Pulling the cigarette from her lips, Evelyn stepped through the doorway to Alaric's workshop once more. Gone where the warning glows of blue crystal light, the flickering oranges of candle light, and green hums of magic sigils on the walls, now replaced with the golden yellows of daylight. Embers flaring as she took a slow inhale before exhaling a slow ribbon of smoke. The workshop was as she’d left it—chaotic but untouched, save for her own and the other police officers' disturbance from the night before. She let the cigarette drop to the floor before crushing it with the heel of her boot. The smell of stale magic, grease, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air, clinging like an accusation.
“Now where are you,” she muttered to herself, her voice just loud enough to fill the silence.
Her gaze shifted over the quiet workshop, stopping on the spot where Alaric was found. The memory flickered back to the front of her mind, unwanted but persistent: his body, cold and splayed out among his life’s work. Evelyn rolled her shoulders as if to shake it off, her gaze snapping to the desk in the far corner.
It was an unassuming thing, wooden and battered by decades of tinkering. Wires spilled out of drawers like intestines, sheets of old notes and parchments where piled high. Evelyn started there. The rune-etched walls loomed over her as if mocking her oversight.
Her fingers brushed over the clutter on the workbench: bits of copper wire, a half-disassembled automaton hand, and vials of substances in every shade of danger! She set each object aside with meticulous care, her green eyes flicking between them and the notes scattered haphazardly across the surface. The man might have been brilliant, but organization clearly hadn’t been his strong suit. Most of the notes were indecipherable—esoteric symbols and calculations that would take her months to figure out. A few references stood out, though: sigils scrawled beside Alaric’s looping handwriting, underlined as if to demand attention. Her pen scratched across her own notebook, recording each one with mechanical precision. When the first desk yielded nothing she moved onto the next one.
Leaning over it, her fingers skimming the edges of papers and stray pens like she could coax a secret out of the grain. Nothing. Just the same stubborn silence it had offered last night. She straightened, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, and let her gaze fall to the next workbench. Alaric’s tools sprawled across it like an unfinished symphony, chaotic but purposeful. There was a rhythm to the mess—pliers balanced on the edge, gears nestled in their tiny bowls, a half-empty vial resting against a notebook smudged with grease. She could almost feel him there, the way he must’ve known exactly where each piece belonged.
"What am I not seeing?" she muttered to herself, whilst flicking through the pages of a notebook that seemed to be more dust than leather.
A flicker of gold caught her eye. She froze. The small mechanical bird perched on the desk, its tiny brass wings tilted just so, as if it had paused mid-flight. Evelyn frowned. She had not seen it there last night. Rather it was tucked in with the other many projects in varying states of completion. Now, it sat on the side back corner of the table, bold, almost deliberate, like it had something to say.
The bird felt heavier than it looked when she picked it up, its cold metal smooth against her palm. She turned it over once, then set it aside, careful not to upset the precarious order of things. Beneath where it had sat, her fingers brushed something else—cool, round, and smooth. The sensation stopped her cold. A spark snapped against her skin, sharp and quick, like the nip of an impatient terrier.
“Cute,” she muttered, her voice low, dry as a leftover joke. Her lips twitched in spite of herself, but her hands kept moving, slower now. She eased the object out from under the scattered papers. It glinted as she lifted the silver locket, the surface plain except for the sigil etched across the front. Her thumb traced the lines instinctively, slow and deliberate, as though touching it might make it disappear. But it stayed, stubborn and sure, just like the chest in Elara’s cottage—the iron bands, the same mark. A perfect match!
“You’re the thing I missed, aren’t you?” Evelyn murmured. The metal cool against her skin. A quick glance back towards the palm sized metal bird.
"Someone is ether making it two easy," annoyance in her tone. "Or someone else is still here."
Her thumb grazed the edge of the locket. When it didn’t open at a nudge, she pressed harder. The sigil flared faintly, a warning she felt more than saw. Evelyn raised an eyebrow.
“Not the friendly sort, are you?” She pressed again, this time with the tip of a small tool from the workbench. The reaction was the same: stubbornly shut with a faint magical hum that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
“Magic,” she muttered in annoyance. “Of course.”
