The corridor they entered was wide—easily fifteen feet across—with a high, vaulted ceiling that arched overhead in a series of Gothic points. Aether-lamps hung at regular intervals, their soft, steady glow far brighter and cleaner than any gas flame could produce. The light they cast was almost white, with the faintest blue tinge, illuminating every detail of the space without the flicker or smoke of traditional lighting. The walls were dark wood paneling on the bottom half, polished to a deep sheen, and pale stone on the upper half, carved with subtle patterns of ivy and geometric shapes.
The floor was the same dark grey marble as the entrance hall, but here it was inlaid with thin strips of brass that formed lines and patterns—directional guides, Amir realized, leading to different sections of the building. One line led left, marked with a small brass plaque that read: LECTURE HALLS – EAST WING. Another led right: LABORATORIES – WEST WING. A third continued straight ahead: ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES – CENTRAL TOWER.
Students moved through the corridor in both directions, their conversations echoing off the stone walls. They walked in pairs or small groups, their arms laden with books and papers, their faces marked with the particular exhaustion that came from too much studying and not enough sleep.
But there was no poverty here. No desperation.
Even the exhausted ones looked... comfortable. Well-fed. Their clothes were fine, their boots polished, their futures secure.
The Cog Master turned left, following the brass line toward the East Wing.
They passed a series of tall, narrow windows set into the outer wall. Through them, Amir could see one of the university's many courtyards—a small pocket of green nestled between buildings, with carefully manicured grass, stone benches, and a fountain at its center. Students sat on the benches, reading or talking, their voices muted by the thick glass.
The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, door after door lining both sides. Each one was heavy wood, marked with brass numbers and small placards.
Room 104 – Advanced Aetheric Theory
Room 106 – Practical Mechanics – Professor Harland
Room 108 – Historical Analysis of the Harmonic War
Through the small windows set into each door, Amir caught glimpses of lectures in progress—chalkboards covered in equations, students bent over notebooks, professors gesturing emphatically at diagrams.
One door stood open, and as they passed, Amir's curiosity pulled his gaze inside.
The classroom was tiered, with rows of seats rising up like an amphitheater. Maybe fifty students sat there, all facing forward, all focused on the professor at the front—a tall, thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and a shock of white hair. He was writing something on the chalkboard, his hand moving in quick, precise strokes, filling the surface with complex mathematical symbols.
"—and thus we can conclude," the professor was saying, his voice carrying clearly into the hallway, "that a Class-3 Aether crystal, approximately the size of one's thumb, contains enough stored energy to level an entire city block. The containment protocols are therefore not optional—they are the only barrier between controlled power and catastrophic detonation. Miss Harrow, can you explain why we never use crystals larger than Class-3 in standard industrial applications?"
A student's voice, nervous but clear: "Because, Professor, the energy density increases exponentially with mass. A Class-4 crystal could theoretically destroy half of Steelhaven if the containment field failed."
"Precisely. Which is why larger crystals are reserved exclusively for military applications under the strictest government oversight, or—"
The door swung shut as they moved past, cutting off the lecture mid-sentence.
The hallway continued, seemingly endless, door after door after door.
They passed a cluster of students gathered near one of the classroom entrances, their voices rising in animated debate.
"—but that's exactly the problem!" one of them was saying, a young man with dark hair and an expensive-looking coat. "If you increase the pressure in the containment chamber beyond Professor Finch's recommended threshold, you risk destabilizing the crystal's internal lattice entirely. One micro-fracture and the entire thing detonates. Finch's theorem clearly states—"
"Finch's theorem is outdated," another student shot back, a woman with her hair pulled into a severe bun. "The new data from the Aetherspire experiments shows we can safely exceed his pressure limits by fifteen percent if we use reinforced resonance dampeners. His assumptions about crystal stability were based on technology from twenty years ago—"
"And people died testing those 'new methods,' Mira. Three researchers at Aetherspire last year. Vaporized. Do you want to be next?"
Their voices faded as Amir and the Cog Master moved on.
Finch.
The name made Amir's skin prickle. He wondered if it was the same Finch—Alistair Finch, owner of the VIC Plumber Company, the man whose name kept appearing in every dark corner of this investigation. But it couldn't be. This was Professor Finch, an academic whose work on crystal containment had become standard doctrine. Different person. Had to be.
Still, the coincidence gnawed at him.
But there was no time to stop and ask.
The hallway ended at another junction, this one opening into a larger space—a crossroads where multiple corridors converged.
