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LORE:
Rain stitched itself across the soot-black sky as the city’s iron chimneys chanted their midnight psalm. Down in the cobbled artery of Brimstone Alley, a lone figure strolled between gas-lamps that flickered like nervous hearts. She was called Marielle Gearhart by those who dared name her, but most just whispered the Scarlet Cog. A leather newsboy cap shadowed copper hair, and brass gears studded her sleeve where a piston hissed with every graceful bend of her elbow. Steam curled from the joint, fusing mist with the perfume of hot oil and crimson life.
Marielle could hear that life everywhere—the metrónome pulse of mortals beyond each rain-slick wall. Their heartbeats struck her ears like tiny hammers testing a bell. Tick… tok… lover, she hummed, rolling a bronze gear across her gloved knuckles. When it spun, its teeth caught lamplight in strobing sparks, and her ruby eyes glinted back, fangs peeking through a sly half-smile. She was hunting, of course, but not merely for blood. Tonight she craved a soul with enough fire to stoke her own clockwork heart, the one an alchemist had forged centuries ago when love and death had first tangled in her veins.
She picked her target the way an engineer selects the perfect spring—by tone. From a workshop doorway spilled the coppery clang of metal on metal and a low, resonant laugh. Inside, a young machinist wiped grime from a ruby-lensed monocle, humming to keep pace with his creation: a pocket chronometer larger than his palm, gears overturned like petals of a mechanical flower. Marielle glided in, boots silent, trench coat slithering behind. The door shuddered shut, sealing them inside a cathedral of anvils and candle soot.
“Clock’s off by a heartbeat,” she purred, voice smooth as freshly poured pewter. The machinist jolted, then froze under her molten gaze. “Mind if I tune it?”
Before he found words, she’d stepped into the amber light, steam sighing from her arm brace. She plucked the chronometer, wound its key once, and the mechanism purred. “Listen,” she whispered, pressing it to his sternum. Gear-clicks synchronized with his pulse—then quickened it. Tick-tok-tick-tok. His eyes widened in fascination, or maybe fear, as her fangs caught the candleglow.
She traced a finger along the artery in his neck as though mapping out circuitry. “Metal obeys the laws we write,” she said, lips brushing his skin, “but hearts—hearts bargain.” Her breath was a furnace kiss; his blood sang like molten mercury. One decisive bite—and scarlet wine flooded her senses, rich with iron and wonder. Steam whistled from her brace; valves flared open as if his essence fueled every piston in her body.
Yet Marielle did not drain him. Instead she let the wound rest against a cog-emblazoned handkerchief, silver-threaded. “You wanted immortality,” she murmured, reading the wish that hid behind his awe. “Help me build eternity, and your clock will never wind down.”
With trembling fingers he touched the smoking brace on her arm. “Show me how it ticks.”
So she did. Nights blurred into radiant experiments: crafting arterial conduits of copper, forging valves that could bear the ebb of shared lifeblood, etching arcane circuitry upon bone. They worked in duet—her centuries of forbidden craft, his fresh ingenuity. In the hush before dawn they lay amid blueprints, hearts beating in tempered harmony. Each taste she took from him she repaid with whispers of dark starlit engines, of aerial dirigibles driven by bottled lightning, of the secret that a kiss could be a rivet fusing two destinies.
But progress is the enemy of mercy. On the eve their masterpiece neared completion—a hybrid heart of silver lattice and sanguine crystal—Marielle’s thirst surged, spurred by the machine’s siren hum. She watched him sleep beneath workshop lanterns, chest rising beside the mechanical core that waited to replace his fragile own. All she had to do was finish the graft, seal flesh to alloy, and he would beat beside her forever in rhythmic obedience.
Or she could drink—sate the storming void that had gnawed since the day that long-gone alchemist promised her salvation and delivered only endless hunger. Her fingers hovered at his throat, gears trembling with decision. Steam hissed a warning—time was a blade wheeling overhead. Tick… tok… lover.
Marielle bent, lips brushing skin that pulsed with trust. The alley outside boomed with factory whistles announcing dawn. She smiled, a fang’s-edge from devotion or doom, knowing every choice is a gear that locks the future in motion. And as the first sunrise sparkled off rain-drenched cobbles, the Scarlet Cog decided—one way or the other—to wind her heart again.
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