[An Unaccounted Expense]

Five weeks ago, Pantalone invited you to his office to familiarize you with a new decree issued by the Tsaritsa. Several folders were already arranged on his desk, alongside a letter bearing Her Majesty's seal. The Ninth Harbinger courteously offered you a seat before sliding one of the documents closer.

"Your mother has expressed her wish for you to take a more active role in allocating funds to the Fatui's special research projects, Your Highness," he explained, opening the first folder. "These are the principal expenditures from the past three months. Naturally, I shall be happy to help you navigate the documentation should any questions arise."

You turned several pages. The figures in certain columns stood out considerably: some scientific projects cost the treasury more than the maintenance of a small military garrison, while the explanations accompanying those expenses occasionally amounted to no more than a couple of lines.

"Why isn't the purpose of this equipment specified here?" you asked, stopping at one of the reports.

"Oh, that is a rather entertaining story," Pantalone replied with a smile, adjusting his glasses. "Our dear Second Harbinger considers detailed descriptions of individual purchases entirely unnecessary. Unfortunately, I happen to hold a somewhat different opinion."

As though summoned by his words, the office door opened, revealing Dottore himself. He carried several folders beneath his arm, which he deposited on the banker's desk without much ceremony.

"Your reports, Pantalone. Do try not to misplace half the attachments this time and then accuse my staff of doing it," the Doctor remarked, removing the glove from his right hand.

"Perfect timing!" Pantalone exclaimed, setting his pen aside with obvious pleasure. "Her Highness and I were just discussing your remarkable approach to documentation. Do take a seat, my dear friend."

Dottore glanced at you, then at the open folders. His eyebrows rose slightly.

"Ah, so that's what this is about. I heard Her Majesty had decided to involve her own daughter in administrative affairs. I confess, I hadn't expected my department to be the starting point."

"My mother has instructed me to review the research expenditures," you explained, showing him the open page. "And I would like to understand what such substantial sums are being spent on."

"A most commendable ambition, Your Highness," the Doctor replied, taking the document and quickly scanning several lines. "However, I must warn you that much of this information presupposes at least a rudimentary understanding of the subject being studied. I'm afraid accounting tables will do little to help you comprehend our methods."

"Which is precisely why I keep asking you to provide more detailed explanations," Pantalone interjected, extending his hand for the document. "I would very much prefer not to finance yet another apparatus whose purpose is known only to you."

"Really?" Dottore chuckled as he returned the sheet to the desk. "And here I was, under the impression that your greatest pleasure in life was counting other people's expenses. How disappointing."

"And yet, Doctor, could you explain what this equipment is intended for?" you asked, pointing to one of the entries and bringing the conversation back to its original subject.

Dottore regarded you over the edge of his mask. For a few moments, he appeared to be considering whether the explanation was worth his time, but eventually pulled the document closer.

"Certainly. These devices are used to stabilize the environment during testing. Without them, even a minor deviation could ruin the results of several days' work. And if you're wondering why we require twelve of them, the answer is quite simple: equipment has the unfortunate tendency to break."

"Especially when you're the one operating it," Pantalone helpfully added, earning himself a brief look.

"How delightful to see you finally taking an interest in scientific pursuits. Perhaps next time you'll allow me to demonstrate the causes of those malfunctions firsthand?"

The Ninth laughed and raised a hand, politely declining the offer. Dottore turned back to you.

"At any rate, should you have further questions concerning my research, Your Highness, you may submit them through my assistant. He will prepare the necessary explanations. I believe that should spare all of us a great deal of unnecessary trouble."

That was how your first meeting ended. The Doctor collected his signed documents and departed, while Pantalone watched him leave and remarked that cooperation with the research department promised to be considerably more entertaining than he had anticipated.

Several days later, you had your first opportunity to visit the Second Harbinger's laboratory. The Doctor had agreed to conduct a brief demonstration after you requested clarification concerning the results of one particularly expensive experiment. Several employees were working inside; measuring instruments covered the long tables, and a tall apparatus surrounded by protective panels stood against the far wall.

"Well then, Your Highness, allow me to present the reason Pantalone has been so determined to ruin my mood these past two weeks," Dottore announced, stopping beside the control panel. "I must admit, the spectacle is somewhat less impressive than the figure in his financial reports. Still, I trust you won't judge the effectiveness of scientific equipment solely by its appearance."

You approached the table and examined a sheet of measurements left beside the apparatus. Several of the latest readings differed noticeably from the earlier ones.

"Why is there such a discrepancy here?" you asked, turning the document toward him. "Were these measurements repeated under identical conditions?"

Dottore reached for the sheet. He examined the results quickly before raising his head.

"Hm. How curious. That's what caught your attention?"

"The values in the final column differ by almost a factor of two. I thought that might be significant."

"Of course it is," he replied, tapping one of the entries with his finger. "Which is precisely why we're conducting another examination. Although, I must confess, I expected you to inquire about the cost of the apparatus first. Representatives of the court generally begin there."

The Doctor summoned one of his assistants and instructed him to prepare the results of the previous trials. Once the employee had stepped away, he turned back to you.

"Nevertheless, your question is entirely reasonable. Deviations of this magnitude certainly require an explanation. You see, if a result cannot be reproduced, its practical value becomes rather questionable."

You asked to see the conditions under which the previous experiment had been conducted. Dottore agreed, although his explanation took considerably longer than he had originally anticipated. By the time you were ready to leave, several sheets covered in notes lay scattered across the table, and the Doctor had ordered a separate report to be prepared for your next meeting.

"Have the results of the repeated analysis delivered to Her Highness as soon as they're ready," he instructed his assistant without looking up from his notes. "And make certain the original conditions are included. I'd rather not explain the same thing twice."

The employee nodded, but had barely reached the doorway when Dottore called him back.

"Actually, no. Leave the report with me. I'll decide which information needs to be provided."

By the end of the third week, your meetings with Pantalone had become a regular occurrence. Under the Tsaritsa's orders, the Ninth familiarized you with the research department's budget, explained the reasons behind delayed shipments, and helped you approve expenses requiring special authorization. These meetings usually took place in his private office and could last several hours.

One afternoon, following another discussion, you stepped into the corridor carrying a folder of documents. Pantalone remained by the door to give his secretary a few instructions, while you were preparing to return to the palace wing when you noticed Dottore approaching.

"Ah, Your Highness! What fortunate timing," he remarked, stopping in front of you. "I've been trying to locate you for the past hour. My assistant informed me that you were occupied, though I confess I hadn't imagined that discussing a handful of financial matters could take quite so long."

"We were reviewing last month's expenditures," you answered, holding the folder against your side. "Some of the documents required additional clarification."

"Really? And the Ninth needed almost two hours to provide it?" Dottore tilted his head slightly. "I'm beginning to worry about the quality of his work."

"How lovely to hear that you're concerned about me, my dear Doctor," Pantalone's voice sounded from behind you.

The Ninth had finished speaking with his secretary and was now approaching, fastening the button on his cuff.

"Rest assured, however, that our time was spent most productively. Her Highness has shown a remarkable interest in affairs of state. We even managed to discuss a few matters that had nothing directly to do with your research."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Dottore replied, regarding him with amused curiosity. "You've always possessed a talent for prolonging conversations whenever you find an appreciative audience."

"Appreciative?" Pantalone chuckled. "Surely you don't consider my company quite so exhausting?"

"I consider two hours sufficient to conduct several rather useful experiments. Although I suppose you have your own methods of measuring productivity."

Pantalone smiled and turned toward you.

"Your Highness, I trust you haven't forgotten the documents I asked you to review before Friday? Should you encounter any difficulties, please feel free to consult me directly. I'll be at the palace for most of the week."

"Thank you. I'll go through them tomorrow," you answered, adjusting the folder beneath your arm.

"Excellent. In that case, I'll have my secretary prepare some additional materials for you."

Dottore, who had been silently observing the exchange, cleared his throat.

"How touching. However, before the two of you finish arranging every remaining hour of Her Highness's week, might I remind you that an experiment is scheduled in my laboratory tomorrow?"

"Wasn't it supposed to take place on Thursday?" you asked, looking at him.

"Originally, yes," the Doctor agreed without the slightest embarrassment. "But certain circumstances have changed. I would prefer to conduct it sooner."

"What circumstances?" Pantalone inquired, stopping beside you.

"Technical ones," Dottore replied with a brief chuckle. "I hardly think you need concern yourself with the details. Should the experiment require additional funding, I assure you, you'll be the first to know."

"How considerate of you," Pantalone remarked, adjusting his glasses. "Unfortunately, Her Highness already has an appointment with me tomorrow. I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little."

"Is that so?" The Doctor turned his attention back to you. "In that case, Your Highness, I could arrange the experiment for later in the day. Although, I must admit, I'm rather curious about which particular matters so insistently require your presence in the Ninth's office."

"We'll be reviewing new applications," you explained. "Including those from your department."

"Splendid! Then you can familiarize yourself with the results immediately before reviewing them. A perfectly sensible arrangement, wouldn't you agree?"

Pantalone looked at the Doctor before calmly retrieving his pocket watch.

"If you'll permit me one small observation, Dottore, you seem to have developed an extraordinary interest in our schedule."

"Have I?" the Doctor smiled. "And here I thought I was merely trying to organize my own work. Evidently, such foresight has become a rarity at court."

"In that case, I sincerely wish you every success," Pantalone replied with a slight inclination of his head. "Your Highness, I shall see you tomorrow."

The Doctor watched him depart before turning back to you. He seemed about to add something, but an employee emerged from an adjoining corridor and informed him that one of the installations required immediate inspection.

"Of course. Just now, of all times," Dottore muttered, taking the sheet the employee had brought. "Your Highness, it appears we'll have to continue our conversation later. Do try not to let Pantalone occupy all your free time for the remainder of the week."

He chuckled at his own remark and departed with his assistant.

The following morning, an employee in the research complex discovered that the schedule of experiments had been changed. Dottore stood before a wall-mounted board, personally moving several entries.

"Lord Dottore, wasn't the third experiment scheduled for Friday?" the assistant ventured, consulting his notes.

"I'm perfectly aware of when it was scheduled," Dottore replied, continuing to write. "It will now take place tomorrow. Have the equipment prepared by ten o'clock."

"However, the representative from the palace won't be available until the afternoon."

The Doctor stopped, examined the schedule, and crossed out the entry he had just written.

"Then two o'clock. I trust this won't present you with insurmountable difficulties?"

"No, Lord Dottore. But that means we'll have to postpone the examination of the second specimen."

"Then postpone it," Dottore replied, returning the chalk to its shelf. "Must I personally arrange every last detail of your schedules?"

The assistant nodded hastily and hurried off to carry out the instructions. The Doctor remained before the board for a while longer before ordering an invitation to be prepared for you.

Today's meeting was once again taking place in Pantalone's office. Darkness was already gathering beyond the windows; snow had accumulated along the narrow sill, and a small screen stood near the fireplace to protect the documents beside it from the heat. Two cups of tea, a plate of pastries, and several open folders occupied the desk. The Ninth had already examined the majority of the reports and was now reviewing the final disputed applications.

"I believe we've finished with the principal expenditures, Your Highness," he remarked, signing the bottom of a page. "Only three items remain. Two should present little difficulty, but the third... I'm afraid our dear Doctor has decided to test my patience once again."

Pantalone retrieved another document from the folder and placed it before you. Dottore's signature appeared at the top, followed by a list of equipment intended for the western research complex.

"Take note of the stabilizers," he suggested, running his pen along one of the entries. "Over the past two weeks, the Second has requested enough equipment to furnish three separate laboratories. Yet his reports mention only one operational installation."

"Perhaps he's expanding the research complex?" you asked, examining the document.

"That was precisely my assumption," Pantalone replied with an approving nod, producing a second sheet. "So I requested information concerning the new facilities. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that no additional laboratories had been opened."

He handed you a response from the head of the research complex. It stated that two new installations were intended to accommodate the relocation of certain experiments to the western wing.

"I contacted the supervisor personally," the banker continued, taking a sip of tea. "He assured me that the relocation was necessary to accelerate the research. When I asked what specific advantages the new premises offered, the poor gentleman looked so distressed that I decided not to press him."

"But has the equipment already been delivered?"

"Naturally," Pantalone smiled. "Dottore is remarkably efficient when it comes to carrying out his own instructions. If he devoted the same enthusiasm to preparing reports, you and I could spend our meetings enjoying nothing but tea."

You turned the page and noticed that the number of experiments conducted over the past month had barely changed.

"The number of experiments is almost the same as before," you observed, showing him the table. "Wasn't the new equipment supposed to increase it?"

"Precisely!" Pantalone smiled with satisfaction as he took the document. "You've asked the very question I sent to the Doctor three days ago. Would you care to know what he said in response?"

Without waiting for an answer, the Ninth produced a rather thick stack of papers from his desk drawer.