Here, the ceiling rose even higher, supported by thick stone columns that had been carved to look like trees, their branches spreading out across the vaulted roof. Between the branches, the stone had been painted with scenes from myth and history—gods and heroes, inventors and scholars, all rendered in faded but still-vibrant colors. Aether-lamps hung from the painted branches like glowing fruit, their light steady and unwavering.
In the center of the space stood a bronze statue of a woman in robes, one hand holding a book, the other raised as if in blessing. The plaque at her feet read: LYANNA VOSS – PATRON OF THE SCIENCES.
Students moved through the crossroads in all directions, creating a constant flow of bodies and voices. Some were heading toward the lecture halls. Others were making their way to the laboratories or libraries. A few sat on stone benches built into the walls, reading or eating quick meals from wrapped packages.
The Cog Master didn't pause. He cut through the crowd with practiced ease, his cane tapping a steady rhythm, and entered another corridor—this one leading upward.
A staircase.
It was wide and grand, built from the same dark grey marble as the floors, with a polished brass handrail running along the wall. The stairs curved upward in a gentle spiral, rising toward the upper floors. Aether-lamps were recessed into the walls at each landing, their glow painting the stone in shades of pale blue-white.
They climbed.
Amir's legs were already protesting—the day had been long, brutal, and his body was still recovering from the beating it had taken in the sewers. But he pushed through, following the Cog Master's steady pace.
The first landing opened onto another hallway, this one identical to the ones below—doors, classrooms, the constant murmur of lectures and discussions.
They kept climbing.
The second landing was different.
Here, the doors were fewer, spaced further apart. The classrooms beyond were larger, more specialized. Through one window, Amir saw a vast laboratory filled with worktables covered in glass tubes, copper coils, and bubbling liquids. Students in protective aprons stood around the tables, carefully measuring and mixing substances under the watchful eye of a stern-looking professor. Aether-lamps hung low over each workstation, providing bright, focused light for delicate work.
Through another window, he saw something that looked like a small factory floor—rows of steam-powered machinery, students operating lathes and presses, the air filled with the smell of hot metal and oil.
This is where they train the engineers. The ones who'll go on to build the Republic's weapons, its factories, its machines.
The third landing was quieter.
The doors here had no windows. The plaques were more formal, more official.
Faculty Lounge – Authorized Personnel Only
Department of Theoretical Mathematics – Head: Professor Edris Kane
Advanced Research – Restricted Access
The atmosphere had shifted. Down below, the university had felt alive—noisy, chaotic, filled with the energy of hundreds of students. Up here, it felt controlled. Restrained. The domain of those who wielded knowledge like a weapon.
The Cog Master turned right, leading them down a narrower corridor that branched off from the main staircase.
This hallway was different again.
The walls here were lined with portraits—old, oil paintings in heavy gilt frames. Faces stared down at them from the canvas, stern and serious, their eyes seeming to follow as they passed. Below each portrait was a brass plaque with a name and title. Aether-lamps mounted between the portraits cast dramatic shadows across the painted faces, making them seem almost alive.
Erasmus Varn – Founder and First Principal – 1702-1754
Helena Grist – Principal – 1754-1779
Marcus Ironheart – Principal – 1779-1801
The list went on, stretching down the hallway, a timeline of leadership spanning centuries.
Amir's eyes traced the progression—generation after generation of men and women who had shaped this institution. Some looked kind. Others looked cold. All of them looked powerful.
And now we're going to meet the current one.
At the end of the hallway, the space opened up into a small reception area.
It was elegant but restrained—no excessive decoration, no wasted space. The floor was polished wood, dark and gleaming. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes—law texts, university records, historical accounts. A single large window looked out over one of the university's courtyards, letting in weak afternoon light that mixed with the steady glow of a standing Aether-lamp in the corner, painting the room in shades of grey and pale blue.
In the center of the room sat a desk—heavy oak, meticulously organized. Behind it sat a woman in her forties, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, her face sharp and professional. She wore a high-collared blouse and a dark skirt, and her eyes were fixed on a ledger spread out before her, a fountain pen moving steadily across the page.
She looked up as they approached, her expression shifting from focused concentration to polite inquiry.
"Good afternoon," she said, her voice crisp and formal. "Do you have an appointment?"
The Cog Master stopped before the desk, leaning casually on his cane. He smiled—that same sharp, knowing smile—and reached into his coat.
He produced a small card, sliding it across the desk toward her with a deliberate, unhurried motion.
The woman picked it up, her eyes scanning the text. Amir couldn't see what it said, but whatever was written there, it had an immediate effect.
Her posture stiffened. Her eyes widened, just a fraction. The polite professionalism drained from her face, replaced by something else—caution, maybe, or fear.
She looked up at the Cog Master, then at Amir, then back to the card.
