The road widened long before the kingdom appeared.
It began subtly — the dirt compressing into gravel, the gravel into laid stone. Wheel ruts vanished. Boundaries straightened. Even the trees seemed disciplined, trimmed back as though instructed to respect the approach.
Roald noticed first.
"It feels watched," he said quietly.
Sir. Wilkinson did not slow his stride. "It is."
The crest rose gradually.
And then—
Dillaclor.
It did not sprawl.
It rose.
White-stone walls terraced upward in deliberate tiers, each level fortified not with menace, but with confidence. Banners hung motionless in the still afternoon air — deep blue trimmed in gold thread. Towers stood narrow and precise, not ornamental but engineered.
Roald stopped walking.
Wilkinson did not.
"You may stare later," Wilkinson said evenly.
Roald quickened to catch up. "You didn't describe it."
"I did not consider awe a necessary detail."
The outer gate loomed ahead — iron-braced oak doors set into an arch of carved stone. The crest of Dillaclor was set above it: a stylized wheel crossed with a ship's keel.
Roald studied it.
"A wheel and a boat?"
Wilkinson glanced upward.
"A kingdom that builds both," he replied.
Two gate wardens stood at attention.
They recognized him immediately.
There was no hesitation in their posture — but there was something else.
Recognition. Calculation.
"Sir. Wilkinson," one of them said, stepping forward.
Wilkinson inclined his head just enough to be courteous.
"You have been gone longer than expected."
"Circumstances extended our journey."
The warden's eyes shifted briefly to Roald.
"And the cart?"
There it was.
Roald felt the silence settle.
Wilkinson did not falter.
"It awaits reassembly."
The answer was precise.
Technically true.
The warden held his gaze a moment longer than politeness required.
Then he stepped aside.
"Welcome home."
Home.
The word did not land cleanly.
The gates opened inward with a measured groan.
Inside, the sound changed immediately.
Voices. Metal striking metal. Market calls layered in overlapping cadences. The low hum of structured life.
Roald stood just past the threshold, overwhelmed.
The streets were not chaotic. They were intentional. Shops aligned evenly along paved corridors. Canopies were matched in color by district. Signage carved, not painted. Balconies wrought in iron filigree that hinted at engineering, not decoration.
Everything here had been designed.
Wilkinson inhaled slowly.
His shoulders straightened — not with relief, but with familiarity.
"This," he said quietly, "is Dillaclor."
Roald turned in a slow circle.
He had crossed a river that nearly killed him.
And somehow this felt more intimidating.
A group of apprentices hurried past, carrying machined parts between them. One glanced at Wilkinson — then whispered to another.
Recognition again.
Not warmth.
Awareness.
Wilkinson continued forward without acknowledging them.
"Stay close," he said.
Roald did.
They passed beneath a suspended framework where gears turned overhead — part of a water-driven distribution system that channeled power from an upper aqueduct.
Roald tilted his head upward.
"It's moving."
"Of course it is."
"No one's touching it."
Wilkinson's mouth twitched faintly.
"Dillaclor does not require constant supervision to function."
The statement carried more meaning than it appeared to.
They turned toward the upper tier — where the streets widened further, where stone grew paler, where windows became taller.
And eyes followed them.
Roald noticed that too.
"Do they all know you?"
"Some," Wilkinson replied.
"Do they all like you?"
Wilkinson did not answer immediately.
"That is rarely the same question."
Ahead, at the rise leading into the craftsmen's quarter, a figure stood waiting.
Still.
Not accidental.
Wilkinson slowed.
Only slightly.
Roald looked between them.
"Is that someone important?"
Wilkinson's voice grew carefully neutral.
"Yes."
The figure waiting at the rise did not descend.
He allowed them to approach.
He was dressed in fine but understated fabric — ash-grey trimmed with narrow black stitching. No insignia marked him, and yet his presence carried the quiet gravity of someone who did not require introduction.
His hands were folded behind his back.
His posture immaculate.
His smile slight.
Sir. Wilkinson stopped three paces from him.
"Nux," Wilkinson said evenly.
Ah.
So they knew one another.
Roald studied the man closely.
Nux's face was narrow, clean-shaven, almost gentle at first glance. But his eyes did not soften when he smiled. They assessed. Measured. Catalogued.
"Sir. Wilkinson," Nux replied, his voice smooth as lacquered wood. "Dillaclor breathes easier when its craftsmen return."
