands staying respectfully at his sides. "It listens?"
"All machines do," she said. "Most people just don't hear them."
His gaze shifted from the gear to her face, then away, as if he'd nearly spoken something he wasn't ready to reveal.
They walked the inner gardens after lunch, a quiet path where sunlit mist rose from damp stones. Vines climbed pale walls like forgotten handwriting. The scent of rosemary drifted on the air.
Kairon slowed near a marble fountain, water catching sunlight in small shards. "The council will press again," he said. "They want the east wing sealed."
"And you?" Asha asked.
"I want to understand why a door bears three locks and still waits to be opened." He glanced at her, a shadow of a smile flickering. "And I want you safe while I find the answer."
"Safety is a choice, not a place," she said softly. "Doors don't frighten me."
"They should," he murmured, almost to himself.
That evening, Asha returned alone to her workshop. The palace had settled into its night rhythm: guards changing shifts, the distant clang of an unseen bell marking hours no one claimed. She set the half-finished heart of the clock on the table and leaned close, letting the soft whir of its trial motion fill the quiet.
A faint vibration trembled through the floor. Not the regular tread of guards—something deeper, like a low drumbeat from the east wing. She held her breath. The vibration came again, a slow, deliberate pulse that matched neither wind nor rain.
Asha stood and crossed to the window. The courtyard lay in shadow, lanterns flickering like cautious stars. Far beyond, toward the sealed corridor, a thin line of light glimmered beneath the heavy door she had touched the night before.
She pressed her palm to the glass. The gear on her workbench ticked once, sharp and clear, as though answering a question she hadn't asked.
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