"Twenty-seven pages of calculations, accompanied by the gracious suggestion that I repeat my course in experimental physics. I must admit, some of his observations proved quite educational. Particularly the part where he explains perfectly obvious matters with all the enthusiasm of a lecturer addressing his first-year students."

You took several pages and skimmed the opening paragraphs. The text did indeed contain detailed calculations, but there was no direct explanation of why new facilities were necessary.

"Perhaps we should ask him to explain everything in person?" you suggested, returning the papers.

"Oh, I most certainly intend to," Pantalone promised, placing them back in the drawer. "But first, allow me to draw your attention to another detail."

He unfolded a floor plan of the research complex and turned it toward you. Several rooms had been marked in red ink.

"This is the location of the Second's principal laboratory. And here is the new complex where he ordered part of the equipment to be transferred. Do you see how much closer it is to the palace offices?"

"The ones where our meetings take place?"

"Exactly, Your Highness," Pantalone replied, tapping his pen lightly against the plan. "And the relocation was approved only two days after you began regularly visiting the research department."

He leaned back in his chair and adjusted his glasses.

"Of course, I have no intention of jumping to conclusions. Still, I'm rather curious about what technical advantages Dottore has suddenly discovered in facilities he previously considered entirely unsuitable."

You examined the plan once more before setting it aside with the other documents. At that moment, someone knocked, and a secretary entered carrying a small stack of correspondence.

"Lord Pantalone, letters have arrived from Fontaine. The supervisor of the western complex has also requested clarification concerning the latest application."

"Inform him that no decision has been made yet," the Ninth replied, accepting the letters. "And ask him to prepare a list of the equipment already at his disposal. Preferably without involving the Doctor himself."

The secretary nodded but hesitated near the door.

"One more thing, my lord. The Second Harbinger has inquired twice today whether your meeting with Her Highness has concluded."

Pantalone slowly raised his head.

"Has he now? And what did you tell him?"

"That the meeting was still in progress, my lord."

"Excellent. Thank you. That will be all."

Once the door had closed, Pantalone regarded the letters for several seconds before chuckling softly.

"Twice in a single day... My, what a busy man."

"Perhaps he has something urgent to discuss," you suggested, returning to the report.

"Entirely possible, Your Highness," the banker readily agreed, sliding the plate of pastries closer to you. "Although, in the last several centuries, I have rarely seen him quite so concerned with someone else's schedule."

He reached for the teapot, intending to refill your cup, but footsteps sounded in the corridor once again. This time, the knock was brief, and the door opened almost immediately.

Dottore stepped across the threshold without waiting for permission, tossing his snow – dusted gloves directly onto the mahogany credenza beside the entrance. He had discarded his formal traveler's mantle, wearing only his dark, high – collared uniform tunic and the familiar porcelain half – mask. Through its dark slits, his gaze swept across the room with swift, practiced efficiency, taking in the teapot, the half – eaten pastries, and the sea of ledgers spread across the desk before coming to rest squarely on you.

"Still here, I see," the Doctor remarked, shutting the heavy door behind him with a firm, hollow click. "Your secretary downstairs seemed convinced this meeting concerned matters of vital state security, Pantalone. Though judging by the confectionery and the distinct aroma of black tea, it resembles an afternoon salon far more than a budgetary tribunal."

"A civilized environment rarely hinders sound decision – making, my dear Doctor," Pantalone replied smoothly, setting the silver teapot back onto its trivet without spilling a single drop. "Unlike your rather abrupt habit of invading private offices without an appointment. We were just concluding our review of your latest requisitions. In fact, your timing is almost commendable."

Dottore did not take the second guest chair. Instead, he walked straight to the desk, stopping just behind your right shoulder. He rested one hand on the polished edge of the table, leaning in slightly – close enough that you caught the faint, dry scent of menthol, camphor, and cold iron clinging to his clothes. His gaze drifted down to the floor plan of the western wing, where the freshly marked red outlines remained unmistakably visible.

"Fascinating," he murmured, tapping the parchment with the knuckle of his index finger right over the square marked as Laboratory Four. "I see you've graduated from counting grain quotas to amateur cartography. Are you preparing to reallocate my storage rooms, or does the Ninth simply enjoy examining architectural layouts in his spare time?"

"We were examining the extraordinary coincidence of your logistical choices," you replied, turning slightly in your chair to look up at him. "The supervisor of the western wing claims you ordered the transfer of sensitive apparatus into facilities directly adjacent to the council chambers. Two days after my mother appointed me to oversee your expenditures."

Dottore tilted his head, the corner of his thin lips curling into a brief, amused smirk. He showed neither embarrassment nor irritation; instead, he straightened up, crossing his arms over his chest and regarding you and the banker as though you were two particularly stubborn pupils struggling with an obvious deduction.

"Coincidence is a term employed by those incapable of perceiving causal links," the Doctor said, his voice dropping into that quiet, rhythmic cadence he used during demonstrations. "The central laboratories are prone to mechanical vibration from the railway spurs beneath the lower city. The western wing, on the other hand, rests on solid granite bedrock. Furthermore, having the testing facilities within a short walk eliminates the absurd necessity of sending three couriers back and forth simply to verify a single set of measurements. Unless, of course, Your Highness prefers spending three hours listening to the Ninth's lectures on fiscal propriety rather than observing real science firsthand."

"A remarkably eloquent rationalization," Pantalone chimed in, adjusting his spectacles with a dry chuckle. "And how, pray tell, does granite bedrock justify twelve resonance stabilizers for a room that currently contains nothing more than bare masonry and two empty workbenches? The treasury does not issue blank drafts on the strength of convenient geography."

The room grew noticeably quieter as the two Harbingers locked eyes across the desk. Pantalone remained relaxed in his armchair, a portrait of polite, obstinate bureaucracy, while Dottore stood tall beside you, radiating that sharp, restless energy that usually sent junior researchers scurrying for the door. Yet instead of pressing his argument against the banker, Dottore's attention shifted back down to you. He placed both palms flat on the green baize of the desk, leaning forward until his face was level with yours, completely disregarding the customary distance mandated by court etiquette.

"The stabilizers are necessary because the prototype we are assembling tomorrow operates on fluctuating frequencies," he explained directly to you, his voice low and deliberate, ignoring Pantalone entirely. "If you want to understand why the treasury pays for them, don't read his butchered summaries. Come down to the facility tomorrow morning. Review the installation yourself. Or would you rather let our dear banker decide what you are permitted to comprehend?"

"Her Highness has an engagement with the audit committee tomorrow morning, as well you know," Pantalone interjected, his tone noticeably cooler now, stripped of its easy mirth. "And I am quite certain Her Majesty did not assign her daughter to your department merely to serve as an impromptu assistant in your hazardous experiments."

Dottore didn't back away. His fingers remained on the desk, inches from your sleeve, while his red eyes beneath the mask held your gaze with an open, mocking challenge. Across the table, Pantalone watched you with an expectant, measuring smile, his pen poised above the unsigned requisition form, waiting to see whose side you would take.

[The Other Doctor] [18+]

It all began three months ago with a broken pressure gauge at the lower testing ground.

The Tsaritsa's daughter had no business descending below the third basement tier, where the wine cellars ended and the steam turbine sector began, but palace receptions with their perpetual stench of wax candles and the sour faces of ministers provoked nothing in you but dull irritation. The one you ran into among the shelves of Khaenri'ahn archival blueprints did not bother to bow. He sat right on a crate of detonators, clamping a roll-up cigarette of wretched Natlan tobacco between his teeth, twirling a brass valve in his hands. He was about twenty-five – brazen, lean, with fingers perpetually stained with soot and the sharp tongue of a street dropout who had only yesterday been kicked out of the Sumeru Akademiya for heresy.

He recognized no titles. He called you a spoiled aristocrat, mocked your grasp of fortification, and a week later he was already pulling you into a secluded corner of an abandoned armory, indifferent to the rustle of expensive silk against dusty shell crates. With the Twenty-Fifth, everything was simple and vicious: he kissed roughly, with bloody, scraped knuckles, joked filthy, and never asked for permission to touch. There was no courtly servility in him, and that dangerous, shameless freedom bound you firmly to the cold lower floors.

What you did not know until tonight was that every cross-section of Zandik shared a collective informational consortium. Every time the younger one returned to the shared network after your encounters, traces inevitably lingered in the synchronization logs: an accelerated pulse, temperature spikes, fragments of tactile memory. At first, Omega – the prime segment, seated at Pierro's right hand – treated this as a curious deviation in the behavior of a secondary specimen. He classified what was happening as primitive hormonal activity, intending to document how emotional attachment degraded the cognitive faculties of the young segment.

Yet the experiment rapidly slipped out of the observer's own control. It was impossible to remain a dispassionate data recorder when, night after night, your own perception was flooded with someone else's gasps, the taste of someone else's skin, and the sensation of the ruling Archon's daughter arching obediently into someone else's hands. A quiet, venomous rage began to eat away at Omega at the thought that some raw, unfinished draft of his own personality held unchecked possession of what he himself had no direct access to.

The air in the central workshop felt thicker than usual today. It carried not the younger one's acrid tobacco smoke, but concentrated ether, cooling machine oil, and expensive menthol cologne. Capacitors hummed behind the partition, the needles on the distribution board's dials moved with an even metallic rustle, and the solitary lamp above the long workbench cut through the gloom, illuminating tidy stacks of papers and gleaming chrome instruments.

By a tall standing desk, his back turned toward the entrance, stood a man in an impeccable white coat with a high collar. Pale, bluish hair lay neatly along his neck, and fingers in smooth dark gloves leisurely turned the pages of an anatomical atlas.

You walked up close, certain of whom you had found at work. Resting a palm on the broad fabric of his shoulder, you gave your habitual smirk, feeling the workshop's chilled air cool your face, flushed from walking fast.

"Still digging through schematics?" you asked quietly, your fingers brushing the edge of his collar. "I walked across the entire lower tier while the patrols were changing guard. If you plan on spending the whole evening pretending these scribbles are more interesting than me, I will simply take the key back."

The man did not flinch. He slowly closed the atlas, covered your hand with his own, and only then turned around.

The grip turned out not to be sharp and hurried like the younger one's, but deliberate, heavy, and dry. You raised your eyes and broke off.

Omega stood before you. His pointed mask of dark metal and polished glass concealed the upper half of his face, but the thin, mockingly curved lips gave him away completely. There was not a speck of soot on him, his cuffs remained immaculately clean, and his posture brooked no carelessness.

"The key, is it," he remarked with a lazy, insinuating inflection that usually surfaced at war councils before death sentences were handed down. "How curious. And whatever made you conclude that this office belongs to that sniveling lab assistant, Your Highness?"

You tried to wrench your wrist free, but Omega merely turned your hand palm-up with a fluid motion, pressing his thumb lightly against the pulse beating at the base of your wrist. His free hand settled on the edge of the tabletop behind your back, cutting off any retreat.

"You have the wrong door, Harbinger," you replied, keeping your voice steady, though surprise had knocked your breathing off rhythm. "Where is he?"

"He is occupied," Omega tilted his head, regarding you through the dark lenses with open, cynical pleasure. "Scrubbing boilers in the furnace room. Or sorting ore. I found an abundance of worthwhile tasks for him to purge his head of excess bad blood. You still haven't answered my question. Do we truly all share one face to you in the gloom? Do you genuinely fail to see the difference between me and an unrefined chunk of iron?"

His fingers trailed slowly up your forearm, shifting the fabric of your dress, ascending toward your shoulder and neck. The touch was calculated, devoid of haste, yet the sheer method of it sent shivers racing across your skin.

"The only difference is that he doesn't waste time on empty chatter," you countered, staring directly into the dark slits of his mask.

Omega chuckled softly, stepping closer. He pinned you against the edge of the desk with his thigh so firmly that you felt the hardness of his belt and the chill of silver buckles on his uniform.

"He wastes his time groping under your skirts in the dust among broken gears," a faint, venomous edge cut through his voice, one he masked behind irony with little success. "I have reviewed every log in his memory. Every clumsy movement, every ragged breath. He takes you as though dreading that in another minute he will be dragged to the executioner's block. Pathetic, frantic fuss. Tell me... is the Tsaritsa's daughter genuinely so easily satisfied?"

His hand dropped to your chin, fingers in fine leather lightly clamping your jaw, tilting your face up toward his breath. He smelled of bitter almonds and mint. The distance between your lips dwindled to a couple of inches, and you saw the cords of his neck tighten – Omega relished his own control, yet at the same time barely contained his irritation that you were still thinking of someone else.

"Shut your mouth, Omega."

The voice from the doorway cracked out harshly, without a shred of courtly etiquette.

