"Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it."
- Mark Twain
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Clara sits cross-legged on the cool stone floor, cradling the weight of Alexander's father's watch delicately in her hand. It ticks softly—a sound that seems louder than the moans of the injured or the distant rumble of settling debris. Her small finger carefully traces a tiny, jagged crack along its face, a line that feels significant, much like the fissures that have split Belobog itself.
"I can fix you," she whispers to the timepiece. Nearby on the cot, Xander's breathing remains calm and steady beneath a thin blanket. His silver-white hair spills across a makeshift pillow like frost, and the empty space where his right arm should be creates a negative silhouette that still startles her eyes. His partially disassembled prosthetic sits on a small table close by, another broken thing waiting to be mended.
The memory surfaces like bubbles in water: Alexander standing like a pillar of golden flame, holding back the falling ceiling as debris rained around them. She remembers how his eyes blazed with a strange light just before he collapsed, how time itself seemed to slow in that moment. Only six hours have passed since then, yet it feels like both an instant and an eternity.
Lifting the watch to the amber glow of the geomarrow lantern, she squints at its intricate inner workings visible through a small gap in the back casing. Mr. Svarog would have known exactly how to mend it. The thought brings a sharp ache that pulses in time with the watch's steady ticking.
"Maybe I should have asked Mr. Svarog how to fix people instead of automatons," she murmurs, glancing at the pale face of the man who saved them all.
The rhythmic sound of approaching footsteps breaks the hushed atmosphere, making her look up. In the doorway stands Serval, holding a steaming bowl and a neatly folded cloth. Her blue-blonde hair is pulled back in a messy knot, and dark circles mark the area beneath her eyes like bruised shadows. Clara notices that the engineer's gaze first lingers on Alexander for several seconds before shifting to her.
"You're still here," Serval says softly with a note of surprise. "Have you slept at all?"
The young girl shrugs one shoulder. "I'm not tired." Her fingers instinctively curl protectively around the watch.
Serval crosses the room with careful steps, her movements measured against the silence. She pauses at the small window near Xander's cot, moving the ragged curtain aside just slightly. The amber glow of geomarrow lanterns spills in, illuminating her tired face.
"Are there still tremors?" Clara asks, rising to her knees. "Any more falling debris?"
The older woman shakes her head. "Not since..." Her eyes drift to the unconscious man. "Not since hours ago. The little that does fall—" She glances upward, and Clara follows her gaze toward the ceiling, where they both know Dan Heng's ethereal dragon continues its vigilant circling high above. "Well, we're as safe as we can be, for now."
Clara moves to join her at the window, peering out at the transformed landscape of Boulder Town. Silvermane Guards in their distinctive blue uniforms work alongside Wildfire members, guiding people toward the newly activated furnace core transport systems. Captain Gepard stands tall among them, his authoritative voice carrying faintly through the glass as he directs the evacuation efforts.
But what draws the child's attention most is something much closer—a gathering of people forming a circle approximately fifteen meters from their shelter. She recognizes the figures creating a protective perimeter: Aleksandr with his medical kit open beside him, Andrei adjusting something on one of his automaton helpers, Burian passing out steaming cups of something hot, while Garrett, Lexie, Nikolay, and Yury complete the ring, facing outward.
And beyond them...
"There are so many," Clara whispers, her breath fogging the glass. Hundreds of people sit in patient rows, some with heads bowed and hands clasped together in prayer, others with gazes fixed firmly on the building where Alexander rests. Many have bandages visible on arms or heads, fresh injuries from the Long Night of Solace. Yet despite their injuries, they wait in an almost reverential silence.
"Why aren't they going to the Overworld with the others?" she asks, turning to Serval.
The blond-haired woman's expression is complicated. "They're waiting for him," she says quietly, nodding toward Alexander. "Many of them were there when he saved those trapped under the rubble. They saw what he did with their own eyes—how he stood in golden light, bathed in flames when everything was falling, how his blood healed the dying."