"I... I see," she said, her voice suddenly much less confident. "Please, one moment."
She stood, smoothing her skirt with hands that trembled slightly, and walked to a door behind her desk—a heavy wooden door with a brass handle and a small plaque that read: PRINCIPAL ALDRIC STONE.
She knocked twice, a soft, respectful sound, then opened the door a crack and leaned in, speaking in a voice too low for Amir to hear.
A pause.
Then a muffled voice from within—male, deep, annoyed.
The woman stepped back and held the door open wider, gesturing for them to enter. Her face was carefully blank now, all emotion locked away behind a professional mask.
"Principal Stone will see you now," she said, her tone neutral.
The Cog Master nodded, his smile never faltering. He walked toward the door, his cane tapping against the polished wood floor—tap, tap, tap.
Amir followed, his heart beginning to beat faster.
Here we go.
They stepped through the doorway.
The office of Principal Aldric Stone was not a place designed for comfort.
It was designed for dominance.
The room was large—far larger than it needed to be for a single man's workspace. The ceiling rose high overhead, supported by dark wooden beams that had been carved with intricate patterns of ivy and geometric shapes. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves, each one filled with leather-bound volumes whose spines bore titles in gold leaf: The Foundations of Modern Pedagogy, A History of Industrial Education, The Ethics of Leadership.
But these were not books that had been read. They were books that had been displayed. The spines were too pristine, the pages too stiff. They were props, carefully arranged to project an image of scholarship and authority.
Between the bookshelves hung paintings—large, expensive oil works in heavy gilt frames. Landscapes, mostly. Rolling hills, pristine forests, sunlit meadows. Places that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the smoke-choked, industrial hellscape of Steelhaven. They were fantasies, windows into a world that existed only for those wealthy enough to afford it.
The floor was polished hardwood, dark and gleaming, covered in places by thick rugs woven with intricate patterns. An Aether-lamp stood in each corner of the room, their steady glow casting the space in a light that was almost clinical in its clarity.
At the far end of the room, positioned to force visitors to walk the full length of the space before reaching it, sat the desk.
It was massive. Easily eight feet wide and four feet deep, carved from a single block of dark mahogany that must have cost more than most families earned in a year. The surface was meticulously organized—stacks of papers aligned at perfect right angles, a fountain pen resting in a holder of polished brass, an inkwell with a silver cap, a leather blotter without a single stain.
Behind the desk sat Principal Aldric Stone.
He was a man in his late fifties, though he wore his age with the kind of effortless grace that came from wealth and careful maintenance. His hair was silver-grey, combed back from a high forehead, not a strand out of place. His face was handsome in a cold, patrician way—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, a nose that had never been broken. His eyes were pale blue, the color of winter ice, and they held an intelligence that was both sharp and calculating.
He wore a dark suit, impeccably tailored, with a high collar and a silk cravat pinned with a small, tasteful brooch—a silver gear, the symbol of the university. His hands, resting on the desk, were manicured, the nails trimmed and clean.
He looked up as they entered, his expression shifting from mild annoyance to polite inquiry. He did not stand. He did not offer to shake hands. He simply... observed.
"Good afternoon," he said. His voice was smooth, cultured, the accent of someone who had been educated in the finest institutions and had never had to raise his voice to be heard. "I must admit, I was not expecting visitors today. My secretary mentioned something about... credentials?"
The Cog Master stepped forward, his cane tapping softly against the hardwood floor. He stopped a respectful distance from the desk, his posture relaxed, his expression pleasant.
"Principal Stone," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. My name is—"
"I know who you are," Stone interrupted, his tone polite but firm. His pale eyes flicked to the card his secretary must have shown him. "Your reputation precedes you, Cog Master. Though I must admit, I'm curious as to what brings a man of your... particular expertise... to my university."
The Cog Master smiled faintly. "A small matter. Nothing to trouble yourself over, I assure you. We're here to inquire about two of your students. The sons of a Mr. Galloway."
Stone's expression didn't change, but there was the briefest pause—a fraction of a second where his eyes narrowed just slightly before smoothing back into polite attention.
"Galloway," he repeated, as if tasting the name. "Yes. I believe we have two students by that name enrolled here. Brothers, if memory serves. May I ask what this is regarding?"
"Their father has gone missing," the Cog Master said simply. "We're conducting inquiries on behalf of certain interested parties. Routine questions, mostly. When did you last see the boys? Have they mentioned anything unusual? That sort of thing."
Stone leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The movement was slow, deliberate, projecting an air of thoughtful consideration.