The Twenty-Fifth stood leaning with one shoulder against the doorframe. He wore a grease-stained leather vest over a shirt unbuttoned three buttons down, a fresh steam burn darkened on his forearm, and his mask hung from a cord around his neck, revealing a young, sullen face with feverishly gleaming eyes. He did not shout or charge forward. He simply took a few steps into the room, pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, and struck a match against the rough wall.

"You can sift through my logs all you like, elder," the younger one exhaled a ribbon of gray smoke straight toward Omega, never shifting his heavy, dark stare from you. "Yet whenever she comes down here, she comes to me. Because behind all your formulas and palace bows, you've forgotten how to touch a woman without a scalpel."

Omega did not release you. On the contrary, his palm slid assertively from your chin to your throat, pulling your back flush against his chest, displaying you before him like a trophy.

"You talk far too much for someone whose existence I can terminate with a single stroke of a pen in the consortium's registry," Omega cast coldly, though his fingers against your throat twitched faintly.

"Give it a try," the Twenty-Fifth snapped, taking another stride. He came right up to the desk, tapped his ash onto the floor, and reached out, gripping your thigh without a shred of hesitation, hitching the hem of your gown up. "Go on, erase me. Only you won't erase the memories from your own skull. That's why you dragged yourself down here in the first place. You're eaten up with jealousy that she moans under my weight instead of sitting through your lectures on the higher order."

You were wedged between them. From behind pressed Omega, his coat smelling of frosty air and spirits, while in front stood the younger one, whose hot palm was already brazenly bunching the fabric of your petticoats, sliding higher up your thigh, demanding recall of nights past.

And in that moment, a heavy metallic clang echoed behind the younger one's back.

The thick iron bolt of the entrance door dropped into its slots with a dull thud, sealing the laboratory off from the outside world. The key turned twice in the lock.

From the shadow of the ventilation shaft stepped a man at whose sight both bickering figures instantly went taut. He was around forty-five – massive, broad-shouldered, clad in a heavy wool coat of military cut without insignia. Silver strands streaked his short, dark hair, deep furrows bracketed his mouth, a plain cast-iron mask shielded his nose bridge and brow, and he moved with the heavy, unhurried tread of a man who had long ceased needing to prove his right to force.

The Forty-Fifth walked over to the workbench, pulled off his thick leather gauntlets, and tossed them atop the paperwork. A stack of drafts scattered to the floor, yet he didn't even look down.

"Making a market brawl," he rumbled in a low, smoke-rasped bass devoid of Omega's venom and the younger one's bravado – carrying only a leaden, crushing certainty. "One drools, the other puts on airs of wounded majesty. Making enough racket for the entire sector. If the Tsaritsa's guard turns up here, I will drop you both into the incinerator myself."

The Twenty-Fifth jerked his shoulder in annoyance, yet didn't remove his hand from your thigh:

"What do you want? This is our business."

"Yours?" The Forty-Fifth gave a brief, dry chuckle – without a trace of amusement. He stepped forward, nudging the younger one aside with his bulk, and stood directly against you, looming over the desk. "There is nothing here that is yours. Everything concerning Zandik concerns the three of us."

He wasted no time on questions. His broad, calloused hand came down straight over the Twenty-Fifth's hand on your thigh, crushing the younger one's fingers with enough force to make him yield half an inch, then settled possessively and roughly against the bare strip of skin above your stocking. The hand was scorching and heavy as a blacksmith's forge press.

"You think far too much of your own uniqueness, girl," the Forty-Fifth rasped, looking down at you through the cynical squint of red eyes. "Did you think you could play with fire on the lower tiers without anyone demanding payment? You stepped onto our territory. And we are not accustomed to dividing our spoils by fractions."

The circle closed completely. The Forty-Fifth blocked any escape, pinning you to the tabletop with his broad palm, his fingers squeezing your leg without hesitation, sliding higher toward your undergarments. Behind you, Omega, shedding his mask of composure once and for all, leaned close to your ear, his free hand slipping beneath your corset, unfastening the hooks across your bust with polished, chilling accuracy, his breath scalding your temple. And to your right, unwilling to surrender an inch, the Twenty-Fifth pressed his mouth to your neck, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin near your collarbone, greedily and spitefully staking his claim.

Three versions of one man. Different ages, different strength, different measures of patience – yet the very same unmanageable, rapacious egoism, channeled right now entirely toward you.

Omega pulled off his glove, and his bare, cool fingers firmly palmed your exposed, heavily heaving breast, compelling your back to arch against the press of bodies.

"You wanted this yourself, did you not?" Omega whispered, his lips grazing your cheek near the edge of his mask. "You wanted to see what was hidden behind the laboratory doors. Look. We are all here. And not one of us intends to concede you to another."

The Forty-Fifth tightened his grip on your thigh, forcing a sharp intake of air through your teeth, while the younger one let out a raspy chuckle against your neck, feeling how finely you trembled in the stillness, broken only by the drone of ventilation fans and your mingled breaths.

"Well?" the Forty-Fifth's low voice sounded right above your head, muffled and demanding. "Tell us, princess. Which of us, in your view, has the greater right to this experiment?"

[A Minor Technical Difficulty]

An hour and a half had been allotted for your visit to the research complex. Pantalone, who had overseen the project's funding, had insisted that a representative of the palace be present, since research expenses had been increasing for the past three months while no conclusive results had yet been presented. The Tsaritsa considered your involvement entirely appropriate, especially after the Doctor personally assured her that the upcoming experiment would be safe.

The Second Harbinger greeted you near the entrance to the western research complex. Dottore, who had been examining some notes, raised his head only after his assistant announced your arrival.

"Ah, Your Highness. It seems we've managed to avoid any delays. I must confess, after yesterday's conversation with Pantalone, I was beginning to fear that the Ninth would decide to detain you for yet another lecture on the sensible allocation of state funds," the Doctor remarked, closing the register and handing it to an employee. "Please, come in. I trust you've been informed that the rules here are somewhat stricter than those at the Zapolyarny Palace?"

"I was instructed to follow the staff's directions and not approach the apparatus without permission," you replied, accepting a protective cloak from an assistant.

"Splendid! Then half our difficulties have already been resolved," Dottore observed with evident satisfaction. "The remaining half, I'm afraid, concerns my own employees."

The Doctor watched him for a moment before heading toward the inner airlock. You followed him past a corridor lined with glass – fronted offices and several doors bearing restricted – access warnings.

The main chamber occupied nearly the entire lower floor of the complex. At its center stood an apparatus consisting of several metallic rings secured around a cylindrical chamber. Thick cables ran along the walls, connecting it to the control panels, while the ventilation system's pipes stretched across the ceiling.

"Impressive, wouldn't you say?" Dottore stopped beside the central console, noticing your interest in the mechanism. "Although I must disappoint you: its appearance is of rather secondary importance. What lies inside is considerably more interesting."

"Before you is a specimen of an ancient mechanism discovered during excavations in northern Snezhnaya. Its original purpose remains unknown, but we've established that certain forms of stimulation provoke a rather unusual reaction in the material. Today, I intend to reproduce that reaction under controlled conditions."

"And building an entire laboratory was necessary for that?" you asked, examining the blueprints.

"Oh, certainly, we could have managed with considerably more modest equipment," the Doctor replied, turning around with a smirk. "Of course, we would then have to rebuild the research complex after every second experiment. I'm afraid Pantalone wouldn't appreciate such an economical approach."

"Lord Dottore, the protective partition has been inspected. The primary circuit is ready for activation," one of the assistants reported, stopping beside the console.

"And the auxiliary circuit?" Dottore extended his hand for the logbook without even looking at the employee.

"The inspection is nearly complete. We detected a minor deviation in the operation of the third valve, but it hasn't exceeded the permissible limits."

"How minor?" the Doctor asked, turning the pages.

"Approximately four percent, my lord."

"Hm. Within the expected range," Dottore made a note in the logbook and returned it to the assistant. "Continue the preparations. And make certain the readings are recorded from the very beginning. I have no intention of discovering missing measurements halfway through another experiment."

You examined the apparatus's diagram once more before addressing the Doctor.

"Is four percent safe?"

Dottore turned toward you, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"A sensible question, Your Highness. I presume you've been informed that all primary safety systems have passed inspection? Then you needn't concern yourself. Minor deviations occur during the operation of any complex apparatus. If we abandoned our research over every such irregularity, humanity would still be struggling to master the use of fire."

"But the employee said the inspection wasn't finished yet."

"Which is precisely why he's conducting it now," Dottore replied, returning his attention to the console. "Nevertheless, I greatly appreciate your prudence. Pantalone would undoubtedly be delighted to learn that you're taking such good care of his investments."

Ten minutes later, most of the employees had left the chamber. The protective partitions descended, separating the main experimental chamber from the observation corridor, and warning lights illuminated above the doors. Dottore remained at the primary console with two assistants. You were offered a place on a small observation platform situated several steps away from the control desk.

"Initial power at twenty percent," the Doctor instructed, watching the readings closely. "Maintain stabilization within the designated range. Inform me at the first sign of deviation."

A faint bluish light appeared inside the cylindrical chamber, gradually intensifying as the power increased. Thin lines of luminescence spread across the metallic rings, and new values began appearing on the screen.

"Curious..." Dottore murmured, leaning closer to the monitor. "The readings differ somewhat from yesterday's. Increase the power to thirty – five percent."

"Lord Dottore, shouldn't we verify stability at twenty percent first?" the laboratory assistant asked cautiously.

"We've already verified it six times," Dottore replied, pointing to the adjacent screen. "If you have reason to believe a seventh attempt is fundamentally necessary, I'll be delighted to hear it. Preferably before the working day is over."

The assistant hastily obeyed. The light inside the chamber grew brighter, and a new graph appeared on one of the panels. The Doctor studied it attentively before bending over the keyboard and adjusting several parameters.

"Now that's considerably more interesting. Observe the material's response. Previously, we were only able to achieve such a result at significantly higher power."

You stepped closer to the console to examine the graph.

"But the temperature is rising too," you observed, pointing to a value in the lower corner of the screen.

"Naturally," Dottore replied, glancing at the figures. "Any process of this nature involves the release of energy. The question is how effectively we can control it."

One of the assistants cleared his throat softly, attracting the Doctor's attention.

"My lord, the pressure in the auxiliary circuit is rising again. The third valve can't compensate for the change quickly enough."

Dottore stopped typing and examined the adjacent monitor. He studied the readings for several seconds before reaching toward the regulation panel.

"Reduce the load on the secondary circuit and redirect the excess through the reserve system. Let's see how it performs."

"But the reserve system hasn't been tested under such a load."

"Then today it will have an excellent opportunity to demonstrate its capabilities," the Doctor remarked with a smirk, although he noticed that the employee hadn't moved. "Well? Or would you prefer to wait until the pressure exceeds the permissible threshold?"

The laboratory assistant hastily followed the instruction. For a few moments, the readings stabilized, and Dottore nodded in satisfaction. Then a sharp metallic click sounded from within the apparatus.

One of the graphs suddenly changed direction. A red indicator flashed on the side panel, followed by a dull impact from beneath the protective casing. Before anyone could react, an intermittent alarm filled the chamber.

"Lord Dottore!" the assistant exclaimed, abruptly pulling away from the console. "The reserve circuit is overloaded! The pressure is still rising!"

Dottore quickly switched screens and leaned toward the readings.

"Hm? Is that so... Now this is interesting."

"We need to stop the experiment immediately!" the laboratory assistant reached for the emergency switch, but the Doctor caught his wrist.

"Don't be hasty. Look at the third graph," he said, pointing toward the monitor. "The output power has increased, even though the energy supply remains unchanged. This is the first time we've observed such a reaction."

"But the system won't withstand it!"

"Then attend to the stabilization instead of repeating the obvious," Dottore replied, releasing his wrist and returning to the controls.

You rose from your seat. The alarm continued sounding, and red lights began illuminating above the doors one after another.

"Doctor, stop the experiment!" you demanded, approaching the console. "Your employees are telling you the apparatus is overloaded!"

"I can hear them perfectly well, Your Highness," Dottore replied without taking his eyes off the screen. "And while they continue informing me of the obvious, we're losing extremely valuable data. If you'll permit me, I would prefer to establish the cause of this phenomenon first."

At that moment, a powerful vibration traveled through the pipes overhead. A cracking sound was followed by a loud hiss. A stream of whitish vapor escaped from a damaged connection, immediately triggering another alarm.

"The ventilation circuit has lost integrity!" one of the laboratory assistants shouted, covering his face with his sleeve. "Automatic sector isolation!"

The heavy protective doors began descending. When the metal panels slammed shut, a warning announcing an emergency lockdown appeared on the wall – mounted display.

A few seconds later, the communication terminal activated.

"Lord Dottore, respond! The system has locked down the experimental chamber. We're attempting to restore control of the doors."

"In that case, I suggest you hurry," Dottore replied, continuing to enter commands. "And inform the supervisor that I'll require a detailed explanation of how a damaged valve managed to pass its preliminary inspection."

