The workshop was the one place in the Vaelthorne estate that didn''t feel suffocating. The rest of the mansion felt like a museum of aristocratic clutter—oil paintings of long-dead ancestors, polished brass chandeliers, old creations of Lord Aeren Vaelthorne in tempered glass display cases. But in the workshop, among the hiss of steam vents and the scent of oil, Cassian could breathe.


    Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he sat at the cluttered workbench, his waistcoat thrown into a mess of copper wires and loose gears. His dark hair had fallen from its usual perfection, stray strands slipping over his eyes as his hands worked within a forest of wires inside a powered-down automaton—his current project.


    He tinkered inside a brass-plated chest cavity, adjusting a fine gear with gloved fingers, moving with careful precision, his mind lost in a rhythm. This is what made sense. Machines followed rules. Unlike humans. Unlike the system of the outside world. Gears turned, steam hissed, mechanisms obeyed.


    A metallic voice, laced with amusement, broke the silence.


    "Master Cassian, do you realize it has been precisely eight hours and thirty-seven minutes since your last meal?"


    Cassian didn''t look up, his eyes locked on his work. "Did you count the minutes for dramatic effect, Aldric? Or should I believe you actually care?"


    The automaton butler let out a mechanical sigh. "Would it hurt you so terribly to pretend I have feelings?"


    Cassian smirked to himself, tightening a small valve on the automaton''s chest, locking the plating. "It would hurt my pride as an engineer. You''re a construct of gears and steam, Aldric. You don''t ''care''; you calculate risks and necessities."


    Standing near the doorway, Aldric folded his arms behind his back and gave a slow tilt of his head. "And yet, here I am. Calculating that you are in dire need of sustenance and rest."


    Cassian shook his head, but with warm exasperation. He never admitted it out loud, but Aldric was his closest friend. A friend of his own creation. A construct that never lied, betrayed, or judged.


    His fingers tightened around his wrench as he turned to Aldric. "Let me finish the diagnostics, then I''ll work on the sustenance thing."


    Aldric bowed his head. "Thank you, Master Cassian."


    "You really are a pain sometimes," Cassian remarked as he turned back to his project.


    "Not as much pain as your stomach will be, sir."


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    The Vaelthorne Estate''s dining hall was a grand display of aristocratic status, a chamber built for power, tradition, and quiet intimidation, not comfort. The vaulted ceiling was adorned with intricate brass filigree, with sweeping arches held by dark mahogany beams carved with sigils of ancient Vaelthorne lineage.


    Whispering gas lamps fitted into the brass chandelier bathed the hall in a flickering golden glow, casting long shadows across the tall oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors that lined the walls.


    Cassian sat at the obsidian-black dining table, carved from a single piece of a rare mineral. The surface was polished to perfection and cold to the touch.


    "Your first course, sir." Aldric, now donning a white apron, gently placed a plate in front of Cassian. "A delicately steamed pheasant consommé, infused with saffron and topped with thin shavings of white truffle, for your enjoyment, Master Cassian."


    Cassian frowned, rolling up his sleeves. "You are really taking this ''sustenance'' thing seriously, Aldric."


    "I procured a full three-course dinner for you, sir. That will fulfill all your nutritional needs and revitalize your body." Aldric bowed. "Enjoy your meal, sir."


    Cassian sighed as he grabbed the smallest piece of cutlery presented to him. He cut out a small portion and tasted it. "You''ve outdone yourself, Aldric."


    "I''m glad it is to your satisfaction, sir."


    "''Glad,''" Cassian repeated, chewing. "How does it feel to feel glad for an automaton?"


    "I fulfilled my command. The goal set was to make a meal that you would enjoy and consume. I completed my goal."


    "That''s overly complicated."


    The heavy doors of the dining hall groaned open. The sharp clack of high heels on marble approached.


    A tall, statuesque figure entered, carrying herself with the poise of a queen. Her high-collared black gown was unmistakable.


    "Evelyn," Cassian greeted coldly, finishing his first course.


    "You stink of oil, boy. You''ve been in that filthy workshop again." Lady Evelyn spoke with impaling sharpness. "You''re a noble, Cassian. Being locked in a stinking workshop, getting messy, isn''t what nobles do."


    "Tell that to my father, Evelyn." Cassian snapped. "Now, dear aunt, what do you inquire of me?" He spoke with a hint of sarcasm.


    Lady Evelyn clicked her tongue. "You are aware that the Annual Symposium is tomorrow morning? You should get your rest to get rid of those ugly eye bags, and for the gods'' sake, take a shower. You reek."


    "I''m glad my scent disturbs you," Cassian muttered.


    The lady hissed.


    "Yes, my lady. I will shower."


    "Good." The chair screeched uncomfortably on the marble as she got up. "Be presentable tomorrow. You are representing the family. Your father is caught up in Vortessa negotiating trade contracts for aetherstone shipments."


    "Another project in the works, huh," Cassian commented, feeling Lady Evelyn''s eyes stabbing into him. "Got it."