The notebook was back out, her pen flying across the page. She wrote down the locket’s location—wedged beneath a stack of diagrams—and described its appearance, noting the faint glow of the sigil when she attempted to open it. Every detail mattered, she reminded herself. The last thing she needed was to overlook something *twice!*
Once the details were secured in ink, she slipped the locket into her coat pocket, the cold sliver coming to rest against her side. Whatever this was, it had ties to Elara—and likely to whoever had left Alaric’s body cooling on the floor.
The workshop was still eerily silent as she moved toward the door, her boots clicking softly against the stone. The sun caught on a series of brass gears mounted to a nearby wall, sending a spattering of light across the floor. She paused once, glancing back at the mess she’d left behind. The little bird looked back at her from across the room. Clicking her tongue once before strolling back over to the bird, picking it up. Then squared her shoulders and left in search of the one thing that could give her some clues as to what this locket was.
The hall yawned out in front of her, wide enough to swallow a cathedral and twice as cluttered. Brass pipes and copper doodads littered the workbenches, jumbled up with crumbling old books and scrolls that looked like they’d crumble to dust if you so much as breathed on them. Overhead, gears the size of carriage wheels spun slow and aimless, like they were trying to remember what they were supposed to do. In the corner, a half-built automaton sat slumped like a drunk at closing time, its tin head cocked at an awkward angle. Across the room, a curtain gave a twitch—just a whisper of motion in the dead air, enough to make her fingers itch. Evelyn took a drag from her cigarette, let the smoke curl out like she had all the time in the world.
“If you’re here to repent, I didn’t bring my rosary.” Her voice slicing through the dimming light.
The curtain shuddered again, then peeled back, slow and deliberate, like it didn’t want to give up its secret. Evelyn recognized the hulking figure immediately! Gregor Ironhand stepped out, big as a bear and built like a bad idea. Wood and metal made up his frame, but his movement now would be more accurate if he was made of straw! His brass joints clicked in the quiet, his glowing blue eyes tilted just enough downward to look… apologetic? Gregor’s fingers twitched, metal scraping softly as he wrung his enormous hands together. He stopped a good ten feet away, his bulk almost shrinking under the weight of her stare.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Well?” she said, tapping ash off her cigarette like she might just get bored and walk out. “Don’t make me wait. I’m not the patient type.”
The towering figure of Gregor Ironhand seemed to slump, the creak of brass and iron joints echoing faintly. His broad shoulders dipped, and for a moment, the imposing golem looked almost human—wearied, uncertain. Evelyn’s sharp green eyes caught the flicker in his luminous gaze, a rhythm like the hesitant flutter of dying light crystals. Twice it stuttered, accompanied by a soft hum that, if she didn’t know better, might’ve been regret.
“I am... processing,” Gregor said, his voice a deep rumble underscored by the silence that followed. His words hung in the air, precise yet halting, each syllable deliberate as if spoken through the weight of fog. “It appears I am... disoriented.”
Evelyn leaned back against the wall, one boot crossed over the other. The cigarette tucked between her fingers burned low, sending a thin wisp of smoke curling upward. She studied him, letting the silence fill the space between them. He didn’t move to fill it, a trait she appreciated in a stranger.
“Disoriented, huh?” she finally said, her tone dry as the dust around them. “Big guy like you, I’d have figured you were the one doing the disorienting.”
Gregor’s head tilted, the polished brass casing of his face catching the light.
“Clarification: I intend no harm. This state of disarray is... unintended.”
Evelyn smirked, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with her heel.
“Didn’t say you did. Name’s Evelyn Blackwood, by the way.” She tapped her coat pocket, where a folded newspaper clipping rustled faintly.
“You’re Gregor Ironhand, right? Hard to miss a face—or a chassis—like yours in the papers.”
His luminous eyes shifted from azure to a faint emerald glow, the faint etchings on his frame brightening as he processed her words.
“Affirmative. My designation is Gregor Ironhand.” He paused, a faint ticking filling the air like the moment before a clock struck the hour.
“You are familiar with me. Query: Do you require assistance?”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow, her smirk softening into something resembling curiosity.
“Assistance? Not unless you can tell me why the man who built you was found dead in his workshop last night?"
Gregor’s eyes brightened slightly, then dimmed again.
“My operational logs from the last forty-eight hours are... inaccessible. They are either corrupted or locked behind security protocols I cannot override.”
“You’re telling me someone tampered with you,” she said, tilting her head to appraise him. At seven feet, Gregor towered over her, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch the length of the hall. “How do I know you’re not playing dumb?”