"I see," he said. "Well, I'm afraid I can't be of much help. I oversee thousands of students, Cog Master. I don't have personal relationships with each of them. The Galloway boys are... unremarkable, as far as I'm aware. Adequate grades. No disciplinary issues. They attend their lectures, submit their assignments, and blend into the general population."
"Of course," the Cog Master replied, his tone understanding. "I wouldn't expect you to know every student personally. But perhaps you've heard things? Rumors? Concerns raised by faculty?"
Stone's lips curved into a faint smile. "Rumors are common in any institution, Cog Master. Students gossip. Faculty complain. It's the nature of academic life. If I concerned myself with every whispered conversation, I'd have no time for actual governance."
The Cog Master nodded slowly, his grey-green eyes never leaving Stone's face. "Quite true. Though I imagine some rumors are more... persistent than others."
Stone's smile didn't falter, but something in his gaze sharpened. "What are you implying?"
"Nothing at all," the Cog Master said mildly. He began to walk slowly around the room, his cane tapping a soft rhythm, his eyes roaming over the bookshelves, the paintings, the carefully arranged artifacts on display. "I'm simply curious. A university of this size, this prestige... it must face its share of challenges. Maintaining standards. Ensuring the well-being of students. Handling... difficulties when they arise."
Stone watched him move, his posture still relaxed, but there was a new tension in his shoulders. "We handle difficulties with discretion and professionalism. As any reputable institution would."
"Discretion," the Cog Master repeated, as if savoring the word. He paused before one of the paintings—a pastoral scene of a sun-drenched field. "An admirable quality. Though I wonder... where does discretion end and concealment begin?"
Stone's fingers, still steepled, pressed together slightly harder. "I'm not sure I follow."
The Cog Master turned to face him, his expression still pleasant, his tone still conversational. "Forgive me. I'm simply thinking aloud. You see, in my line of work, I often encounter situations where well-meaning people make... difficult choices. They believe they're protecting something important—a reputation, a legacy—and in doing so, they allow small problems to fester into larger ones."
"An interesting observation," Stone said carefully. "Though I'm not sure how it relates to the Galloway boys."
"Perhaps it doesn't," the Cog Master conceded. He resumed his slow circuit of the room, his eyes sweeping over the desk, the papers, the small details that most people wouldn't notice. "Tell me, Principal Stone, have you had any unusual incidents at the university recently? Anything... out of the ordinary?"
Stone's expression remained neutral, but Amir, standing silently near the door, saw it—the briefest flicker in the man's eyes. A calculation. A decision being made.
"Define 'unusual,'" Stone said.
"Oh, I don't know," the Cog Master replied, his tone light. "Equipment malfunctions. Student complaints. Strange occurrences that might disrupt the normal flow of academic life."
Stone was silent for a moment. Then he sighed, a sound of weary resignation that seemed almost theatrical.
"Since you ask," he said, "we have been dealing with a... curious situation. Nothing serious, mind you, but irritating nonetheless. Some of our students have been reporting strange sounds."
The Cog Master's eyebrow arched slightly. "Sounds?"
"Yes. Coming from the walls, the pipes. Scratching, tapping, that sort of thing." Stone waved a hand dismissively. "Old buildings, you understand. The plumbing system is ancient. The steam heating system groans and rattles. Students, especially the younger ones, can be... imaginative."
"I see," the Cog Master said. He had stopped walking now, standing perfectly still near a side table that held a crystal decanter and several glasses. "And have these sounds caused any... distress?"
Stone's expression tightened, just a fraction. "Some students have found them unsettling. We've had maintenance inspect the systems multiple times. Nothing structurally wrong, of course. It's simply the nature of an old building."
The Cog Master tilted his head slightly. "Unsettling. An interesting choice of words. Have any students become... significantly distressed?"
There was a pause. A beat too long.
"Students can be fragile," Stone said finally, his tone carefully measured. "The pressures of academic life, the expectations placed upon them... some handle it better than others."
The Cog Master's eyes narrowed, just a fraction. "That wasn't my question."
Stone met his gaze evenly. "Then perhaps you should ask it more directly."
The air in the room seemed to thicken. Amir felt it—a shift in the atmosphere, like the moment before a storm breaks.
The Cog Master smiled. It was not a warm smile.
"Very well," he said softly. "How many?"
Stone's expression didn't change, but his fingers, still steepled, pressed together harder. "How many what?"
"Students," the Cog Master said, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade. "How many students have taken their own lives after hearing these sounds?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
Stone didn't move. Didn't blink. His face remained a mask of controlled composure. But Amir saw it—the faint sheen of moisture beginning to form on the man's upper lip. The slight tightening of his jaw.
"That," Stone said slowly, "is a deeply inappropriate question."