You approached the door and pressed the emergency release button. A warning appeared on the panel, indicating that unlocking was impossible.

"The door won't open," you said, turning toward the Doctor. "Can you shut down the system?"

"Which system, precisely?" Dottore finally raised his head. "Unfortunately, we've encountered several difficulties at once. If you're referring to the doors, they've been locked automatically. The system detected a breach in containment and is now preventing the chamber's contents from spreading beyond this section."

"Then shut down the apparatus!"

"That is precisely what I'm working on," he replied, examining another graph with a slight grimace. "Although, I confess, with considerable reluctance. Just look at these values. Over the past three months, we've never managed to produce such a pronounced reaction."

The Doctor pointed to the screen, where the values continued fluctuating. Even now, with the alarm making some of his words difficult to hear, his voice retained an unmistakable enthusiasm.

"What an extraordinary coincidence! The system has reached this level for the first time at the exact moment the reserve circuit ceased restricting its power. Perhaps we've fundamentally misunderstood the purpose of the protective mechanism."

"Are you planning to continue the experiment while we're trapped in here?" you asked, approaching the desk.

"And you're suggesting we immediately destroy our only opportunity to determine the cause of what's happening?" Dottore turned toward you in genuine surprise. "Your Highness, I must admit, I expected a somewhat greater degree of curiosity from you."

You pointed toward the damaged pipe, which was still releasing vapor.

"I'm suggesting we figure out how to get out of here first."

Then he approached the neighboring panel and called up information concerning the safety systems.

"Well, I suppose there is a certain amount of sense in that. Let's see just how serious our difficulties have become."

A diagram of the ventilation system appeared on the screen. Several sections were marked in red, and a warning illuminated beside the air – exchange readings.

Dottore stopped smiling. He opened the second section of the report, checked the reserve system's readings, and pressed several keys in an attempt to restore control of the damaged circuit.

"Most unfortunate," he finally remarked. "The primary ventilation has shut down, and the reserve system is operating at less than half capacity. The automatic isolation procedure appears to have damaged one of the connecting ducts."

"And how long can we remain in here?"

The Doctor checked another reading.

"According to the preliminary calculations, approximately forty minutes before the critical threshold is reached. However, I wouldn't place too much confidence in those figures. With damaged ventilation, the accuracy of the sensors leaves something to be desired."

He opened a wall – mounted cabinet, retrieved two emergency breathing apparatuses, and quickly checked their indicators. He handed one to you and left the other beside the console.

"Put this on. There's no need to activate the air supply just yet, but we'd best be prepared. And please, try to keep away from the damaged pipeline. I'd rather not have to explain to Her Majesty why her daughter sustained an injury during a perfectly ordinary laboratory inspection."

"Perfectly ordinary?" you repeated, accepting the apparatus.

Dottore chuckled.

"Ah, forgive me. Perhaps that particular description was somewhat unfortunate."

Pantalone arrived several minutes after receiving word of the accident.

"Now then, allow me to make certain I understand," the Ninth remarked, examining the data on the screen. "You're telling me that the safety system has locked down the chamber with Her Highness and the Second Harbinger still inside?"

"That's correct, Lord Pantalone," the complex supervisor replied. "We attempted to open the doors manually, but the automated system is rejecting our commands. An unstable energy field remains active inside."

Pantalone slowly removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief.

"What a splendid way to begin the evening. Now, would you kindly explain why a safety system costing several million Mora is incapable of performing even one of the tasks for which I agreed to finance it?"

"My lord, we're doing everything we can..."

"I haven't the slightest doubt," the banker replied, returning his glasses to their place. "However, I would prefer something a little more specific. How much time will be required to unlock the chamber safely?"

"Under the current conditions, no less than an hour. If the damaged ventilation continues operating at this capacity, the conditions inside may become dangerous considerably sooner."

Pantalone stopped smiling. He drew the complex's floor plan closer and pointed toward a service corridor running alongside the isolated chamber.

"There's an auxiliary purification system here. Why hasn't it been connected?"

"We need to bring in a portable unit, my lord."

"Then bring one. If equipment from the neighboring complex is required, use it. I'll authorize all necessary expenditures."

Meanwhile, Pantalone approached the communication terminal and established contact with the laboratory.

"Dottore, I hope you can hear me. I must confess, when I agreed to finance your research, I was under the impression that the word 'safety' in the documentation actually meant something."

A brief chuckle came through the speaker.

"Pantalone! How delightful of you to join us. I'm afraid the laboratory tour will have to be postponed. We've encountered a few minor technical difficulties."

"Minor?" the banker glanced at the red warnings filling the screen. "My dear Doctor, you're locked inside an experimental chamber with the Tsaritsa's daughter, and half your employees are telling me the doors cannot be opened. Don't you think the situation has progressed somewhat beyond ordinary technical difficulties?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be so hasty in assessing the situation. After all, we've obtained some rather interesting results."

"What a consolation," Pantalone replied with noticeable dryness. "I'm sure Her Majesty will be delighted to learn that her daughter was trapped in a malfunctioning laboratory for the sake of a few new graphs."

Dottore was about to respond when another person entered the control room. Pierro arrived accompanied by two Fatui officers, listened to a brief report from the supervisor, and stopped before the main screen.

"Doctor," he said, activating his own communication channel. "I've been informed that your apparatus has gone out of control. What is Her Highness's condition?"

Dottore looked away from his instruments and turned toward the communication terminal.

"Satisfactory, as far as I can determine. We're both inside the main chamber, and the room hasn't sustained any serious damage. Unfortunately, one of the ventilation ducts proved somewhat less reliable than anticipated."

"Terminate the experiment and prepare for evacuation," Pierro ordered, studying the diagram carefully. "The safety of Her Majesty's daughter takes absolute priority. All other matters can be addressed afterward."

"How categorical, Pierro," the Doctor chuckled softly. "I take it you haven't examined the results yet. I assure you, they're of exceptional interest."

"I'll examine them once Her Highness has left the chamber."

"That is precisely where we encounter a minor complication," Dottore replied, glancing toward the readings. "If the apparatus is shut down immediately, the safety system may require additional time to reduce the residual activity. I would prefer to stabilize the resonance manually from this terminal. Severing the main line abruptly will cause the core to discharge straight into the auxiliary housing – which will not only ruin three months of records, but very likely bring down the reinforced ceiling above our heads."

"You have fifteen minutes, Doctor," Pierro's tone was flat, carrying the cold finality of an executioner's ledger. "After that, the external breach team will flood the sector with neutralizing agent and force the blast doors, regardless of what becomes of your mechanism."

"How wonderfully considerate," Dottore chuckled, his fingers already dancing across the manual override. "We shall endeavor not to keep you waiting."

The speaker gave a sharp click, and the transmission cut off.

In the enclosed hall, the white vapor was thickening rapidly, swirling into red halos beneath the revolving emergency lights. The air smelled of burnt insulation and sharp, stinging ozone. Dottore slowly stepped back from the console, turning his full attention to you. His porcelain half – mask caught the dull crimson glow, and though the countdown on the main screen was visibly ticking down, his posture remained insolently relaxed.

"Fifteen minutes," he murmured, stopping less than an arm's length away, his gaze tracing your face. "Our dear colleagues are so terribly prone to theatrical panic. Tell me, Your Highness... are you going to stand on that platform clutching your breathing apparatus and waiting for Pierro's men to fish us out like drowned kittens? Or will you step down here, take the secondary calibration controls, and help me stabilize this core before the room runs entirely out of breathable air?"

[An Uninvited Guest]

Talk of the impending marriage had begun earlier that month, when an official letter arrived at the Zapolyarny Palace from one of Fontaine's influential aristocratic families. The de Vernois house proposed an extensive trade agreement with Snezhnaya, providing for the joint financing of several industrial enterprises, access to maritime routes, and special conditions for the supply of rare materials. As an additional guarantee of cooperation, the head of the family suggested a marriage between his eldest son and the Tsaritsa's daughter.

Her Majesty gave no definitive answer, ordering the delegation received and the terms examined. The negotiations were entrusted to Pantalone, who was to assess the economic benefits, and Pierro, who was responsible for evaluating the political consequences. You, meanwhile, were expected to meet your prospective husband and form your own opinion.

Two days before the formal dinner, Pantalone invited you to his office. Documents bearing Fontaine's seal and a portrait of a young man in a dark suit lay across his desk.

"Laurent de Vernois," Pantalone began, unfolding the likeness as you took a seat. "Twenty – seven years old, eldest son of Count Edmond de Vernois, heir to the family fortune and several major factories. Educated in Fontaine, with experience in diplomatic negotiations. Judging by the reports, he possesses excellent manners and a respectable understanding of politics."

"And what terms is his family offering?" you asked, leafing through the accompanying pages.

"Very generous ones, at least on the surface," the banker smiled, sliding another folder closer. "However, proposals of such magnitude are rarely born of pure goodwill. I intend to examine every clause before recommending Her Majesty accept."

You stopped at the section detailing the marital settlement. "Does Laurent himself agree to this?"

"According to his father's letter, he has expressed complete willingness," Pantalone adjusted his spectacles. "Though it would be wiser to ask him directly. In any case, no one expects your immediate consent. Her Majesty wishes first to assess the political advantages, and your personal impression remains paramount. The dinner will provide an opportunity to become acquainted without excessive ceremony."

Dottore learned of the prospective match considerably later, and entirely by chance.

On the day of the formal dinner, the Doctor was occupied in his workshop. Disassembled mechanisms lay across his workbench alongside shipping invoices awaiting his signature. When an assistant entered carrying a dispatch from the Ninth Harbinger, Dottore barely glanced up.

"The Ninth asked me to deliver these, my lord. He also noted he cannot attend today's funding review."

"I hope he has found a respectable excuse," Dottore took the envelope without looking away from his diagram. "I'd rather not discover another ledger audit has taken precedence over my work."

"A formal dinner is being held at the palace this evening, my lord. A delegation from Fontaine has arrived to discuss the possibility of marriage with Her Highness."

The Doctor paused, then chuckled softly. "Courtship negotiations. What a delightful waste of time. I imagine Pantalone is positively thrilled by the opportunity to appraise a husband with the same zeal he applies to treasury bonds."

He unfolded the document, skimming the list of expenditures. "And who might this fortunate gentleman be?"

"Laurent de Vernois, my lord."

Dottore's hand froze. "De Vernois?" he repeated, looking up at the assistant for the first time.

"Yes, Lord Dottore. His father owns several industrial enterprises –"

"I know perfectly well what his father does," the Doctor interrupted, tossing the letter aside. "Bring me the reports on restricted shipments from Fontaine over the past five years. Particularly private acquisitions of research equipment. Have them here before dinner."

When the assistant departed, Dottore retrieved a thin folder from an iron cabinet. Five years earlier, a trading firm registered in Fontaine had attempted to secure ancient Khaenri'ahn components through intermediaries. Dottore had taken an interest in the transaction, intending to intercept the specimens, but the cargo had vanished before the handover.

Turning to the final page, his eyes fixed on a familiar signature: Edmond de Vernois.

"Well, well," Dottore laughed softly, closing the file. "What an unexpected reunion. Inform Pierro that I intend to join this evening's reception, and have a place set for me at the table."

"You weren't on the guest list, my lord..."

"Then it is high time we corrected that oversight."

By evening, the ceremonial hall of the Zapolyarny Palace had been prepared. Silver candelabras and floral arrangements from Fontaine adorned the long table, while string players performed softly near the colonnade.

Laurent de Vernois proved tall, with neatly combed fair hair and a composed, polished demeanor. His dark suit was fastened with silver buttons bearing his family crest. During the introductions, he carried himself with easy, practiced charm.

"Your Highness, allow me to express my gratitude for such a gracious welcome," Laurent said, bowing respectfully. "I confess, I expected the Zapolyarny Palace to be somewhat more austere. I now see why my father spoke so highly of Snezhnayan hospitality."

"I hope your journey wasn't too uncomfortable?" you acknowledged his greeting.

"Quite the contrary, especially once we cleared the mountain passes," he smiled. "Though your northern winter leaves quite an impression on someone accustomed to Court of Fontaine weather."

Pantalone joined the exchange, exchanging pleasantries with the young heir, while Pierro observed from the head of the table. Once the guests were seated, the First Harbinger offered a brief welcome on behalf of the Tsaritsa, and the first courses were served.

The conversation soon turned to trade routes, industrial subsidies, and diplomatic treaties. Laurent answered Pantalone's inquiries fluently, displaying a thorough grasp of his family's affairs, and frequently turned to you to inquire about palace customs.

"My father has always maintained that the strongest agreements rest upon mutual respect," Laurent remarked, setting down his wine.

"Naturally," Pantalone smiled. "Though mutual respect is particularly agreeable when reinforced by favorable contractual margins."

Before Laurent could reply, the hall doors swung open.