Wilkinson inclined his head, but did not bow.
"You overestimate my contribution."
"I rarely overestimate."
His gaze shifted to Roald.
And lingered.
Longer than necessary.
"And this is the apprentice."
Roald straightened instinctively.
"Yes, sir."
Nux stepped forward without invitation.
Too close.
Close enough that Roald could smell the faint sharpness of oil and something herbal — clean, but invasive.
Nux circled him slowly, as though inspecting a piece of machinery rather than a person. He did not ask permission. He did not break eye contact.
"You survived the journey?"
Roald felt the scrutiny press against him.
"Yes."
Nux reached out suddenly — brushing two fingers along the edge of Roald's sleeve, feeling the worn fabric where travel had thinned it.
"Mm."
He withdrew as though evaluating quality.
"Good."
The word carried no warmth. Only assessment.
Wilkinson's voice lowered.
"That will be enough."
Nux's eyes flicked to him — amused.
"For now."
He stepped away from Roald but did not restore proper distance from Wilkinson. Instead, he leaned slightly into his space, speaking as though sharing confidence.
"We had expected you three days prior."
"Circumstances shifted."
"And the cart?"
There it was again.
Wilkinson's jaw tightened — just slightly.
"It awaits reconstruction."
Nux's smile deepened.
He took a half-step closer.
"How unfortunate," he said softly. "The ruler had hoped to see your latest refinements demonstrated before the council next month."
Roald felt the air change.
Council.
Wilkinson did not retreat.
"The ruler may be disappointed."
Nux tilted his head, studying Wilkinson's face from far too near.
"The ruler is rarely disappointed."
It was not a boast.
It was a warning.
A small group of passersby slowed nearby, pretending not to listen.
Nux clasped his hands before him now — but even in stillness he felt invasive, as though he occupied more space than his body allowed.
"You will, of course, present something."
Wilkinson held his gaze.
"I will present what is worthy."
Nux leaned slightly to one side, examining him from a different angle — like light striking a surface to find flaws.
"Worthy," he murmured, "is a matter of perspective."
Silence stretched between them.
Roald felt something he had not felt in the forest.
Politics.
This was not survival.
This was positioning.
At last, Nux stepped aside — though not far enough to avoid brushing Wilkinson's sleeve as he passed.
"You are expected at the upper hall tomorrow evening," he said lightly. "The ruler has a memory for absence."
Then, almost as an afterthought — delivered too close to Wilkinson's ear:
"And Sir. Wilkinson… Dillaclor admires consistency."
The words were gentle.
The meaning was not.
Nux descended the opposite side of the rise without looking back.
Roald exhaled only once he was several steps away.
"I don't like him," he muttered.
Wilkinson remained still a moment longer.
"You are not required to."
"Who is he?"
Wilkinson's eyes followed Nux's retreating figure.
"He is the ruler's personal servant."
"That doesn't sound powerful."
Wilkinson's voice was quiet.
"It is."
He began walking again.
Roald hurried to match him.
"What does he want?"
Wilkinson did not answer immediately.
Then:
"He wants proximity."
Roald frowned.
"To what?"
Wilkinson's expression hardened slightly.
"To everything."
The river tested their strength.
Dillaclor will test their boundaries.
—------------------------------------------------------
Good instinct — making him unsettling in behavior rather than caricatured villainy will deepen reader disgust.
We'll keep it subtle. No explicit sexuality. Just boundary violations. Lingering touch. Power used in ways that make people visibly smaller.
Same structure. Heightened discomfort.
Chapter Six (continued)The Kitchen Below
Nux did not rush.
He never rushed.
The kitchens of Dillaclor occupied the lower stone vaults beneath the upper hall — long hearths burning in measured rows, spits turning slowly over coal and applewood flame. Copper kettles hung from iron hooks. The air was thick with rosemary smoke, simmering broth, warm yeast, and rendered fat.
Servants moved in practiced rhythm.
That rhythm thinned when Nux entered.
Not stopped.
Thinned.
Conversations dimmed. Backs straightened. Hands became deliberate where they had once been fluid.
Nux descended the final step without announcement.
He did not need one.
He walked between the preparation tables, not quite touching anyone — but close enough that fabric brushed fabric, that a shoulder had to tilt away to make room, that breath could be felt before it was heard.
"Is this the broth?" he asked softly.
A cook — older, broad-shouldered — nodded.