"Is it?" The Cog Master took a step forward, his cane tapping once against the floor. The sound echoed in the silent room. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems like a very appropriate question. You've just told me that students are experiencing significant distress. That some are 'fragile.' That the sounds are causing problems. It's only logical to ask whether those problems have escalated to... tragedy."
Stone's eyes flashed with something dark—anger, perhaps, or fear. "I don't appreciate your tone."
"And I don't appreciate evasion," the Cog Master replied, his voice still soft but unyielding. "So I'll ask again. How many students have committed suicide in the past six months?"
Stone stared at him for a long moment. Then he leaned back in his chair, his hands dropping to the armrests, his expression shifting into something colder, more calculating.
"Three," he said finally.
The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Amir felt his stomach twist. Three.
The Cog Master's expression didn't change. "Three," he repeated quietly. "And did these students report hearing the sounds before their deaths?"
Stone's jaw tightened. "Yes."
"And did you report these deaths to the Cog-Watchers?"
Silence.
The Cog Master took another step forward. "Principal Stone. Did you report the deaths?"
"No," Stone said, his voice flat.
"Why not?"
Stone's hands gripped the armrests of his chair, his knuckles whitening. "Because it would have brought investigators. Inquiries. Reporters. The families were... compensated. Generously. They signed agreements. The matter was handled internally."
The Cog Master's eyes were cold now, all pretense of pleasantness gone. "You covered it up."
"I protected this institution," Stone shot back, his voice rising for the first time. "This university has stood for over two hundred years. It is the only institution of higher learning in the entire Iron Republic. Its reputation is everything. Do you have any idea what would happen if word got out that students were... dying here? Enrollment would collapse. Funding would dry up. Generations of legacy would be destroyed."
"And three young people are dead," the Cog Master said, his voice cutting through Stone's justifications like a knife. "Because you were more concerned with protecting your reputation than protecting them."
Stone stood abruptly, his chair scraping back against the floor. He was taller than the Cog Master, broader, and he used his size now, leaning forward across the desk.
"You don't understand," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't know the pressures I face. The expectations. The political games. This university is more than just a school. It's a symbol. It's a promise. And I will not allow it to be destroyed because a handful of weak-minded children couldn't handle a few strange noises."
The Cog Master didn't move. Didn't flinch. He simply stared up at Stone with those cold, grey-green eyes.
"Weak-minded children," he repeated softly. "Is that what you call them?"
Stone's face flushed. "I—"
"Tell me, Principal Stone," the Cog Master interrupted, his voice still quiet but now laced with something dangerous. "These sounds. Have you heard them yourself?"
Stone hesitated. "No."
"No," the Cog Master echoed. "Of course not. You sit here in your office, insulated from the students, protected by your walls and your reputation. You don't hear what they hear. You don't see what they see. You don't care what they experience, as long as it doesn't reflect poorly on you."
Stone's hands slammed down on the desk, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "You have no right—"
"I have every right," the Cog Master said, his voice cutting through Stone's outburst with surgical precision. "Because unlike you, I actually care about finding the truth. And the truth, Principal Stone, is that something is happening in this university. Something that is driving students to take their own lives. And you, in your infinite wisdom, decided the best course of action was to hide it."
Stone was breathing hard now, his composure cracking. "Get out."
The Cog Master didn't move. "I'll leave when I'm ready."
"I said GET OUT!" Stone's voice was a roar now, his face flushed, his eyes wild. "You have no authority here! This is my institution! Mine! And I will not be interrogated by some—some—"
"Detective?" the Cog Master supplied helpfully. He turned, adjusting his monocle with a slow, deliberate motion. "Investigator? Truth-seeker?" He glanced back at Stone, his expression calm, almost amused. "Pick whichever title makes you feel better."
He began walking toward the door, his cane tapping that familiar rhythm.
Stone's voice followed him, shaking with barely controlled rage. "You think you're so clever. You think you've won something here. But you don't know who you're dealing with. This university has powerful friends. Patrons. People who don't take kindly to outsiders stirring up trouble."
The Cog Master paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He turned slightly, just enough to look back over his shoulder.
"Is that a threat, Principal Stone?"
Stone's lip curled. "It's a fact."
The Cog Master smiled faintly. "Good to know."
He pushed open the door and stepped through, Amir following quickly behind.
The door closed with a soft, final click.
Inside the office, Principal Aldric Stone stood alone, his chest heaving, his hands trembling. Slowly, he sank back into his chair.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—silk, monogrammed with his initials—and wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands still shaking.
Three students. Three deaths. And now the Cog Master knows.
He stared at the door, his mind racing.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.