Clara nods solemnly. "Maria told me people are saying he's a champion of Qlipoth, sent to the Underworld in our darkest hour. Boris says the Amber Lord hadn't forgotten us after all, and that's why Alexander came when we needed him most." She looks up at Serval with wide, earnest eyes. "Do you believe that too?"
Serval hesitates, her gaze returning to the window where the crowd maintains their vigil. A woman in the front row clutches what appears to be a child's toy—perhaps the only possession saved from her home—while whispering something that might be a prayer.
"I don't know what to believe," she finally admits, her voice soft with honesty. "I've seen him do impossible things. Things that defy explanation." She lets the curtain fall back into place. "But I understand why they need to believe it. When you've lost everything, sometimes faith is all you have left."
She sets the bowl next to the cot and kneels to Clara's level, bringing the scent of antiseptic and something herbal with her. "What do you have there?"
After a brief hesitation, the child slowly opens her palm, revealing the treasure within. "Xander's father's watch. It's broken—I'm going to fix it for him."
Serval's eyes widen slightly, recognition flickering across her features. "May I?" she asks, extending her hand, palm upward.
For a moment, Clara feels an urge to pull back and protect this treasured object, yet the genuine curiosity and gentle understanding in the engineer's expression compels her to carefully place the timepiece into the waiting hand.
Handling it with the precision she applies to delicate circuit boards, Serval examines the watch, her engineer's eyes cataloging each imperfection. "This is quite old. Back in the Overworld, we call this style 'vintage.'" She flips it over to inspect the exposed gears. "It looks like someone has already tried to repair it."
"Can you tell what's wrong with it?" Clara asks eagerly, leaning forward until their heads nearly touch, united in this mechanical mystery.
"The balance wheel is bent, and—" Serval squints as she brings it closer, the amber light catching on her face. "—there's corrosion on several pivot points. I'd need my tools from the workshop, but..." Her voice trails off as a shadow falls across her face.
"Was... was your workshop destroyed too?" the child asks softly.
A slow, tired nod is the only response. She gently turns the watch over in her hand again before carefully handing it back to Clara.
"It's delicate work. That corrosion... it needs careful cleaning first, even before trying to straighten the wheel." She points with a fingertip to a tiny gear. "See this part here? You'd need something very fine, like a sharpened needle, just to scrape away the worst of it without damaging the teeth."
Clara leans in, peering intently at the spot Serval indicated, carefully cradling the watch. Pride still warms her chest from the woman's earlier comment about her knowing mechanics, this small validation a bright point in dark days.
"Mr. Svarog taught me some things," she offers, glancing up, seeking another connection. "He said I have an... aptitude. For understanding how things work."
Her gaze drifts back to Alexander's still form.
"I wish I understood how to fix him too."
Serval's expression turns serious as she reaches for the bowl, steam curling upward. "Some things just need time," she says, wringing out the excess water before gently placing the warm compress on the unconscious man's forehead. "And he's already doing better. His fever broke two hours ago."
Clara watches the careful tending, the practiced motions of someone who's done this before. "You're good at taking care of others."
"I've had practice. My younger sister and brother..." Serval's voice falters for a moment, as though the words themselves have become unstable ground.
"Younger sister and brother?" Clara asks curiously, latching onto this thread of Serval's history.
"You might have seen my brother around – Gepard? Captain of the Silvermane Guards, carries a big shield?" A faint smile briefly lightens Serval's features. "Or, well, carried one. He lost it during the quake. One more casualty of the Long Night, I suppose." She shakes her head slightly. "My sister, Lynx... she's younger. Closer to your age, really, just a few years older."
Her expression tightens. "She was... she was hit. By falling debris inside our family's residence during the quake. She fell into a coma, barely breathing." She takes a shaky breath, then nods towards the cot. "He came to our home after everything fell apart. Used some kind of power I still don't understand. Saved her life when I thought we'd lost her."
The words hang between them.
Clara watches carefully, noticing how the engineer's eyes trace over Alexander's face, lingering on the deep lines that make him look much older than he is. Serval's hand rises, the damp cloth ready to cool his skin, but then stops. Her hand just hovers there, not quite touching him.
A small wrinkle forms between the woman's eyebrows.