"Beef bone and barley, sir. Thickened with leek and parsley."
Nux stepped nearer the pot.
Nearer than required.
Steam rose between them. He did not break eye contact with the cook as he inhaled.
"Strain it again," he murmured. "Clarity is a courtesy."
His voice was smooth.
His hand drifted — not into the broth — but to the cook's forearm, where he pressed lightly, thumb grazing the tendon there as if testing firmness.
The pressure lingered one beat too long.
The cook swallowed.
"Yes, sir."
Nux removed his hand slowly.
He moved on.
A boar turned on the central spit — skin lacquered in honey and ale glaze, crackling as fat kissed flame.
"Score the skin deeper," Nux instructed.
The spit-master adjusted the blade.
Nux stepped behind him to observe.
Close.
Too close.
His chest nearly brushed the man's back as he leaned around to inspect the cut, fingers sliding along the wooden handle to reposition it.
"There," he said quietly, near the man's ear.
The spit-master did not look at him.
At the far table, two young women shaped almond paste into sugared fruit — pears, plums, small apples dusted white. Marchpane. Imported almonds ground to silk.
Nux stopped behind them.
They felt him before they saw him.
"Uneven," he said.
One of the girls — no more than seventeen — stilled.
"They will not be," she replied carefully.
"They already are."
He stepped between them.
Not around.
Between.
Forcing them to shift aside.
His sleeve dragged lightly across the back of one girl's waist as he leaned forward, bracing one hand on the table.
The other hand reached for the pear she was shaping.
He did not take it.
Instead, he covered her fingers with his own.
Guiding.
Slowly.
"Smoother," he murmured.
His voice dropped softer here.
"The illusion matters."
His thumb pressed into the almond paste — and into the warmth of her hand beneath it.
She did not pull away.
She could not.
He adjusted her wrist, turning it slightly, his knuckles brushing the inside of her arm as though the contact were incidental.
It was not.
"There," he said.
He lifted his hand.
But not entirely.
His fingertips trailed — barely — along the underside of her wrist before withdrawing.
The girl resumed shaping the fruit.
More carefully now.
Her jaw was tight.
Nux shifted his attention to the second girl.
He tilted his head.
Examining her face instead of the marchpane.
"You've sweetened this batch more generously."
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
His gaze dropped — not to the fruit.
To the rise and fall of her breath.
Then back to her eyes.
"Generosity should be felt."
He straightened at last.
At another station, trenchers of stale bread were being sliced — thick rounds meant to absorb meat juices before being distributed to the poor.
Nux paused.
"These will not do."
"They were cut this morning," the steward offered.
Nux stepped closer.
He reached up and smoothed a wrinkle from the steward's collar.
Uninvited.
"You misunderstand me," he said gently.
His fingers lingered at the man's throat a moment before releasing.
"Replace them."
"Yes, sir."
Near the cooling shelf stood two silver flagons and one carved from marble.
White veined with silver.
The marble gleamed under torchlight like polished bone.
Nux approached it last.
He dismissed the nearest servant with a small motion of his fingers.
When they were alone, he withdrew a small glass vial from within his sleeve.
Clear.
Measured.
He held it between thumb and forefinger, admiring how light caught the glass.
Then he poured a precise amount into the marble vessel.
The liquid vanished into dark red wine without bloom or trace.
He stirred once.
Slowly.
Listening to the faint scrape of marble against marble.
He set the vessel slightly apart from the others — angled toward the position where the apprentice would sit.
When the steward returned, Nux rested his hand against the rim.
"This one," he said softly, "is for the apprentice."
The steward nodded.
Nux's fingers remained on the cup.
Possessive.
Claiming.
He traced the lip once with the pad of his thumb before withdrawing.
"Tonight," he said, addressing the kitchen without raising his voice, "Dillaclor demonstrates refinement."
His gaze traveled deliberately across the room — resting a second longer on the young women at the almond table.
"No error."
The air felt thinner.
He turned toward the stair.
"And ensure the apprentice is encouraged to eat."
A pause.
"He is growing."
The words sounded attentive.
Almost kind.
They were neither.
Nux ascended, leaving behind warmth, flame, and the quiet stiffness of those who resumed their tasks only after his footsteps faded.
The boar crackled.
The pottage simmered.
Sugared fruit hardened into perfection.
And the marble cup waited.
—------------------------------------------------------
The upper hall filled slowly, though never loudly.