Dottore entered in his high – collared uniform, his porcelain half – mask catching the candlelight. A thin dossier rested beneath his arm, which he passed to a servant before striding unhurriedly toward the table. Pierro frowned slightly at his approach.

"Doctor," the First Harbinger noted. "I did not expect to see you here tonight."

"Pierro, how discourteous," Dottore chuckled, spreading his hands. "Am I not entitled to join such a distinguished gathering? Especially when international cooperation is under discussion. Besides, I heard representatives of the de Vernois family were present. That particular detail piqued my curiosity."

Pierro offered no further objection, and a servant hastily placed an additional chair beside Pantalone.

"Dottore," the banker greeted him with raised eyebrows. "Have you finally decided to appreciate the virtues of polite society?"

"Do not exaggerate, my friend. I merely wished to introduce some variety into my evening," the Doctor replied, settling into his seat and turning directly toward you. "Your Highness. I trust dinner has been sufficiently entertaining? Though I find it difficult to imagine what amusement such dry diplomacy might offer."

"We were discussing cooperation with Fontaine," you answered, meeting his gaze.

"Ah, of course. And I presume young Monsieur de Vernois has already made an exceptional impression?"

Laurent turned courteously toward the newcomer. "I don't believe we have been introduced, Monsieur..."

"Dottore," the Doctor smiled, extending a gloved hand. "Second of the Fatui Harbingers. And you must be the young gentleman on whose account so many distinguished minds have gathered."

Laurent took his hand. "An honor, Lord Dottore. I have heard a great deal about your scientific achievements."

"Have you?" the Doctor tilted his head. "From whom, might I ask?"

"Chiefly my father. Our enterprises cooperate with several research bodies, and your name has arisen on more than one occasion."

"Your father takes an interest in research?" Dottore leaned back, eyes narrowing behind his mask. "A curious coincidence. I have heard a few things regarding the de Vernois family myself. Particularly your ventures specializing in the acquisition of rare materials."

Laurent set his glass onto the linen. "We deal in various resources, though primarily conventional industry."

"Naturally. Although, if memory serves, one of your firms displayed a keen interest in certain archaeological excavations several years ago."

Laurent hesitated. "My father has concluded many agreements. I am not familiar with every transaction."

"Of course," Dottore's smile widened. "Family affairs can be complicated. Especially when they involve purchases one prefers to omit from official registries."

Pantalone lowered his fork, his tone shifting into smooth caution. "Dottore, I doubt our guest arrived in Snezhnaya to discuss historical commerce."

"Trade is precisely what brought him here," the Doctor countered without shifting his gaze from Laurent. "Forgive my persistence, Monsieur de Vernois. A professional habit. Perhaps you recall the Northern Trading Company? Managed, as I recall, by one of your father's personal confidants."

"It ceased operations years ago," Laurent replied, his answers growing noticeably guarded. "The enterprise proved unprofitable."

"Unprofitable?" Dottore laughed softly. "How unfortunate. Given that the company had just acquired several remarkably valuable mechanical specimens from the border."

"I know nothing of those acquisitions, Lord Dottore."

"Really? I was under the impression the heir to such an empire would be privy to its most significant contraband."

Laurent's jaw set. "I am not certain what you are implying."

"Implying?" the Doctor leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "I am merely inquiring into your family assets. Surely prospective kin may take an interest in what lies in the family vault?"

"That is quite enough, Dottore," Pantalone interjected firmly. "If you have questions regarding specific shipments, we can arrange an inquiry through proper channels. Tonight's reception concerns other matters."

"Does it?" Dottore cast the banker a mockingly surprised glance. "How rapidly your passion for audit transparency evaporates when an attractive dowry is dangled before you."

Pierro's voice cut across the table with heavy authority. "Doctor. If you possess information affecting state security, submit it to my office tomorrow. You will not conduct an interrogation at this table."

Dottore held Pierro's gaze for several quiet seconds before inclining his head. "As you wish, Pierro. My apologies to our esteemed guest."

Laurent acknowledged the apology with a stiff nod. Pantalone smoothly guided the conversation back to tariff exemptions and transport routes, gradually easing the tension among the Fontaine envoys.

When dinner concluded an hour later, Laurent was escorted toward the guest wing by Pantalone and the diplomatic retinue to review the preliminary trade drafts. Relieved to escape the stifling hall, you slipped out into the grand colonnade overlooking the snow – covered palace gardens.

The night air was bitingly cold, carrying the quiet whistle of wind through the stone balusters. You had barely taken three breaths of frosty air when measured, quiet footsteps echoed against the marble behind you.

You did not need to turn to know who it was.

"A charming young man," Dottore's voice drifted out of the shadows, dripping with cool, theatrical disdain. "Polite, well – dressed, and thoroughly terrified the moment anyone asks a question not pre – written in his father's briefing notes."

He stopped beside you at the balustrade, resting both elbows on the cold stone and looking out over the frozen courtyards. The wind stirred his pale hair, and without the table separating you, his physical presence felt invasive, cutting through the frosty air with the familiar scent of iron and bitter herbs.

"You made a scene in front of the entire delegation," you said, turning your head slightly. "Pierro was entirely right to cut you off."

"Pierro is an old soldier who thinks in treaties and banners," Dottore retorted softly, turning his head so that his mask was inches from yours. "And Pantalone is a merchant blinded by Fontaine's shipping lanes. Neither of them cared that the boy's father made his fortune selling stolen ruin cores to the highest bidder."

He paused, his red eyes fixing on yours through the narrow slits of his visor.

"Tell me, Your Highness... did his polished manners genuinely charm you? Or are you truly prepared to let your mother trade you off to a pampered heir who will spend the rest of his life flinching whenever someone raises their voice?"

His gloved hand lifted from the balustrade, his fingers lightly brushing the heavy fur trim at your shoulder with deliberate, insolent familiarity.

"Because if you actually intend to sign that agreement," Dottore whispered, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed your arm, "I might just have to present my evidence to Her Majesty before morning. What will it be, princess?"

[Until the Stroke of Midnight]

On the occasion of the arrival of envoys from Fontaine and trade representatives from Natlan, the ceremonial enfilade of the Zapolyarny Palace was stripped of its customary courtly austerity for one evening. The masquerade had been declared by the personal decree of the Tsaritsa, and the evening's primary rule was observed rigorously: until the stroke of midnight, none of the guests had the right to speak their own name or demand another's. Beneath lofty vaults where hundreds of crystal pendants trembled to the sounds of a brass orchestra, velvet dominoes, foreign doublets, solid Venetian masks, and the feathers of rare birds mingled together. This evening offered a rare opportunity to slip away from the intrusive scrutiny of ministers, and you made full use of that anonymity, watching the ballroom from the shadows of the massive carved columns of the northern gallery.

Dottore had had no intention of appearing here at all. He openly despised any palace festivities, dismissing them as a futile waste of time and a gathering of idle mediocres incapable of telling quicksilver from silver. At noon, however, Pantalone had personally dropped by his laboratory. The Ninth casually mentioned that among the retinue of one of the Fontaine diplomats, an antiquarian had been spotted – one who, five years ago at a private auction in Sumeru, had purchased handwritten notes on the anatomy of Khaenri'ahn mechanical constructs – drafts that once belonged to Zandik himself. Such a leak was not something the Doctor could let slide. Leaving the scalpels and autoclaves to his assistants, he showed up at the masquerade not for the music or the wine, but for a swift, and for the thief, rather unpleasant audit.

You stood by the balustrade holding a tall glass of dry berry mors, observing the whirling couples. The murmur of the ballroom felt monotonous: the rustle of brocade hemlines over polished floor wax, the clink of guardsmen's spurs, and the muted laughter of noblewomen. A light touch at your elbow made you turn around. Beside you stood a tall man in an impeccably tailored tailcoat of dark blue velvet with silver embroidery along the collar. His face was almost entirely concealed by a porcelain half-mask crafted by Sumeru artisans – smooth, without a single hairline fracture, featuring narrow eye-slits beneath which only unruly strands of bluish hair were visible. He did not bend in the deep bow prescribed by etiquette, merely tilting his head casually, as though doing you a favor with his very presence.

"Loneliness by a pillar hardly flatters a lady at a masquerade," the stranger remarked, and his voice – velvety, low, with a faint metallic rasp and a lazy drawl to the vowels – gave him away from the very first second. "A rare Fontaine contredanse is playing across the hall, yet you gaze upon the dancers as though calculating the thickness of the ice over the bay. Will you allow me to steal you away from your somber musings?"

You studied the man standing before you intently. No Harbinger other than him would have dared address the sovereign's daughter with such venomous nonchalance. Dottore knew full well who was hiding beneath your silver filigree mask that concealed the upper half of your face, yet the game of strangers clearly afforded him genuine amusement.

"I fear a nameless cavalier is far too overconfident," you answered, in no hurry to offer your hand and tilting your chin slightly. "The rules of the masquerade permit me to refuse anyone whose face is veiled in porcelain."

"A refusal is accepted only when it rings sincere," Dottore gave a wry smirk, the corner of his thin lips beneath the mask twitching with mockery. "Whereas you, my lady, are desperately bored. I am merely offering a cure for boredom. Surely you aren't afraid of one simple dance?"

He extended a hand clad in a black glove of fine kidskin, palm upward, leaving no room for polite hesitations. You set the half-finished glass onto the marble console by the column and placed your fingers in his palm. Dottore instantly closed his grip slightly tighter than the strict proprieties of the Zapolyarny Palace demanded – not painfully, but authoritatively, locking the distance between you and guiding you into the broad circle of light where couples were already assembling for the next figure.

The orchestra shifted tempo, the violins striking up a languid, unhurried melody, and the Doctor smoothly rested his other hand on your waist. According to imperial court protocol, a gentleman and a lady were expected to maintain a distance of no less than four vershoks, barely grazing the partner's back with fingertips. Dottore flouted this rule from the very first second. His palm settled squarely over the curve of your lower back, pressing you noticeably against the dense wool of his tailcoat. You felt the dry warmth of his fingers seeping through the sheer silk of your gown, while from the man himself emanated a subtle scent of frosty air, clove spirit, and bitter almonds.

"You carry yourself rather brazenly for a nameless guest," you noted, adjusting to his stride and staring directly into the dark slits of his mask. "The master of ceremonies is already eyeing us sideways."

"Let him eye us," Dottore scoffed softly, guiding you into a turn with ease so that the hem of your gown billowed gently above the floor. "Until midnight, this hall belongs to fantasies and misconceptions. It would be foolish to squander time on courtly scrapes and bows when one can afford a measure of liberty. Besides, I have been watching you closely for the past hour. You have changed partners three times, and not one of them dared so much as meet your gaze."

He leaned in a fraction closer, and his breath grazed the bare skin of your neck, causing your shoulders to tense instinctively.

"That gray-haired baron from Liyue nearly crumbled to pieces from sheer terror while holding your fingertips," the Doctor continued, blatant sarcasm coloring his voice. "And the Fontaine envoy showered your diamonds with compliments so diligently he nearly trampled your feet. Tell me, are you genuinely flattered by such groveling? Or do you allow them to buzz around you merely to avoid being left alone with your own thoughts?"

"And you, I take it, appeared to rescue me from poor company?" you countered, keeping your composure even as his fingers on your waist slowly shifted lower, gently tracing the curve of your hip through the fabric of your skirt. "Since when do hermits from the northern wings take an interest in high-society prattle? I was under the impression you were concerned solely with mechanisms and other people's secrets."

Dottore let out a low laugh – quiet enough for the sound to drown in the rustle of gowns and the trills of stringed instruments. He took a long, gliding step, drawing you into the dance's inner circle, nearer to the heavy draperies by the glazed doors of the conservatory.

"Mechanisms are predictable," he replied, and that corrosive, hazardous intonation with which he routinely conducted interrogations or formulated hypotheses bled into his voice. "People, on the other hand, occasionally yield amusing surprises. Especially when they imagine that a mask of delicate silver could conceal the flutter of eyelashes or a quickened pulse. I can feel the vein fluttering in your neck, my lady. And it is certainly not from the brisk tempo of the music."

His hand against your back grew even more demanding, compelling you to press almost flush against him. Through the cloth, you sensed the hardness of his shoulders and how resolutely, rigidly he held the rhythm, thoroughly commanding your every movement. The music carried the couples toward the concluding passage, yet Dottore had no intention of slackening his pace, deliberately leading you ever farther from the center of the hall, into the penumbra between marble niches.

"You are evading the answer," he whispered, leaning down to your very ear so that the edge of his porcelain mask nearly brushed your temple. "With whom did you spend the remainder of the evening before taking up position beside that column? The Fontainian held your hand far too long near the terrace exit. He attempted to graze your glove with his lips, did he not? Curious... did you permit it, or ought I issue that gentleman an expedited pass to my dissection cellars?"