After what feels like forever, she sighs—a soft, sad sound—and finally touches the cloth to his forehead. Clara watches curiously as gentle fingers wipe away the dirt and sweat. Serval doesn't say anything as she works, but her eyes never leave Alexander's face, studying the paleness underneath his skin and the way his strange silver-white hair sticks to his head.
Clara tilts her head, trying to understand what Serval might be thinking.
"Are... are you angry at Mr. Alexander?" she asked softly, her voice barely disturbing the quiet room.
The cloth stills on his forehead. Serval looks at her with surprise. "What makes you ask that?" Her eyes search the child's face. "Do I look angry?"
Clara struggles to find the right words. "Not angry like shouting," she explains carefully. "But when you look at him, your eyes get... tight. Like when Mr. Svarog would find a part that wasn't working right but he didn't know why yet."
Serval's lips part slightly at the observation. She doesn't look at Clara immediately, instead focusing on rinsing the cloth in the cooling water. "I... I don't know," she finally admits. "It's more complicated than just angry." Looking away from the sleeping man, she continues, "He wasn't honest with me. He pretended to be someone he wasn't."
"He lied," Clara says simply, remembering her conversation with Alexander before leaving to meet with Mr. Svarog.
"Yes." The cloth dips into the bowl again, water trickling between Serval's fingers. "That's a big part of it." A heavy sigh escapes her. "But then... he saved Lynx when she was dying. He saved people both in the Overworld and down here. He stood against the collapse when no one else could." Her head shakes slightly. "It's hard to hold onto anger when someone does that. It gets tangled."
Clara tilts her head, trying to understand. "But you still look sad when you look at him."
She pauses, then adds, "Mr. Alexander told me... about someone important he hurt. Someone from a workshop, who knew about fixing things, like you." Her young eyes search the woman's face intently. "Was... was he talking about you?"
The question lands between them.
Serval freezes, the cloth held motionless above the bowl. Clara watches as water drips from it onto the stone floor, making tiny dark circles. Wide eyes turn to look at her with a strange expression.
"He... he told you that?" The engineer's voice is barely audible.
Clara nods earnestly. "He showed me his necklace chain. He said it was a gift from someone important he hurt badly because he was scared and paranoid. He said he made a big mistake."
Something changes in Serval's face then.
"The chain," she whispers, almost to herself. Setting the cloth down carefully with unsteady hands, she continues, "Yes, I made that for him. Just last week, in my workshop."
"You did?" Clara's eyes widen. "It's very pretty - matches the colors of his cross-pendant. He wears it all the time."
Serval looks back at Alexander, her expression complicated.
"What happened?" Clara asks. "Between you and Mr. Alexander?"
The silence stretches so long that Clara thinks she might not answer. Finally, a sigh breaks it.
"He came to my workshop needing a job. He was charming, clever... he fixed things I'd been struggling with for days, like he'd been doing it his whole life." Serval's voice softens with the memory. "But he wasn't who he said he was. He was..." Her glance toward Clara suggests careful word choice. "He was hiding things. Important things."
"About being from another world?" Clara asks.
Serval's eyebrows shoot up. "He told you that too?"
A nod from the child. "He gave me his father's watch to keep safe. He said it was, together with his cross-pendant, the only thing he has from his old life." She looks down at the timepiece in her hands. "I think Mister misses where he came from. Sometimes when he thinks no one's looking, he gets this far-away look in his eyes."
Serval studies the unconscious man's face for a moment. "He never shared any of that with me," she says quietly. "All those hours in the workshop together, and he kept everything locked away."
Her gaze returns to Clara. "When I found out he'd been lying about who he was, we... fought. He used those golden powers against me. Not to hurt me," she adds quickly, seeing Clara's alarm. "But to get away. And then..."
"And then he saved your sister," Clara finishes for her.
"Yes." Serval's voice cracks slightly on the word. "After everything, he came back and saved Lynx when no one else could."
She looks away, blinking rapidly. "Our family... we're not exactly the picture of harmony. My brother and I have had our complications. We care for each other, but there's always been this unspoken tension—he never fully believed what I told him about Cocolia, and his loyalty to her created this... divide between us. Father disowned me years ago. He told me just days before all this that he'd revoked his decision—that he regretted what he'd done. But after so many years of that distance... And then there's mother, who tries to keep the peace, but..."