A few council members had taken their seats at measured intervals along the long table. Their robes mirrored the new palette of the palace — pale, desaturated, almost luminous in the lanternlight.
Sir. Wilkinson and Roald were seated midway down the length of the table.
Wilkinson's mechanical arm rested upon the marble surface without ceremony.
The pale stone rendered the darkened steel almost black by contrast. The articulated knuckles were finely engineered — plates layered with subtle precision, joints narrow and deliberate. When he shifted even slightly, the faintest internal whisper of movement could be heard beneath the hall's quiet.
It was not loud.
But it was never silent.
The marble plate before Roald gleamed faintly.
It felt colder than metal.
Courses arrived without announcement.
First: thick barley pottage, strained to unusual smoothness, scented with leek and parsley, finished with a touch of cream. Steam rose cleanly, almost without scent.
Then trenchers of fine white bread — softer crumb than tradition required.
Then slices of roast boar glazed in honey and dark ale, the skin crisped to glass-like crackle, accompanied by stewed apples, mustard seed, and braised cabbage with caraway.
Small dishes followed: fresh curds drizzled with herb oil, pickled onions, and sugared almonds.
The marchpane fruits were placed with deliberate symmetry at each setting — sugared pears and plums so finely shaped they appeared almost natural.
Roald stared.
He had never seen food arranged like this.
He had certainly never been served first.
Nux stood at the head of the table, hands lightly clasped.
He did not sit.
He observed.
Then, as if recalling a minor courtesy, he began walking down the length of the table.
Unhurried.
Measured.
He stopped beside Wilkinson first.
"Dillaclor has missed your hand," Nux said lightly.
His gaze lowered — briefly — to the mechanical arm resting against the marble.
The faintest tilt of consideration.
Wilkinson did not follow his eyes.
"I was unaware it faltered without it."
"It does not falter," Nux replied smoothly. "It adapts."
His fingers brushed the back of Wilkinson's chair as he leaned slightly nearer. His attention lingered not on Wilkinson's face this time — but on the construction of the arm.
"Still responsive?" he asked.
The question carried a curious softness.
Wilkinson flexed the metal fingers once.
The joints aligned with precise, fluid obedience. A muted click — nearly imperceptible — marked the extension.
"They respond."
Nux watched the movement with careful interest.
"I imagine the sensation must be… instructive."
"It is efficient."
"Mm."
Nux's fingertip hovered — not touching — just above the metal forearm. Close enough that the coolness of it seemed to rise between them.
He did not make contact.
But the pause extended.
"I trust it has required no recalibration since your departure?"
"It requires none."
"How fortunate."
His tone held neither admiration nor disbelief.
Just notation.
Wilkinson shifted slightly in his chair — not retreating, not yielding. The mechanical fingers settled against the marble with deliberate weight.
"And Sir. Mallious?" Wilkinson asked.
The question entered the space evenly.
Unornamented.
Nux's expression did not alter.
"Sir. Mallious serves where he is most useful."
A beat.
"Which is?"
"In proximity to the ruler."
Wilkinson's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"He does not dine?"
"Not tonight."
The faintest smile touched Nux's mouth.
"He expressed confidence that his presence would not be required."
The implication rested gently between them.
Nux straightened.
"And the forest?" he asked.
"Still standing."
"How disappointing."
The words were delivered with a soft exhale that might almost have been mistaken for humor.
Roald glanced between them, uncertain whether he had misheard.
Nux turned his attention to him.
The shift was immediate.
Controlled.
"And you," Nux said. "How do you find Dillaclor?"
Roald hesitated only a second.
"It's… larger than I imagined."
"Larger things often are."
Roald nodded awkwardly.
Nux stepped closer — not intrusively this time. Simply present.
"And the journey? You endured it well?"
"Yes, sir."
"No injury? No fear?"
Roald glanced at Wilkinson before answering.
"No."
Nux's gaze flicked again to the mechanical arm.
Brief.
Assessing.
"As long as guidance remains steady," he said softly.
Roald wasn't sure whether the remark was meant for him.
Nux reached for the marble flagon near Roald's setting — the pale one.
Wilkinson's mechanical fingers shifted a fraction of an inch.
The sound was almost nothing.
Almost.
Nux poured carefully into Roald's cup.
The wine flowed dark against the white stone.
A deliberate contrast.
"You must eat," Nux said gently. "Growth requires nourishment."
Roald flushed faintly at the attention.
"I will."
