The city of Ironhaven never slept, but it dreamed in smoke and shadow. Elias Varn trudged through the fog-choked streets of the Lower Wards, his boots clacking against wet cobblestones. The air reeked of coal dust and oil, a metallic tang that clung to his throat like guilt. Above, airships hummed, their brass engines casting fleeting glows through the haze. The city's steamheart, a colossal furnace at Ironhaven's core, pulsed faintly, its rhythm a heartbeat beneath the streets. Elias adjusted his leather coat, its seams fraying like his patience, and checked the time on his pocket chronometer: 2:17 a.m. Another sleepless night chasing ghosts.
He wasn't here by choice. Captain Harrow's telegram had been curt: Murder at Gearwright Alley. High-profile. Get there now. Elias had cursed, tossing the crumpled paper into his apartment's hearth. High-profile meant trouble—Council trouble, the kind that got inspectors like him demoted. Or worse. But he'd grabbed his revolver and the Gearheart, a broken gearwheel pendant he couldn't bring himself to toss, and headed out. It hung heavy against his chest now, its jagged edges biting through his shirt.
Gearwright Alley loomed ahead, a narrow slit between soot-stained tenements. Gas lamps flickered, their light swallowed by fog. Elias slowed, his hand brushing the revolver at his hip. The alley was too quiet—no drunkards, no street hawkers, not even the clatter of automatons. Just the distant thrum of the steamheart and his own uneven breaths. He spotted the crime scene at the alley's end: a ring of constables, their brass badges glinting, cordoning off a body slumped against a rusted steam pipe.
"Varn," grunted Constable Pike, a barrel-chested man with a mustache like a scrub brush. "Took you long enough. Council's already sniffing around."
Elias ignored him, crouching beside the body. The victim was male, mid-forties, dressed in a tailored waistcoat, now soaked crimson. His throat was slashed, clean and deep, the work of a professional. But it was the man's face that stopped Elias cold—Councilor Thane, one of Ironhaven's ruling elite. His glassy eyes stared upward, as if pleading with the smog for answers. A brass cog, polished to a mirror sheen, rested in his limp hand.
"Thane," Elias muttered. "Damn it."
Pike snorted. "Yeah. Council's golden boy. Found him an hour ago, no witnesses. You're the lucky bastard who gets to explain this to the brass."
Elias's jaw tightened. Thane wasn't just a councilor; he was a Gearwright, one of the secretive engineers who maintained the steamheart. Their order was untouchable, half-priests, half-mechanics, whispering about a Machine God that powered Ironhaven's soul. Elias had never bought their dogma, but he knew better than to cross them. A dead Gearwright meant a city on edge—and a target on his back.
He examined the cog in Thane's hand. It was etched with runes, faint and spiraling, unlike any standard gear. Elias pocketed it, ignoring Pike's raised eyebrow. Evidence, he told himself, though the Gearheart around his neck seemed to hum faintly, like a tuning fork struck by memory.
"Any leads?" Elias asked, standing.
Pike shrugged. "Just a tinkerer who saw the body first. She's over there, mouthy one."
Elias followed Pike's nod to a woman leaning against a lamppost, her arms crossed. She was young, maybe twenty-five, with grease-streaked overalls and a tangle of auburn hair pinned under a leather cap. Her eyes, sharp as a blade, locked onto Elias like she was sizing him up for a fight. A tool belt hung low on her hips, bristling with wrenches and a strange, glowing device that pulsed faintly blue.
"You the tinkerer?" Elias called, approaching.
"Name's Mara," she said, her voice low, edged with defiance. "And I'm no snitch, if that's what you're thinking."
"Didn't say you were." Elias studied her. She was no ordinary tinkerer—her gear was custom, too precise for the Lower Wards' scrap shops. "What'd you see?"
Mara glanced at the body, her expression unreadable. "Found him like that, throat cut, cog in his hand. Didn't touch nothing. I know better than to mess with Gearwright business."
"You know him?" Elias pressed.
"Thane? By reputation. Gearwrights don't mingle with us grubbers." She smirked, but her eyes flicked to Elias's chest, where the Gearheart hung half-visible under his coat. "You're no typical copper either, are you?"
Elias's hand twitched toward the pendant, but he caught himself. "Just answer the question."
Mara shrugged. "I was scavenging parts when I heard a scream. Came running, saw him bleed out. Whoever did it was gone before I got here."
"Convenient," Elias said, narrowing his eyes. Her story was clean, too clean, and that glowing device on her belt wasn't standard tech. He'd seen forbidden tech before—his own past as an inventor had taught him to spot it. Mara was hiding something, but pushing her now would get him nowhere.
Before he could press further, a sharp pain lanced through his skull. The alley blurred, and a vision hit him like a hammer: a vast chamber, gears grinding like a cathedral's hymn, and a voice—mechanical, ancient—whispering, The cogs turn. Find the truth. The Gearheart burned against his chest, and he gasped, staggering.
"You alright, detective?" Mara's voice cut through, her hand steadying his arm. Her touch was warm, but her eyes were wary, like she'd seen something she shouldn't.
"Fine," Elias lied, shaking her off. The visions had started a month ago, ever since he'd found the Gearheart in a pawn shop, its runes matching those in his dreams. He hadn't told anyone, not even Harrow. They'd call him mad, or worse, a heretic.
Pike interrupted, waving a telegram. "Captain wants you at the precinct, Varn. Council's sending a liaison. Move it."