Her fingers twist the cloth between them. "Lynx is different. She's the one good thing we all agree on. The one pure thing in our broken family."
Serval's eyes return to Alexander's still form. "And we were watching her slip away, right in front of us. There was nothing anyone could do, and then... How do you stay angry at someone after that?"
Clara considers this carefully. "Mr. Svarog always said he found human behavior fascinating. He told me that making mistakes for complicated reasons is just part of our nature. But he believed what truly matters is how we try to make things right afterward."
"Wise perspective," Serval says with a small, sad smile. "He sounds like he was very insightful."
"He was," Clara agrees. "So... was Mr. Alexander talking about you? When he told me about the person he hurt?"
Serval meets her gaze, something vulnerable in her eyes making her look younger somehow. "Yes. I think he probably was talking about me."
A sudden, sharp intake of breath interrupts the conversation. Clara turns to see Alexander's eyes snap open, golden irises immediately alert and searching.
"Clara—" His voice breaks, raw and urgent. For a heartbeat, he looks at them both with confused relief before reality crashes in. "What time is it? How long have I been unconscious?"
He tries to push himself upright with his remaining arm, his face contorting with effort.
"Mister!" she exclaims, scrambling closer. "You're awake!"
"The evacuation," he says, ignoring his own obvious discomfort. "Did they get everyone out of the eastern sector? The support beams were compromised—"
"Eastern sector's clear," Serval interjects, reaching for his shoulder. "Seele and a team from Wildfire made sure of it."
"How long?" Alexander demands again, his breathing quickening. "How long was I out?"
"About six hours," comes the reply as she tries to ease him back down.
Instead of calming him, the information seems to electrify him. He throws the thin blanket aside, attempting to swing his legs over the edge of the cot.
"Six hours? That's—" His face pales with effort. "Cocolia is still out there. The Engine of Creation—"
Clara jumps up, placing her small hands against his chest. "Stop! You can't get up yet!"
"Clara, please," Alexander says, his voice gentler but no less urgent. "You don't understand. She's still—"
"The quakes stopped," Serval cuts in firmly. "After what you did. There haven't been any tremors since. Even the Fragmentum incursions have slowed."
He freezes, golden eyes searching her face for truth. "That doesn't make sense. She wouldn't just..."
"Whatever you did," she continues, "it bought us time. But you won't help anyone if you collapse again."
It takes a moment for him to process the information. Then, his eyes lock onto Clara with fierce intensity. "You haven't slept, have you?" His gaze softens with concern. "Your eyes are red. Have you eaten today?"
She blinks, surprised by the question. "I'm not hungry."
"That's not what I asked," he counters, his tone gentle but firm. His golden eyes narrow slightly. "Clara, you promised me you would eat, even when you didn't feel hungry. Remember?"
Her gaze drops to her hands. "I remember."
"And?" he prompts, his voice softening further.
"I had some soup a few hours ago," she admits reluctantly. "But then I came to watch over you and..." Her voice trails off.
Alexander sighs. "Clara, when you make a promise, especially about taking care of yourself, breaking it hurts both of us. I need to know you're looking after yourself, especially when I can't be there to remind you."
Clara's lower lip trembles slightly. "I'm sorry."
His expression gentles. "Boris and Maria—are they helping with the younger children?"
"They're with Dr. Natasha," Clara nods. "Boris has been helping carry supplies, and Maria's been reading stories to the little ones who can't sleep."
After nodding to himself, his attention shifts to Serval. "Your sister? Have you heard back from your mother? How is she?"
"Stable," she says, her voice catching slightly. "Thanks to you."
"What about Bronya?" he presses, his gaze intense.
"Bronya's coordinating with Oleg at the furnace core. They're moving people to the Overworld as quickly as possible."
Alexander's jaw tightens. "The others? Lexie, Nikolay—"
"Alexander." Serval's voice cuts through his questioning with unexpected authority. "They're all fine and doing their jobs. Everyone who can help is helping."