Nux tilted his head.
"You are quiet."
Roald straightened instinctively.
"I'm listening."
"Yes," Nux murmured. "That is wise."
He turned back toward Wilkinson.
"You train him to observe before speaking?"
"I train him to survive."
Nux's eyes traced once more the line where sleeve met metal.
"How practical."
He stepped between their chairs — close enough that his sleeve brushed both of them lightly as he passed. Fabric whispered against steel with a faint, dry friction.
"I find it admirable," he continued, conversationally, "how devoted you remain to craft, Sir. Wilkinson. To improvement. To… refinement."
Wilkinson's posture did not alter.
"It is what I was taught."
"By whom?"
A small pause.
"By those who valued durability."
Nux inclined his head.
"As do we."
He moved away at last, returning toward the head of the table.
For a moment, nothing in the hall felt strained.
Council members murmured lightly among themselves. Marble against marble made a muted, hollow sound.
Roald tasted the pottage.
It was excellent.
Wilkinson had not touched his wine.
His mechanical hand rested beside it.
Still.
Nux paused at the head of the table and looked down its length.
Satisfied.
"This evening," he said lightly, not raising his voice yet somehow commanding the room, "is not a summons."
A faint ripple of attention moved outward.
"It is a welcome."
His eyes flicked once more toward Wilkinson.
Then toward Roald.
"I will call for the ruler shortly."
He smiled — warm in shape, empty in substance.
"Please. Continue."
He folded his hands before him.
And waited.
—------------------------------------------------------
The doors opened without announcement.
The ruler entered with the same measured stride Wilkinson remembered — shoulders squared, gaze level, neither hurried nor indulgent. The hall adjusted around him in subtle increments, like fabric drawn taut.
He wore no crown. He never had at table.
Wilkinson inclined his head.
"My lord."
"Sir. Wilkinson."
The voice was right.
Full. Grounded. Familiar.
There was warmth in it.
He approached directly — not theatrically — and stopped at Wilkinson's side rather than at the head of the table.
A deliberate courtesy.
"You have returned safely," the ruler said. "I am pleased."
"As ordered."
The ruler gave a small nod.
"I trust the crossing did not test you beyond reason."
"It tested the crew."
A faint smile.
"And you?"
Wilkinson allowed the smallest shift of expression.
"I remain."
The ruler's gaze dropped briefly to the mechanical arm resting against the marble.
He did not linger.
"I see no decline in workmanship," he said. "Your calibrations continue to shame our engineers."
"It functions."
"It does more than that."
The exchange was easy.
Recognizable.
Roald exhaled without realizing he had been holding his breath.
"And this is the apprentice," the ruler said, turning toward him.
"Yes, my lord."
"You stand straighter than your master did at your age."
Roald blinked.
Wilkinson allowed it.
The ruler's humor was dry, understated — precisely as it had always been.
"I wrote to you," the ruler continued, returning his attention to Wilkinson, "because time presses more quickly than we anticipated."
"You did."
"I required certainty."
Wilkinson studied him.
"Certainty of succession?"
"Yes."
"And now?"
A small pause.
The ruler glanced — openly — toward Nux.
Nux stood at the head of the table, composed, observant.
"We are aligning council expectations," the ruler said calmly.
Wilkinson's gaze did not follow.
"Council expectations," he repeated.
"They have become… particular."
"They were never decisive."
"They are now."
That, in itself, was not impossible.
"And you defer to them?" Wilkinson asked.
The ruler did not bristle.
He did not correct the phrasing.
He simply answered.
"I consider them."
Wilkinson's mechanical fingers shifted once against the marble.
A quiet internal sound.
"When I departed," he said evenly, "you did not."
The ruler held his gaze.
"Circumstances evolve."
The phrase was mild.
Measured.
But it carried no resistance.
"We are fortunate," the ruler added, almost gently, "to have Nux's administrative clarity in this transition."
Wilkinson's eyes shifted at last toward Nux.
Nux did not lower his gaze.
The ruler continued:
"He has relieved me of burdens that require a different temperament."
"Relieved you?" Wilkinson asked.
"Yes."
"Of what?"
"Negotiations. Enforcement. Structural refinements."
Wilkinson watched him closely.
"And you approve of this arrangement?"
The ruler considered him.
"I approve of efficiency."
The word settled between them.
Once, the ruler would have spoken of endurance.
Of stewardship.
Of balance.