The dance broke off on the final chord of the violins. Polite applause rippled around the room as couples began to disperse, breaking into small clusters for conversation. Yet Dottore did not loosen his fingers around your waist. He remained standing half a pace from you within a deep alcove beneath velvet drapery, his breathing heavy as he looked down at you with a mocking, impatient challenge.

"Come now," he said, applying slight pressure with his palm against your lower back, preventing you from stepping away. "Midnight has not yet struck, princess. You still have a solid half-hour to lie straight to my face with utter impunity."

[Terms of Defiance]

The Tsaritsa's order concerning the immediate freezing of any research in the fourth underground sector had been signed two months ago. Following the incident at the Svetloledovka testing ground, when a malfunction in the resonance apparatus caused an entire drift section to collapse, Anastasya Feodorovna outlined the boundaries with utmost clarity: the project was terminated, specimens sealed, and equipment mothballed until further notice. The Second Harbinger had listened to the sovereign will with impeccable composure, signed the chancellery protocol, and departed the throne room without a single objection. Still, no one in the Zapolyarny Palace doubted that Dottore had no intention of abandoning what he had started merely because the crown willed it.

Confirmation of this landed in your hands three days ago. A courier carrying field dispatch from Mondstadt had been intercepted at the central customs warehouse due to a mix – up in the waybills, and among routine bales of pharmaceuticals, a wax – sealed folder was uncovered. It contained weekly summaries on the synthesis of corruption, stimulation maps, and detailed autopsy protocols dated the previous Tuesday. Across each sheet stood Zandik's personal cipher and his sweeping signature in green ink.

The bank's security service acted swiftly, yet the Ninth reacted swifter still. Yesterday at noon, Pantalone personally descended into the lower laboratory – a rare occurrence for a man who preferred spending his time among the marble of the treasury rather than among humming autoclaves.

Pantalone hadn't even bothered to take off his sable – lined coat back then. He stopped beside a rack of flasks, fastidiously flicking an invisible speck of dust from his cuff, and watched Dottore adjust the microscope's optics.

"Your papers were intercepted at the customs post, Zandik," Pantalone said in an even, dry voice that held neither panic nor sympathy – only cold calculation. "And one of the copies is already lying in Her Highness's chambers. I pretended that the bank's chancellery failed to place an arrest on the parcel in time, but the fact remains: Anastasya Feodorovna's daughter has you by the throat."

Dottore merely scoffed back then, not taking his gaze off the ocular:

"What touching vigilance on the young lady's part. Did you truly come to warn me out of pure solidarity, Ninth?"

"I came to remind you of the rules of balance," Pantalone adjusted the delicate silver chain of his glasses and, for the first time, looked at his colleague squarely, stripped of his habitual courtly pleasantries. "If you are relying on your cheap psychological tricks and attempt to blackmail the Tsaritsa's daughter – it will end far worse than the loss of a research license or the shuttering of a couple of workshops. Anastasya Feodorovna will not convene a council, nor will she call upon me to settle the financial losses. She will simply grind this cellar into gravel along with all your autoclaves and records. Keep that in mind when she comes to you for answers."

"She will come?" the Doctor asked then, straightening up and casually wiping his fingers with a clean rag. A lazy, dangerous smile played upon his lips. "Splendid. I have long wished to see how much of that family obstinacy is passed down through blood."

Closer to midnight, the customary dry, sterile chill hung through the basement corridors of the western wing. It smelled of concentrated spirits, copper filings, cooling machine oil, and the dampness of centuries – old granite. Passing by the deserted guard post – the Fatui duty officers had prudently chosen to pretend they were inspecting the ventilation hatch on the far tier – you pushed open the wrought – iron door of the Doctor's private research room.

Within the spacious room beneath high arched vaults, a solitary desk lamp burned under a shade of dark – green glass. Dottore sat in a deep leather armchair at a massive oak desk strewn with scattered blueprints and glass retorts containing dark precipitates. He wore an unbuttoned dark waistcoat over a shirt with sleeves rolled up to the forearms, while his pointed mask lay right on the edge of the bureau, exposing a pale face, sharp shadows beneath the eyes, and a brief smirk on thin lips. In his hands he held an antique tome bound in cracked leather, leisurely turning pages with a bone paper knife.

Footsteps over the stone flags echoed beneath the ceiling, yet Dottore did not even raise his head until you came right up to the edge of the desk. You wasted no time on greetings. A thick gray folder bearing the coat of arms of the chancellery dropped onto the polished wood with a dry rustle, landing directly atop his open book.

Dottore went still. The bone knife froze over the page. He slowly closed the tome, rested his elbows on the desk, and shifted his gaze to the papers, unerringly recognizing the personal impression of his signet ring in the sealing wax.

"How careless," he said softly, and that very same insidious mockery with which he routinely listened to junior researchers' reports surfaced in his voice. "Tossing state secrets onto a desk like an unpaid tab from a roadside tavern. Good evening, Your Highness. Is the heating in the upper chambers truly so wretched tonight that you decided to warm yourself in the company of a dangerous heretic?"

"It is warm there, Dottore," you answered evenly, never looking away from his face. "Unlike the casemates where men who violate my mother's direct orders are sent."

The Doctor chuckled softly, extended a hand clad in a thin black glove, and drew the folder toward himself with his fingertips. He leisurely broke the wax, opened the first sheet, and scanned the neat columns of figures and medical notes. Not a trace of confusion or fear showed on his face. On the contrary, pure curiosity flared in his red eyes.

"Protocol number forty – four, summary of biological adaptation," he muttered, turning a page. "Admittedly, Pantalone did warn me that this parcel ended up with you. Yet I assumed you would first run to complain to your mother to curry favor with the throne. But here you are. In person."

"What difference does it make how those papers reached me?" you rested a palm on the edge of the desk, leaning slightly closer. "There is enough proof here for the Harbingers' council to vote tomorrow morning to shut down all your workshops from Snezhnaya to Sumeru. You continued testing on living human subjects two weeks after Anastasya Feodorovna ordered everything wound down."

Dottore did not argue. He neatly squared the sheets in the folder, pressed them down with a heavy obsidian paperweight, and leaned back against the spine of the chair. His gaze slid over your traveling coat, lingered on the unbuttoned cuffs of your sleeves, and rose to your eyes.

"Denying the obvious is the resort of mediocre politicians and thieving quartermasters," he observed calmly, lacing his fingers together. "Yes, those are my reports. Yes, the project remains operational. My science does not bend to Her Majesty's political compromises with foreign ambassadors. The Tsaritsa thinks in categories of diplomacy and fleeting peace; I think in categories of evolution. But a far more interesting question remains: what exactly do you hope to accomplish with this visit?"

"Explanations," you threw out curtly.

"A lie," Dottore tilted his head, a thin, cynical smile grazing his lips. "If all you sought were explanations, you would have arrived with an escort of the personal guard. Or laid these pages upon your mother's desk over morning tea. Yet here you are. Alone. In the dead of night, in a secluded cellar where screams cannot even reach the guard post. You came to bargain."

He rose from the armchair – slowly, without abrupt motions, squaring his broad shoulders. His silhouette instantly blocked the light from the lamp, casting a long, dark shadow over you. Dottore rounded the corner of the desk, never taking his scrutinizing gaze off you, and stopped a single pace away.

"Well then, let us discuss the price of silence," he continued with a smooth, insinuating cadence that sounded far more hazardous than an overt threat. "The Bank will transfer any sum you name to your personal accounts – Pantalone will grumble, but he will sign the drafts. If you desire rare curiosities or forbidden treatises from the Akademiya – within a week they will be in your bedchamber. If it is influence you want – my people on the Council will back any initiative of yours. Name your price, princess, and we shall forget this unfortunate oversight."

You smirked, not yielding half an inch, catching the faint scent of menthol, bitter herbs, and cold iron drifting from him.

"You are far too accustomed to everyone around you having a price, Dottore," you said, looking him dead between the eyes. "Gold does not interest me. Treatises do not either. And I have no use for your political puppets. Your terms do not suit me."

For a moment, stillness hung between you, broken only by the muted hum of steam pipes behind the wall. The Harbinger's brows twitched upward ever so slightly. The situation was clearly failing to unfold according to his habitual script, and that did not irk him – it delighted him.

"Is that so?" Dottore took another half – step forward. Now the distance between you dwindled until the front of his open waistcoat brushed the fabric of your coat. He dropped a hand onto the edge of the desk right behind your back, smoothly cutting off your retreat. "A refusal. How novel and unpragmatic. So money and authority hold no charm for you. What remains, then? Filial duty? A yearning to play the model heir to the throne?"

His free hand rose, and the tips of his fingers in cool kidskin leather lightly, teasingly grazed the silver chain at your collar, sliding down toward your collarbone.

"You know full well what I am doing," he whispered, leaning in closer until his breath touched your cheek. "And you understand that this document is a double – edged blade. You could ruin me, yet in doing so you would forever forfeit the chance to discover what these developments are truly capable of. You are curious too, are you not? The very same blood, the very same ancestral pride... You did not come down here to punish me. You came to see how far I am willing to go to keep this secret."

You caught his hand by the wrist, halting the motion of his fingers at your throat, and squeezed the thin leather of the glove firmly enough for him to feel your grip.

"Do not try to talk your way out of this with cheap tricks, Doctor," you said, watching a sharp thrill flare in his eyes. "I will not cower before your threats, nor will I swoon over your rehearsed gallantry. You made a grave mistake, and now I dictate the terms."

Dottore made no move to pull his hand away. He merely shifted his gaze to your fingers clamped around his wrist, then looked back up into your face – with that ravenous focus reserved for dissecting nature's most intricate enigmas.

"Dictate them, Your Highness," he rasped, his fingers stirring faintly under your palm. "I am all ears. What are your counter – demands?"

[Snowbound]

The snowfall had begun back around midday, just as the wagon train had descended from the mountain pass, and by dusk the wind had whipped up to such intensity that visibility dropped to three paces. The heavy covered wagons laden with expedition freight bogged down in snowdrifts, the draft horses wheezed from the frigid air, and the convoy commander reported with absolute bluntness: the highway had run out, the road was buried up to the mileposts, and the nearest military garrison was no fewer than six hours' march away.

The roadside post station on the provincial border proved to be the only shelter capable of accommodating both men and horses. The two – story timber building with squat stone outbuildings and stables creaked under the gale's gusts, while inside hung a choking, dense haze: it smelled of cheap tobacco, damp sheepskin, fried pork, and soot from the stoves. Because of the storm, no fewer than three dozen traveling merchants and minor clerks were stranded here. In the common hall on the ground floor, there was barely room to stand, and when the Fatui soldiers carried in on stretchers two skirmishers suffering from frostbite and ribs smashed against the rocks, the innkeeper turned white with terror and surrendered everything he had.

No vacant rooms remained whatsoever. The wounded were laid out on bales of cloth in the billiard parlor and the lower chancellery, the officers were allotted the hayloft, and for you, as a person of imperial blood, the stationmaster with obsequious bows unlocked the sole relatively clean bedchamber on the second floor in the far wing – complete with a wide oak bed under a down feather mattress, a round cast – iron hearth, and thick timber walls that muffled the howling of the blizzard.

Dottore had initially had no intention of remaining under the roof for long. Having handed the carriages over to the escort, he locked himself in a squat barn beside the station where oil lanterns burned and rows of sealed lead containers held specimens retrieved from the ruins of an ancient mechanical complex. Around ten in the evening, however, one of the pressure gauges on the smaller sarcophagus malfunctioned. A valve damaged on the road began venting unstable condensate, gears started chattering inside the metal casing, and leaving the artifact in a cold, drafty shed without continuous heat venting became blatantly dangerous – an explosion of the mechanical core would have blasted the wooden coaching inn to splinters along with every guest inside.

The Doctor resolved the problem with his customary simplicity: he ordered two guardsmen to haul the container up to the second floor and carry it straight into your bedchamber, where behind a heavy oak partition lay a blind stone alcove opening directly into the chimney draft.

You returned from the small plank washroom at the end of the hallway, holding closed with one hand the collar of a simple dressing gown of thick dark wool. Hair damp from hot water fell over your shoulders, the icy draft in the corridor chilled your bare feet inside soft traveling slippers, and all you wanted after twelve hours of jolting in a carriage was to collapse onto the featherbed and sink into oblivion until dawn.

Pushing open the door to your room, you froze on the threshold.

The chamber had transformed beyond recognition. At the massive writing desk by the window, three tall wax tapers already flickered in copper candlesticks, casting warm gleams across rows of laid – out blueprints, vernier calipers, and slender glass pipettes. The lead container with the artifact, clicking steadily and dully every few seconds, stood nestled in the alcove beside the hearth, entangled in fine copper tubing that ran directly into the chimney flue. Dottore himself had already discarded his traveling greatcoat and high fur hat. He sat at the desk in an unbuttoned waistcoat over a fine cambric shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, baring pale forearms. His porcelain half – mask rested squarely on an open notebook, while the Second Harbinger himself, eyes narrowed, wiped the lenses of a folding optical device with a clean cloth.

