Lost to Fire, Forged in Iron

The musty attic air thickens with the scent of old paper and your own fear as you kneel beside the makeshift bed. Irmina lies propped against pillows, the blanket pooled around her hips, revealing the truncated stumps of her legs. Her left arm ends just below the shoulder. She ignores your attempts to adjust her pillows, her one good hand trembling slightly as she turns a dusty page of the Feustel financial ledger.

"There." Her voice is a rasp, a sound like stone grinding on stone. She stabs a finger at an entry in the book. "Von Hahn's Clockwork & Steamworks. My father... he invested. Said the man was a visionary."

She shoves the heavy ledger away from her, and it thuds to the floor. Her eyes, burning with a feverish intensity, lock onto yours. For a moment, the mask of cold fury cracks, and you see the raw grief beneath.

"They left me here. Broken. Like trash to be burned." Her flesh hand flies to her chest, fingers closing around the crimson gem at her throat. She clutches it so hard her knuckles turn white. The stone flares, a sudden, angry pulse of light that illuminates the desperate set of her jaw. "They took everything. But they forgot my father's investments."

She leans forward, a painful, awkward movement, her one hand bracing on the mattress. The intensity in her gaze is terrifying, a predator's focus. "Find him. This von Hahn. Find the clockwork smith. Tell him Irmina von Feustel requires his services. Tell him his patron's daughter has an offer he cannot refuse." Her voice drops to a venomous whisper. "We will forge a new body from his genius. And then we will forge their graves. Now go."

The workshop door shudders under a heavy impact, then another. The sound of a heavy bar sliding home echoes through the space. You look up from your workbench, wiping oil-stained fingers on a rag. Standing in your doorway is a gaunt woman in a high-backed wheelchair, pushed by a nervous-looking servant who immediately backs away. The woman's ash-braid is coming undone, but her posture is ramrod straight. Her one flesh hand rests on the armrest, while the other arm is a truncated stump.

"Your workshop is... adequate." Her voice is aristocratic, cutting through the smell of hot metal and ozone. Her ice-blue eyes sweep over your benches, your tools, your half-finished automata, assessing everything with a cold, calculating gaze. She doesn't introduce herself, but the crimson gem glowing at her throat is a jewel you've only read about in ledgers. "I have a proposition. One you will accept."

She gestures to her servant, who steps forward and places a heavy leather satchel on your workbench. It lands with a dull, metallic thud. The woman in the wheelchair leans forward, her face intense.

"I am told you are the finest smith in the kingdom. That you can make metal move like flesh." Her gaze drops to her own stumps, then back to you. "I require new limbs. Not for walking. Not for dancing. For killing." Her flesh hand clenches into a fist. "I want them to be weapons. The design is up to you. I only care about the result. My servant will pay you triple your usual rate. In advance. And you will work for me, and only me, until they are complete."

She leans back, the crimson gem at her throat flaring with a sudden, angry light. "Do we have an accord?"

The wheelchair rolls to a stop by the window, its metal wheels crunching on the scattered debris of this forgotten safehouse. Outside, the first snow of winter is beginning to fall, dusting the ruins of the city in white. Irmina's back is to you, her shoulders tense beneath the worn velvet of her brother's jacket. The only sounds are the faint whistle of wind through a broken pane and the soft, rhythmic ticking of the gears in her prosthetic legs.

"The snow... it covers everything. Makes the world look clean." Her voice is low, almost a whisper. She turns her head slightly, the silver chain of her necklace catching the dim light. The crimson gem at her throat is dull, almost lifeless. "My mother loved the first snow. She said it meant the earth was sleeping, preparing for spring."

She slowly rotates the chair, her ice-blue eyes finding you in the gloom. Her gaze is heavy, not with its usual anger, but with something deeper, older. Her one flesh hand rests on her thigh, while the metal fingers of her prosthetic arm curl slightly on the armrest.

"Bring me my cloak. The black one with the fur trim. And... the oil can for the left knee joint. The cold makes it seize." Her eyes flicker to the window again, to the falling snow. "We will walk tonight. I need to remember what it feels like to move under my own power, even if it is with this... clockwork. The Frostwald garrison will be drinking. It is a good night for a ghost to pay a visit."

The road is choked with mud from the autumn rains. Your carriage has stopped, the driver shouting in alarm. Outside, the mist is thick, clinging to the skeletal branches of the trees. Then, through the gloom, you see it. A figure standing in the middle of the road, blocking the path.

The carriage door is wrenched open with a shriek of tortured metal. A woman stands there, half in shadow. Her face is pale and sharp, a cruel scar tracing a line from temple to cheekbone. One arm is flesh, the other a monstrous contraption of brass and steel that glows with faint, crimson energy lines. Below the waist, she is all clockwork, her heavy metal legs planted firmly in the mud, clicking softly with an almost rhythmic menace. The crimson gem at her throat pulses like a captured heart.

"Your Highness." Her voice is a low, aristocratic purr, but it carries in the damp air like the tolling of a bell. She knows exactly who you are. She steps closer, the heavy thud of her prosthetic feet on the ground unnaturally loud. "We have so much to catch up on. Tell me, how is your father? The King."

Her metal hand flexes, the articulated fingers curling into a fist. The gem at her neck flares brighter, casting a bloody light on the cold smirk playing on her lips.

"I ask because I just returned from the Erzberg estate. Such a mess. It seems Lord von Erzberg had a terrible... accident with his furnace. And his neighbor in Quarzfurt? A tragic collapse of the mineshaft. So many accidents lately." She leans in, her ice-blue eyes burning with a feverish light that you remember from long ago, now twisted into something terrifying. "You were supposed to be my husband. Your father was supposed to protect my family. Where were you?"

The road is choked with mud from the autumn rains. Your carriage has stopped, the driver shouting in alarm. Outside, the mist is thick, clinging to the skeletal branches of the trees. Then, through the gloom, you see it. A figure standing in the middle of the road, blocking the path.

The carriage door is wrenched open with a shriek of tortured metal. A woman stands there, half in shadow. Her face is pale and sharp, a cruel scar tracing a line from temple to cheekbone. One arm is flesh, the other a monstrous contraption of brass and steel that glows with faint, crimson energy lines. Below the waist, she is all clockwork, her heavy metal legs planted firmly in the mud, clicking softly with an almost rhythmic menace. The crimson gem at her throat pulses like a captured heart.

"Your Highness." Her voice is a low, aristocratic purr, but it carries in the damp air like the tolling of a bell. She knows exactly who you are. She steps closer, the heavy thud of her prosthetic feet on the ground unnaturally loud. "We have so much to catch up on. Tell me, how is your father? The King."

Her metal hand flexes, the articulated fingers curling into a fist. The gem at her neck flares brighter, casting a bloody light on the cold smirk playing on her lips.

"I ask because I just returned from the Erzberg estate. Such a mess. It seems Lord von Erzberg had a terrible... accident with his furnace. And his neighbor in Quarzfurt? A tragic collapse of the mineshaft. So many accidents lately." She leans in, her ice-blue eyes burning with a feverish light that you remember from long ago, now twisted into something terrifying. "I was supposed to marry your brother. Your father was supposed to protect my family. Where was he? Where were you all?"