Elias nodded, but his gaze lingered on Mara. "Don't leave the city," he said. "We'll talk again."
She grinned, mock-saluting. "Wouldn't dream of it, copper."
---
The precinct was a fortress of iron and steam, its halls buzzing with clattering typewriters and hissing pipes. Elias sat at his desk, the stolen cog from Thane's hand glinting under his lamp. He'd dodged the liaison for now, but the Council's shadow loomed. They'd want answers, and Elias had none—only questions and a headache that pulsed with the steamheart's rhythm.
He pulled the Gearheart from his coat, comparing it to the cog. The runes were identical, spiraling like a code he couldn't crack. His fingers traced the pendant, and another vision flickered: a woman's silhouette, gears spinning behind her, her voice echoing, The Machine God wakes. Elias blinked it away, cursing under his breath. He needed answers, not riddles.
A knock at his door jolted him. Captain Harrow, a grizzled man with a mechanical arm, leaned in. "Varn, you're in deep. Council's saying Thane was working on something big—steamheart upgrades, classified. They think this wasn't random."
"Professional hit," Elias said, holding up the cog. "This was in his hand. Runes aren't standard. Any Gearwrights talking?"
Harrow's face darkened. "They're stonewalling. Claim it's sacred business. You know how they are about their Machine God nonsense."
Elias didn't reply. The visions weren't nonsense, not to him. He pocketed the cog and Gearheart, standing. "I'll dig into it. Any word on that tinkerer, Mara?"
"Checked her out. Mara Kade, independent mechanic, no record. But her shop's in the Underworks, and word is she deals in off-grid tech. Watch yourself—she's trouble."
Elias nodded, already halfway out the door. Trouble was exactly what he needed.
---
The Underworks were Ironhaven's guts, a maze of tunnels where steam pipes groaned and rogue inventors hid from the Council's eyes. Elias navigated the dim corridors, his lantern casting shadows that danced like specters. Mara's shop was a steel door marked with a crude gear symbol, its edges glowing faintly blue—the same hue as her belt device.
He knocked, and the door creaked open. Mara stood inside, surrounded by whirring automatons and half-built machines. A workbench held a glowing orb, its surface etched with runes matching the cog and Gearheart. Elias's pulse quickened.
"Couldn't stay away, huh?" Mara said, wiping grease from her hands. Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp, tracking his every move.
"That orb," Elias said, nodding at it. "Where'd you get it?"
"Trade secret." She stepped closer, her tool belt clinking. "Why? You think I killed Thane?"
"Did you?" Elias's hand rested on his revolver, casual but ready.
Mara laughed, low and rough. "If I did, I wouldn't be dumb enough to stick around. But you're not here for me, are you? It's that pendant." She pointed at the Gearheart, now visible under his open coat. "I saw it glow when you keeled over in the alley."
Elias's throat tightened. "You saw nothing."
"Lie to yourself, detective, not me." Mara stepped closer, her breath warm against the cold air. "Those runes? They're old, older than Ironhaven. Gearwrights call them the Machine God's script. You're mixed up in something bigger than a murder."
Another vision hit—gears grinding, a chamber pulsing with light, Mara's face flickering in the haze. Elias gripped the workbench, fighting nausea. "What do you know about it?" he rasped.
Mara hesitated, then pulled a leather journal from her belt. Its pages were crammed with sketches of runes, gears, and a chamber that matched his visions. "Found this in a Gearwright's scrap pile. It's a map, maybe to the steamheart's core. Thane was poking around there before he died."
Elias's mind raced. The steamheart was sacred, off-limits even to inspectors. If Thane had been meddling, it explained the Council's panic—and the killer's precision. "Why show me this?" he asked.
Mara's grin faded. "Because whoever killed Thane is after that map. And I don't fancy being next."
---
They agreed to work together, uneasy allies in a city that thrived on secrets. Mara led Elias through the Underworks to a hidden lift, its gears screeching as it descended toward the steamheart's outer chambers. The air grew hotter, thick with the scent of molten iron. Elias's revolver felt heavy, useless against the weight of what he was chasing.
The lift opened to a cavern of spinning gears, each the size of a house. The steamheart's pulse was deafening now, a rhythm that synced with the Gearheart's hum. Mara's orb glowed brighter, its runes pulsing in time. Elias's vision blurred again: a figure in robes, holding a blade, chanting, The cogs turn. The god rises.
"Elias!" Mara's shout snapped him back. She pointed to a mural on the cavern wall—a vast gearwheel, its runes glowing red, depicting a figure crowned with cogs. The Machine God.
"That's what Thane was after," Mara whispered. "A way to wake it."
Before Elias could respond, a shadow moved in the dark—a cloaked figure, blade glinting. The air hissed with steam, and a gunshot rang out, not from Elias's revolver. Mara yelped, clutching her arm as blood seeped through her sleeve. The figure vanished into the fog, leaving a single cog on the ground, its runes identical to Thane's.
Elias pulled Mara behind a gear, his heart pounding. "You hit?"
"Grazed," she hissed, tying a rag around her arm. "Told you we're next."
He gripped the Gearheart, its warmth grounding him. The visions, the runes, the murder—they were connected, and the answers lay deeper in the steamheart. With Mara bleeding beside him and a killer in the shadows, Elias knew one thing: Ironhaven's soul was waking, and he was running out of time.
---