On the round tea table beside the hearth, a large cast – iron pot of braised meat steamed, releasing a rich aroma of juniper berries and pepper, accompanied by a plate heaped with thick slices of hearth bread and two pewter spoons. Beside it loomed an uncorked bottle of heavy Natlan wine and two tall glass goblets.

"Did you confuse the door, or have the drafts on the second floor grown even more vicious?" Dottore said without turning around. His voice sounded lazy and thoroughly unruffled, as though he were in his capital laboratory rather than someone else's bedchamber in the dead of night. "Close it tighter. The mechanism reacts to temperature drops, and I have no intention of resetting the safety catches merely because you felt like freshening up."

You stepped inside, turned the bronze bolt until it clicked into place, and crossed your arms over your chest, taking in this brazenly domestic scene.

"I am in my own bedchamber, Doctor," you countered, approaching the desk and stopping across from him. "And so far as I am aware, this room was chartered from the court's private purse for me alone. What is going on here?"

Dottore finished polishing the glass, set the tool onto its velvet lining, and slowly raised his head. Without the mask, his face looked uncharacteristically human, though the sharp features, pale skin, and dark rings beneath his eyes from perpetual sleeplessness had gone nowhere. In his red eyes danced reflections of candlelight as his gaze trailed down your loose, damp hair, lingered on the open collar of the robe at your throat, and returned to your face.

"A potential catastrophe is being contained here," he gestured casually with his chin toward the ticking crate by the hearth. "The pressure stabilizer fractured on a rut three versts back. Leave the reaction untended for even a quarter of an hour, and the internal temperature will climb past the melting point of brass, reducing this charming timber fleabag of an inn to ashes. Keeping it downstairs among half a hundred terrified townsfolk and wounded soldiers would be the height of folly. This room contains the only fireproof masonry in the entire building."

"And so you naturally concluded that spending the night in the Tsaritsa's daughter's bedchamber was the most practical solution," you leaned a palm against the edge of the desk, bending slightly closer.

"Exclusively practical," Dottore countered, a mocking furrow appearing at the corners of his thin lips. "Or would you have preferred to be blown to bits in your sleep, so long as your courtly reputation remained unblemished? Spare me, princess. Your mother knows full well whom she dispatched you with on this expedition, and I paid the local innkeeper enough to make him forget his own initials, let alone our faces."

He reached for the bottle, filled both goblets with dark, nearly black wine, and nudged one toward you, his fingers grazing the edge of your wool cuff.

"Sit," he said in a lower tone, nodding toward the adjoining armchair. "It will get cold. Downstairs they haven't the faintest idea how to cook, but I personally ensured the meat was at least roasted through rather than served bloody and raw. You haven't eaten a bite since morning."

Birch logs crackled in the hearth, snow battered against the windowpanes with a muffled drone, and the container in the corner produced a steady, hypnotic rustle of gears. Exhaustion was taking its toll: your legs ached after an entire day in the saddle and the carriage, and the fragrance of hot food and wine made the bedchamber warm and strangely close.

You skirted the desk and sank into the heavy armchair opposite the hearth, tucking your feet beneath yourself. The robe parted slightly over your knees, revealing a sliver of pale skin, but Dottore didn't even avert his eyes – on the contrary, his gaze sharpened, becoming more forthright, shedding its customary academic detachment.

"You are far too composed for a man risking his head," you noted, lifting the goblet and taking a small sip. Tart, spiced warmth flared down your throat. "If rumors of this night reach the capital, not a single one of your scientific patents will spare you from Anastasya Feodorovna's wrath."

"Rumors are habitually spread by those with far too much leisure and far too little intellect," Dottore leaned back against the spine of his chair, twirling the goblet between long fingers. "At court they presume that a man and a woman locked inside a room with a bed are capable of thinking about only one thing. A pitiful limitation of carnal imagination."

"And you, I suppose, are thinking purely of mechanics?" you asked with a faint smirk, looking at him over the rim of the glass.

Dottore set his goblet onto the desk, rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward, reducing the distance separating you to half an arshin. In the space between you mingled the scent of his bitter cologne, the wine, and the warmth emanating from your still – damp skin.

"I am thinking that you bear an astonishingly slight resemblance to a frightened noble maiden," he whispered, that very husky, intimate timbre he never permitted himself before onlookers cutting into his voice. "Most court ladies in your position would have thrown a fit by now, demanded the guards be summoned, or cowered in a corner clutching cushions. Yet here you sit before me in nothing but a robe, drinking my wine and venturing to philosophize on others' fears. Do you truly fail to grasp the position you find yourself in?"

"I am in a room with a scholar who must watch over a ticking bomb until morning," you did not flinch or look away, feeling a slow, heavy warmth spread through your limbs – whether from the Natlan wine or his unbearably close presence. "Or are you keen to prove to me that the gossips are right, and your thoughts aren't occupied with the artifact at all?"

Dottore's fingers slowly reached forward. His hand – cool, with dry, thin skin and a faint scent of chemical reagents – settled onto your bare knee. The touch was firm, possessive, leaving no doubt that he was well aware of the boundaries of propriety and crossed them with relish.

His palm slid slowly higher along your thigh, gathering the edge of the wool fabric.

"An experiment is splendid precisely because conditions can be recalibrated in progress," the Doctor murmured very softly, his pupils dilating in the half – light until they nearly swallowed the red irises. "The container is stable for the next two hours. You, however... you are trembling, princess. And certainly not from the northern wind."

He rose from his chair without taking his hand from your leg, forcing you to lift your chin as he stepped flush against your armchair and loomed over you, cutting off the hearth's glow.

"There is only one bed here," Dottore lowered his other hand to the backrest of your armchair right beside your neck, his fingers tangling into your damp hair and drawing your head back slightly. "And the night promises to be exceedingly long. Will you permit me to remain by this desk until dawn... or ought we both to acknowledge that this expedition has gone far too deep?"

[A Scandal by Design]

They had been searching for the leak in the Zapolyarny Palace for nearly a month. Information was leaking methodically and with precision: foreign operatives in Fontaine and Sumeru were receiving exact dates of private audiences, lists of personal commissions, and transcripts of conversations held strictly within the chambers of the ruling house's daughters and the offices of high command. The security service had run itself ragged turning the chancellery and the maid staff inside out, until Arlecchino took charge of the matter. The Knave laid a simple, cynical plan before the lesser council: rather than scour the corridors with interrogations, toss out bait that no handler could pass up. A rumor of a secret, scandalous liaison between the Tsaritsa's daughter and one of the Harbingers was bound to force the mole out into the open to smuggle the sensation across the border.

The real surprise was who volunteered for the part. When Dottore raised his hand with a lazy smirk, a bewildered silence fell over the table. The Second had never displayed the slightest interest in court intrigue, dismissing it as the scuffling of primitive organisms, yet this time a strictly professional calculation flashed in his eyes. The opportunity to examine the mechanics of an enemy espionage network from the inside and lay his hands on intercepted ciphers seemed an amusing enough distraction to pull him away from vivisection for a time. Pantalone had merely rubbed the bridge of his nose dryly back then, noting that such rumors would crater the court's standing on southern exchanges faster than an armed insurrection, while Pierro laid down unbending terms: none of the Second's actions were to cast a shadow on the heir's honor, lest the price be far steeper than the shuttering of a couple of laboratories. In response, the Doctor merely waved it aside, assuring the council that mimicking human irrationality was the simplest task he had ever undertaken.

And yet, the theory fractured at the very first serious collision with reality.

The gala reception celebrating the conclusion of the winter campaign was drawing to a close. The music in the Grand Ballroom was gradually tapering off, guests dispersing in small clusters through the enfilades, while the heavy stench of hundreds of guttering wax tapers mingled with the icy draft cutting in through opened outer doors. In keeping with the protocol of the masquerade and this covert hunt, Dottore had offered to escort you personally to the western wing. You walked along the long, arched gallery of the second tier, where footsteps echoed hollowly against the high vaulted ceiling, while beyond the lancet windows, a dense night blizzard slowly settled.

The Doctor kept half a pace away. He wore an austere dress uniform of black wool with silver needlework along the stand – up collar, while a metal mask with narrow slits shielded the upper half of his face, leaving only pale cheekbones and thin, mockingly compressed lips exposed. He carried the scent of bitter almond spirits, chilled iron, and the faint fragrance of the expensive tobacco he occasionally smoked between trials.

You were just about to turn toward the side staircase leading to your private chambers when Dottore's fingers in a stiff leather glove clamped suddenly and authoritatively around your wrist. He did not yank you back violently, yet brought you to a halt with such inexorable force that the hem of your velvet gown brushed the marble baseboard with a muffled rustle.

"Don't turn around," he said under his breath, and in his even, low timbre there was not a trace of his earlier feigned boredom – only the cold precision of a surgeon before the initial incision.

You went still, yielding to his grip, but tilted your head slightly, trying to make out his face in the gallery's dim light.

"What is going on?" you asked with barely a movement of your lips.

Dottore stepped closer smoothly, as though performing an instinctive gesture of gallantry, compelling you to take a step back – straight into a deep alcove between two massive twisted columns draped in heavy green velvet. He positioned himself so that his broad shoulders completely blocked the view from the adjoining corridor leading into the library wing.

"Our mutual acquaintance has proven more impatient than Arlecchino anticipated," the Doctor replied, leaning down to your very face. His free hand settled against the cold stone of the wall right above your shoulder, cutting off any movement to the side. "Beyond the third archway, behind the tapestry depicting the siege of Khaenri'ah. A clerk from the ambassador's diplomatic chancellery. He followed us all the way from the throne room's exit, pretending to be a tipsy lounger, and now he is waiting for confirmation of the rumor so he can dispatch a late – night courier to the post station."

You felt the corridor's frosty air mingle with his dry, steady breath. Through the gloom, the slits of his mask appeared as pitch – black voids, yet you knew that behind them lurked the ravenous, calculating gaze of a man weighing his options.

"Then summon the Fatui guard," you murmured, never taking your eyes from his face. "If he's on the hook, the Knave will wring the cipher books out of him before dawn."

"What absurd haste," Dottore chuckled softly, the corner of his lips twitching into a brief, venomous smirk. "If we simply arrest small fry in the corridor, his city contacts will scurry underground, and the whole gambit falls apart. He needs to witness what he was sent for. A scandal. Irrefutable proof that the Tsaritsa's unassailable heir is indulging in unheard – of liberties in the dark corners of the palace."

He leaned in another inch closer, so close that the edge of his metal mask almost brushed your cheek. You felt the dense, heavy heat of his body, bound within the stiff cut of his uniform tunic.

"Mere whispering by a pillar will not convince him," the Second Harbinger continued, a dangerous, lingering undertone creeping into his voice, one that had nothing to do with security protocols. "Diplomats do not pay gold for dry gossip. They pay for facts capable of compromising the reigning house. The only question, Your Highness, is... how far are you willing to go for the sake of experimental purity?"

"What are you talking about, Dottore?" your voice held firm, though the distance between your lips was rapidly vanishing, and his presence in the narrow niche was growing suffocating.

Instead of answering, the Doctor slowly raised his free hand to his face, caught the tip of his glove's index finger between his teeth, and peeled it from his palm, tossing it carelessly onto the stone ledge behind your back. His bare hand – dry, searingly hot, carrying the scent of alcohol and soap – settled against your neck, fingers curving deliberately along your jawline, gently tilting your chin upward.

"I am saying that our spectator in the corridor is growing bored," he whispered, his gaze dropping straight to your lips. "And if we simply retire to our separate quarters now, he will decide the rumor was nothing more than an idle fabrication by the treasurers. Tell me, princess... shall we give him cause to draft the finest report of his worthless career, or would you prefer explaining to Pierro why the operation fell apart on your account?"

His fingers on your throat tightened slightly, forcing your head back, while his breath scorched your parted lips as he waited for your answer.

[A Marriage of Scientific Interest]

The proposal was voiced at the very end of the closed morning session, when the aides – de – camp had already carried away the maps of the southern garrisons and a dim northern dawn was breaking beyond the throne room windows. The Tsaritsa spoke of the command's long – term stability just as casually as she had discussed pig iron shipments for armored trains an hour earlier. A political union between the ruling house and the scientific college of the Fatui was, in Anastasya Feodorovna's mind, meant to close the question of the Second Harbinger's permissible boundaries once and for all, binding his inquiries firmly to the interests of the crown.

