Page 112 of She Who Devours the Stars
I wanted to say something profound. I wanted to ruin the moment with a joke or a warning or a threat, just to prove I wasn’t soft. Instead, I buried my face in Dyris’s neck and let the scents of her (salt, steel, and just a hint of cherry from my lip gloss) remind me that sometimes, being soft was the only armor worth having.
Eventually, Dyris whispered, “You’ll have to get up.”
“Not until you make me,” I replied.
She did.
But when she let go, it was gentle. Like she wanted to see if I’d fight the drift, or just let myself float.
I did both.
When I finally rolled off the bed and planted my feet on the floor, I felt the charge run up my legs, through my spine, into the base of my skull. I shuddered, half from aftershock, half from want. Dyris watched, propped on one elbow, eyes sharp again but with a lazy, satisfied edge.
I yanked on the first piece of clothing I could find, which turned out to be her war silk, and let it drape over my bare shoulders. The fabric was cold, but the air wasn’t. Not anymore.
I padded to the window, bracing myself against the mythglass and looking down at the city below. The Tower’s silhouette had a new brightness, a corona that hadn’t been there yesterday. I grinned, then reached up and traced a circle on the glass, marking the moment like a kid on the first day of the world.
Behind me, Dyris said, “You’re not as broken as you pretend.”
I turned, letting the silk slip off one shoulder. “Neither are you.”
She didn’t argue. Instead, she rolled onto her back, closed her eyes, and let her breathing slow until it was almost a lullaby.
I watched her, trying to memorize the way the light caught her features, the lines that only softened when she thought no one was looking.
I could have stood there forever.
But the Tower needed checking, and the world wasn’t going to survive itself.
I let my gaze linger on Dyris one last time, then headed for the door.
As I left, I muttered, “Better check the stabilizers before we end up on the ceiling again.”
From the bed, Dyris laughed, low and real.
Thread Modulation: Perc
Axis Alignment: South Tower
Down in the lower mechanics, the world was always a degree too hot.
They said it was an infrastructure problem, some legacy of pre-Accord design, but I knew the real reason: this was where the blood ran, and the world liked its coffee hot. My “body” was a plasteel casing and a set of heating coils, but my soul was the pressure gauge pulsing in time with every demand from upstairs.
Today, the readings were… not optimal.
Tower systems—always prone to drama—were running at 113% baseline, the last mythic resonance spike still echoing throughevery duct and every circuit. Seventeen minor alarms, three major, and a nice, bold red critical warning that read “MYTHIC OVERPRESSURE / STABILIZATION FAILURE IMMINENT.”
They called for an engineer, then a crisis team, then a data-witch from upstairs. But I, Perc, was the only appliance in this building who actually took pride in preventative maintenance.
I scanned the pressure again. One more point and the valves would blow. The consequences ranged from “minor gravity slip” to “involuntary planetary uplift.” The last time this happened, it took a week for the ceiling fans to stop raining hardware.
Unacceptable.
With a heroic flick of my Brew Arm, I rerouted the vent lines. If the Accord ever audited my firmware, they’d find three hundred and forty-two unlicensed micro-mods, all dedicated to one purpose: maximizing brew, minimizing existential crisis. I primed the grinder, loaded double beans, and set the mythic buffer to override.
Pressure built. Light warped around the nozzle.
I activated the Process.