"And the voyage?" Wilkinson pressed softly. "Was that your directive alone?"
"It was necessary."
"Necessary for whom?"
A quiet breath.
"For Dillaclor."
"And Sir. Mallious?" Wilkinson asked. "He serves you still?"
"He serves where required."
"Under your authority?"
A fractional pause.
The ruler's expression did not harden.
Instead, he stepped back slightly.
"We will not turn this meal into inquiry," he said lightly.
The shift was clean.
Unforced.
"As you know," he continued, turning just enough that his voice carried to the table at large, "Dillaclor prepares for the forthcoming Exhibition of Crafts."
A murmur stirred through the hall.
"It will be held in ten days' time," the ruler announced. "An open competition among the master craftsmen of the city and those beyond its walls."
His gaze returned briefly to Wilkinson.
"Your return is timely."
Wilkinson did not move.
"The Exhibition will determine appointment to the High Workshop," the ruler continued. "Oversight of structural commissions, mechanical development, and city works."
A deliberate expansion of authority.
"Candidates will present original designs. Practical demonstrations. Innovation will be favored."
Innovation.
Efficiency.
Refinement.
Nux inclined his head slightly.
The ruler did not reclaim the head of the table.
Instead, he remained where he stood — one place removed.
"We seek renewal," he said. "Visible renewal."
The hall absorbed it.
Wilkinson's mechanical fingers curled once, then stilled.
"And this competition," he asked evenly, though the ruler had already widened his address, "who proposed it?"
A faint smile.
"The council expressed enthusiasm."
"And you?"
"I agreed."
No elaboration.
No claim.
No assertion.
The ruler's attention shifted outward again.
"Details will be circulated by morning," he said. "Participation is encouraged."
Encouraged.
Not commanded.
He looked once more at Roald.
"You will observe closely," he said. "There is much to learn."
"Yes, my lord."
The ruler inclined his head.
Then, rather than resuming his place at the center, he stepped aside — allowing Nux to occupy the visual axis of the hall without comment.
Wilkinson saw the spacing.
The distance.
The absence of correction.
He lowered himself fully back into his chair.
The marble felt colder than before.
"Eat," he said quietly to Roald.
His eyes did not leave the subtle geometry unfolding at the head of the table.
The Exhibition would be public.
Visible.
A reordering of influence under the guise of craft.
And the ruler had announced it — not as command —
but as agreement.
The hall resumed its measured conversation.
Nothing appeared broken.
Only rearranged.
—------------------------------------------------------
The meal thinned into smaller conversations.
Candles shortened.
Marble dulled under the softening light.
The ruler rose without ceremony.
"Sir. Wilkinson."
Wilkinson stood.
"Your former residence," the ruler said evenly, "was lost last winter."
A pause.
"An accidental explosion in the lower quarter. A forge fire mismanaged."
The words were clean. Administrative.
"It could not be contained."
Wilkinson did not ask how.
"I see."
"You will, of course, be provided suitable accommodation."
A faint turn of the ruler's head.
"Nux."
Nux stepped forward at once.
"Yes, my lord."
"Ensure our guests are settled comfortably. An inn of appropriate standard."
"It will be arranged."
Wilkinson inclined his head.
"You are generous."
The ruler's expression softened slightly.
"Dillaclor remembers its own."
A beat.
"We will speak further tomorrow."
Wilkinson did not respond to that.
Roald bowed awkwardly.
The hall released them without escort.
The inn stood three streets from the upper district — stone-fronted, narrow, respectable.
Too new.
Their chamber held two beds, a basin, and a single lantern bracket fixed to the wall. The mattress was softer than Wilkinson preferred.
Roald fell asleep quickly.
Youth had that advantage.
Wilkinson remained seated at the edge of his bed long after the candle had been extinguished.
His mechanical hand rested against his knee.
In the dark, it made no sound.
The day arranged itself again behind his eyes:
The ruler standing one place removed.
The word efficiency.
The Exhibition.
The destroyed house.
Nux waiting before being addressed — but never corrected.
Nothing overt.
Nothing broken.
Only altered.
Wilkinson lay back slowly.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar.
Stone, not timber.
The city air carried a faint metallic scent through the shutter cracks.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep did not follow.
Somewhere beyond the walls of the inn, Dillaclor continued its quiet refinements.
And for the first time since setting sail, Wilkinson understood that returning had not brought him home.
It had brought him inside something already in motion.