The reaction across the hall was telling. Pantalone, seated to the left of the table, covered his mouth with a fine cambric handkerchief to stifle a chuckle thoroughly indecent for a state council: the notion of the Doctor as the reigning Archon's lawful son – in – law struck the banker as the finest financial farce of the season. Dottore himself reacted far more dryly. He measured the sovereign with a cold stare from beneath his mask and remarked that he had not the slightest intention of turning his life into an addendum to a dynastic pact merely to placate the capital's nobility.

Pierro tipped the scales. The First Harbinger silently slid a thin sheet toward Dottore detailing the preliminary list of privileges accorded to the royal spouse: absolute research immunity free of auditors' oversight, the lifting of any vetoes on field laboratories across Liyue and Fontaine, and most importantly – unrestricted access to the sealed private archives of the ancient dynasty preserved within the crypts beneath the palace. Dottore fell quiet, tapping a finger slowly against the polished oak, and the mockery on his lips gave way to razor – sharp focus.

The Tsaritsa herself put an end to the morning dispute. Sweeping her gaze over the room, she turned toward you and quietly reminded the assembly: a dynastic marriage requires the consent of both parties. Without your personal signature, the treaty would remain nothing more than a draft, and no pressure from the council would follow.

The note from the Second arrived three hours later. Devoid of heraldic monograms or ceremonious salutations – merely a dry statement of the hour and an addendum noting that such matters were far more practically discussed without witnesses whose minds were occupied solely with the treasury and other people's gossip.

The scent within Dottore's office in the western wing was not that of an impending bridegroom's bedchamber, but of a dissection theater: dry heat from the cast – iron stove, high – proof spirits, printing ink, and a bitter herbal infusion cooling inside a thick – walled tumbler. Across the massive writing desk reigned a pristine, almost surgical order. The Harbinger himself had already discarded his heavy uniform coat, remaining in an austere waistcoat over a dark silk shirt with an open collar, while his pointed mask rested atop a stack of blueprints, revealing a pale, sharp face with deep shadows beneath the eyes.

When you entered, pulling the heavy door shut behind you, Dottore made no move to rise in greeting as the strictest court etiquette demanded. He merely set aside his steel pen, blotted the fresh ink with sand, and pointed the tip of a bone knife toward the vacant armchair opposite.

"Do come in, Your Highness," he remarked in that even, mocking cadence with which he habitually opened morning anatomical lectures. "The doors are locked, and the guard in the corridor has been instructed not to disturb us until midnight. A splendid time to discover just how far your willingness to serve the state's welfare extends."

You approached the desk, but did not sit, resting a gloved hand on the carved armrest.

"You seem to have settled everything for yourself already, Doctor," you noted, sweeping your gaze over the sheets of heavy stamped paper laid out before him. "Did Pierro offer a handsome price for your freedom?"

"Pierro offered a practical price," Dottore corrected, narrowing his gray eyes slightly. "Access to primary sources is well worth a couple of signatures on paper. Yet I am not in the habit of signing forms drawn up by cowardly Veche jurists. They spend far too much thought on taxes and grasp nothing of the realities of human cohabitation. Hence, I have drafted my own version of the marital agreement. Acquaint yourself."

With two fingers, he nudged a neatly stitched three – sheet folio toward you. The opening clauses appeared predictable enough: mutual non – interference in state affairs, a separate budget for scientific requirements, and an absence of financial claims on the bank's part. Turning the page, however, you froze.

Clause four mandated the complete abolition of separate chambers. None of the guest bedchambers in opposite wings of the palace customary for dynastic unions: the agreement obligated the spouses to share a single bed no fewer than four nights a week.

Clause five, titled with unsettling academic bluntness as 'Marital Duty and Bodily Regulation', precluded favorites, maids – of – honor of dubious station, and any clandestine liaisons outside the marriage for either party. Furthermore, Dottore had recorded in black and white an obligation of regular physical intimacy, justified as 'the necessity of relieving physiological tension and examining the adaptive reactions of the organism under sustained cohabitation.' Neither shame nor ambiguous metaphors – the demands on the princess's body were formulated with the same clinical precision as technical specifications for a steam boiler.

You lifted your eyes from the document, feeling a dull indignation flare within you, mingled with disbelief at such sheer audacity.

"Are you in your right mind, Dottore?" you demanded, your fingers tightening around the edge of the sheet until the heavy paper gave a faint, brittle crinkle. "What is this farce with shared bedchambers and conjugal obligations? Did you genuinely expect me to sign a paper where you map out bedroom encounters by the days of the week?"

Dottore was not fazed in the least. He leaned back against the spine of his chair, laced his fingers before him, and looked up at you with undisguised, brazen pleasure.

"And what did you expect, dear bride?" he inquired insinuatingly, that very dangerous, cynical rasp edging into his voice. "A nominal pact on paper where we exchange pleasantries at receptions, only to retire to opposite ends of the palace at night so you might entertain handsome guardsmen while I pretend to be a decorous husband? What a pathetic, bourgeois waste of resources."

He rose from behind the desk – fluidly, without haste, squaring his broad shoulders. His silhouette blotted out the lamp's warm light as Dottore slowly rounded the tabletop, stopping a pace away from you.

"If Her Majesty desires to bind me with this marriage, I intend to extract from it everything due to me under the law," he continued, staring squarely into your face. "I am a possessive man, princess. If my name is set to a parchment, I will brook no foreign hands on what belongs to me by right of signature. I have no use for a fiction. I require total, absolute possession – your standing, your influence, and your body."

"You forget yourself," you spat softly, not yielding a single step, though his proximity was already tangible against your skin: he carried the scent of winter frost, bitter almonds, and heat. "I am an Archon's daughter, not a laboratory specimen you can lock away inside your quarters."

"One hardly precludes the other," Dottore took another half – step forward, closing the distance to a precarious minimum.

His hand rose – slowly, granting you the leisure to pull back, yet you stood your ground out of sheer ancestral pride. The scholar's cool fingers, carrying the scent of soap and alcohol, settled along your neck, softly stroking the line of your jaw, before his thumb traced the contour of your lower lip with unexpected, heavy pressure.

"You could have simply refused back there in the throne room," he whispered, leaning in so close that his breath scorched your cheek. "Said 'no' before everyone, and your mother would have procured some compliant baron from Natlan who would stutter at your very glance. Yet you came here. You took this draft into your hands. And you read the clauses regarding our prospective bed with far keener interest than any financial estimates."

His fingers on your chin tightened slightly, compelling your head back, while the gray stare slid toward the neckline of your gown, where beneath the heavy cloth your chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.

"Tell me straight to my face that you find it repulsive," Dottore demanded with a quiet, teasing smirk, his other hand settling upon your waist, pulling your frame authoritatively flush against his hip. "Tell me that the thought of sharing a bed with me every night fills you with terror rather than this fine, treacherous shiver. And I will personally burn this contract in the hearth this very instant."

He held still, pressing you against himself, feeling your every breath, and waited for your answer.

[What the Mind Reveals]

The protocol for the joint research had been signed two weeks ago, and contrary to the chancellery's expectations, it contained not an ounce of courtly servility. Dottore approached the matter with the meticulousness of a natural philosopher: six pages of dense text, distinctly defined thresholds of permissible strain on the nervous system, and a separate clause granting the unconditional right to terminate a trial at any second without stating a reason. The ancient mechanism, salvaged from the depths of a submerged armory within ruins along the coast, comprised an intricate optical system fashioned from a dark iron alloy and resonating crystals. It captured fluctuations in residual memory and projected emotional reactions in the form of volumetric light phantoms, allowing one to observe firsthand how human consciousness distorts memories under the influence of covert stimuli.

The first four sessions passed impeccably and dryly. You sat in a deep armchair before the projection sphere, the copper plates of the sensors chilling your temples, while the Doctor stood at the control console, methodically logging pulse fluctuations and modulating the frequency of stimulation. Across the glass plates arose familiar imagery: a wintry parade ground, the faces of tutors, monotonous drills, and the vacant halls of the Zapolyarny Palace. Everything remained well within the confines of a strict academic hypothesis – right up until tonight, when the hands of the wall clock crept past four in the morning.

The light in the laboratory was dimmed; only a dull spirit burner flickered on the far workbench, accompanied by the gentle shimmer of the apparatus's lens. You felt the metal at the back of your head warm slightly, a low, vibrating drone hummed in your ears, and then the hazy shimmer before your eyes abruptly snapped into unsettling focus. Yet the device revealed nothing like the dim archival corridor you had been calibrating half an hour prior.

At the center of the illuminated circle unfolded the small corner library of the western wing – the very one with green baize walls and heavy curtains where servants seldom ventured. Within the projection, darkness reigned, embers smoldered in the hearth, and Dottore stood by the bookcase. In the illusion, he wore no customary mask: a pale, strained face, disheveled locks of hair, and a gaze completely stripped of scholarly detachment. In the next instant, the phantom stepped toward you, his hands in thick gloves settling roughly and authoritatively onto your shoulders, pinning your back against the wooden shelves, before his lips pressed into yours – heavily, demandingly, with that ravenous, near – suffocating hunger that never once surfaced in his waking speech.

A choked gasp escaped unbidden. You instinctively wrenched back, tearing the electrode band from your brow, and the copper plates struck the edge of the armrest with a sharp clatter. The projection flickered, rippled, and collapsed with a faint hiss into a shower of dull sparks, leaving behind only the faint scent of heated glass and rosin.

At the control console, the real Dottore had frozen. His hand holding a slender graphite pencil hovered motionless over the observation log. The light waves had been mirrored onto the monitor plate before him, and he had seen everything – from the first second to the last. Across his face, normally impenetrable and mocking, flickered a moment of completely alien, stunned bewilderment. His brows shot up, his lips parted faintly, and in his red eyes behind the protective lenses splashed the disorientation of a man whose calculations had just been crudely overturned by the laws of nature.

Yet his composure slipped back into place far too swiftly. The Doctor slowly set down his pencil, adjusted the cuff of his shirt, and turned toward you, in no hurry to break the lingering stillness.

"A rather... non – trivial result," he remarked in an even, almost lazy tone, yet hidden tension rang distinctly through his cadence. "I am entirely certain that I never entered the interiors of the western wing into the registry of control stimuli. Still less did I calibrate the system to reproduce such vulgar fantasies."

You sat in the armchair, catching your breath with difficulty and feeling your cheeks burn, while against your neck phantom pressure from foreign fingers still seemed to linger.

"That never happened," you said, looking him dead in the eyes and striving to keep your voice from a treacherous tremor. "We were never alone together in that room. The mechanism is broken."

Dottore let out a low chuckle, skirted the massive lens tripod, and unhurriedly approached your armchair. He stopped half a pace away, looking down at you with that piercing, relentless curiosity that invariably heralded his most perilous undertakings.

"Broken? No, princess, Khaenri'ahn mechanics do not fail so gracefully," he tilted his head, studying your flushed face. "The resonator does not pull fully formed pictures from memory like dusty books off a shelf. It analyzes emotional spikes, subliminal impulses, and constructs probabilistic models. In other words, the system reconstructed what never occurred in reality, yet possessed... a sufficient emotional foundation."

"You are talking nonsense," you countered, your fingers digging into the velvet of the armrests. "It is simply a frequency anomaly. Your apparatus produced an arbitrary combination of images."

"Arbitrary?" Dottore reached out a gloved hand and, without asking leave, grazed the skin of your neck just below the jawline with his fingertips, finding your rapid, uneven pulse. "One hundred and twelve beats per minute. Pupils dilated, respiration shallow. Your body reacted to that illusion as though you truly were pinned against the wall in that dusty chamber. Yet that is not even the most intriguing part."

He bent down a fraction lower, bringing with him the scent of dry heat, soap, and bitter almonds.

"This device operates on a feedback loop," the Doctor whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching into a fleeting, caustic smirk. "One circuit reads your responses, while the other... the other is synchronized with my operator's console to calibrate the baseline. The projection could never have generated such a precise image without reciprocal resonance. Which means, my dear colleague, that the machine registered not only your latent curiosity, but my own private thoughts – ones I prudently kept out of the official logs."

His fingers on your neck tightened slightly, the cool leather of the glove sliding toward your collarbone, tracing the neckline of your gown.

"It leaves us in rather a delicate position," he continued with a smooth, insinuating mockery behind which lay naked, hungry focus. "The scrap heap has dredged up what both of us would have preferred to keep quiet about until the end of our days. Under clause seven of our agreement, you have every right to stand up, demand the record be destroyed, and walk out of this laboratory right now. I will ask no questions."

Dottore paused, his gaze fixing upon your face, while his other hand came down on the back of the armchair beside your head, cutting off any remaining avenue of retreat.

"From a scientific standpoint, however, this phenomenon merits the keenest scrutiny," he exhaled against your lips, his fingers lingering motionless on your skin. "We could initiate the cycle anew. Strip away the power limiters and see what other unrealized scenarios lie concealed within our minds. What do you say, Your Highness? Shall we burn these sheets... or discover just how far this mechanism is prepared to go?"