“I cannot ‘play dumb,’ Detective Blackwood,” he replied, the faintest hint of indignation threading his otherwise formal tone. “My systems operate on logic and data, though I acknowledge gaps in my current operational capabilities.”
“Well,” she started, “You think whoever killed Alaric did this to you?”
Gregor’s eyes flickered emerald for a brief moment before settling back to blue.
“The probability is high, though I cannot substantiate this claim. My final uncorrupted memory is of Alaric instructing me to safeguard the workshop.”
“Real thorough job there.” She let the words hang in the air, watching for his reaction. If he felt guilt it didn’t register.
“Affirmative,” Gregor said, his tone devoid of irony. “I failed.”
His simplicity disarmed her more than she cared to admit. Evelyn sighed, running a hand through her hair.
“All right, big guy. You remember anything useful? Anything at all?”
He paused, the ticking of internal gears filling the space between them.
“I recall the locket,” he said finally, his glowing eyes focusing on her pocket.
“Alaric held it shortly before his demise. It bears a sigil of protection... or confinement.”
"Would explain why I could not open the damn thing," Evelyn exclaimed in annoyance. She reached for the battered cigarette case. Her hand brushed the spot where the metal bird nested inside her coat pocket. She turned to Gregor, whose towering had not moved from its spot.
“The bird,” she said abruptly. “Did you put it there? On the locket?” She asked whilst pulling it out to show him.
The soft hum of Gregor’s crystal core filled the pause before he answered.
“Affirmative. Its placement ensured the artifact would not go unnoticed.” he said, reaching out to take it from her. Then stepping back to his original spot, placing the bird to nest on his shoulder.
“So you thought I’d find it and just... put the pieces together myself? You couldn’t have mentioned it last night?”
Gregor’s eyes shifted from azure to emerald, his version of hesitation.
“The situation was... complex. My calculations indicated a higher probability of your discovery leading to actionable outcomes.”
She snorted, more incredulous than angry.
“Next time, skip the probabilities and just tell me. I don’t need scavenger hunts.”
“Understood.” His tone held no apology, just a factual acknowledgment.
Evelyn sighed and stepped closer, tilting her head back to meet Gregor’s gaze.
“I need to see your logs. Permission to access?”
Gregor straightened, the faint creak of brass and wood breaking the workshop’s quiet.
“Granted. Be advised, my recent memories may be incomplete.”
“Yeah, I figured,” she muttered. She placed a hand on his chest. Black shadows seeped from every nook and cranny, from the tiny scratches or dents in his chest plate, pooling around the palm of her hand. The air between them shifted, growing dense and charged as her magic met his. After a short moment her hand started to sink into his chest plate.
The first sensation hit her like a heartbeat—steady, mechanical, foreign. She focused, letting the shadows guide her deeper, brushing against the crystalline core embedded in Gregor’s chest. It wasn’t like reading a book or hearing a story. This was tactile, raw, as if she were pressing her fingers against the grooves of a carved surface and trying to guess the design.
Her breath hitched. There it was—a void, a spot where all sensation fell away to nothing, a single dot of black in an ocean of blue.
“You’re right,” she murmured. “Something’s missing. Feels like someone scooped out a chunk of you with a spoon.”
“An apt analogy,” Gregor replied. “I suspect the removal pertains to my master’s final project. Attempts to retrieve the data have proven unsuccessful.”
Evelyn withdrew her shadows, stepping back to collect herself.
“Magic and mechanics,” she said aloud, the words sharper than she intended. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing. It’s not just a hack job—they wanted to cover their tracks.”
“Affirmative. The level of expertise suggests a highly skilled individual, likely familiar with both my systems and Master Alaric’s methodologies.”
Her hand drifted to the locket again, her thumb tracing its cool, engraved surface.
“The locket, the missing data—it’s all tied to this project. Whatever Alaric was working on got him killed.”
Gregor’s gaze followed her movement.
“Do you require further assistance?”
“Not from you,” she said, a wry edge creeping into her voice.
“You’re a seven-foot tin can with the personality of a court stenographer. This part’s on me.”
His eyes flickered briefly, the closest thing to amusement she’d seen from him.
“Acknowledged.”
She turned away, scanning the workshop one last time. The sun had shifted, and the light now fell on a nearby workbench, catching on the edge of a shattered vial. Evelyn tugged her coat tighter around her shoulders, lit her cigarette, and made for the door. She’d gotten what she needed—for now!