"Dan Heng and March," he says, his voice softening with concern. "Are they—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Without warning, his face contorts in agony. A strangled sound escapes him as he clutches at the empty space where his right arm should be.
"What's happening?" Clara asks, alarmed by the way his entire body has gone rigid.
"Phantom pain," Serval explains, already moving to a small case beside the cot. "His brain still thinks the arm is there."
"Dan and March," Alexander manages through gritted teeth, his determination evident even through his suffering. "Tell me."
Her hands move quickly, handling an item inside the case. "They're fine. Dan Heng's ethereal dragon is still circling above us. It's keeping any falling debris from reaching the ground. March is with Wildfire, helping coordinate the evacuation."
"Good," he gasps, relief briefly crossing his face before another wave of pain hits. "That's... good."
Clara watches his face contort. "Does it hurt a lot?" she asks tentatively, eyeing the empty space where his arm should be. "What does it feel like?"
"It feels like it's being crushed all over again," he admits, his breathing ragged. "Like it's on fire and freezing at the same time."
Clara watches helplessly as pain etches deep lines across his face. The sight reminds her of nights after her father disappeared, when fear would grip her so tightly she couldn't breathe. Back then, Mr. Svarog had shown her a way through the panic.
She grabs his left hand instinctively. "Mr. Alexander, look at me," she says with unexpected firmness. "Mr. Svarog taught me an exercise when I got scared at night. I had bad dreams and thought I saw my dad in the shadows."
"Clara, I don't think—" he starts.
"He showed me how to breathe to calm down," she continues. "In through your nose—like this—" She demonstrates with an exaggerated breath. "Count to four in your head. Then hold it. Then blow it out slow through your mouth, like you're cooling soup."
"Clara, I appreciate—"
"Please?" Her voice wavers slightly. "It really helps. I promise."
To her surprise, Alexander complies, golden eyes fixed on hers as he follows her rhythm.
"Good," she encourages. "Again."
Serval prepares something in a syringe, her movements quick but precise. "Natasha left this specifically for you," she explains, uncapping the needle. "She said it would help with phantom pain—something about dampening the signals between the nerves and brain. It should take the edge off."
As Clara counts, the injection is administered with practiced ease. Serval's free hand rests on his shoulder, steady and grounding.
"The medicine works faster if you're calm," she explains, her thumb unconsciously making small, soothing circles against his collarbone.
Clara continues counting softly, leading the rhythm as he follows her breaths. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. Like the ticking of the broken watch, they find a steady cadence together. Serval's hand remains on his shoulder, her presence a counterweight to his pain.
As the minutes pass, his breathing grows easier. The tight lines around his eyes soften, though they remain alert, moving between the two of them with something like wonder. Something has shifted in the room—delicate and unspoken.
Clara carefully retrieves the watch from her pocket. "Oh, Mister, I almost forgot," she says, her voice soft but brightening. "Your father's watch. I'm going to fix it! Miss Serval's going to help me with the balance wheels and—and—"
"Pivot points," Serval quietly supplies.
Alexander's eyes widen as he moves his gaze between the watch and the two of them. His left hand reaches out weakly, and Clara carefully places the watch in his palm. His fingers close around it, knuckles whitening slightly.
For a long moment, he simply stares at the timepiece, thumb running over the crack in its face. Then, with a gentle exhale, he extends his hand back to Clara.
"Thank you," he whispers as she accepts it. "Keep it safe for me while you fix it."
His attention shifts to his face, registering the dampness on his skin. His fingers trace the cool moisture along his forehead, then move to Serval, noticing the cloth she'd set aside. His brow furrows with confusion.
"I don't remember falling asleep," he says, voice raspy with disuse. "Last thing I recall, I was wide awake—adrenaline pumping through me. Was my temperature still this high after six hours?"
Serval shifts uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze as she folds the cloth with precise movements. "You didn't fall asleep. About five minutes after you invoked the Path of Preservation for that final shield, you just... collapsed. Terrified everyone." Her voice lowers, eyes flickering to Clara before continuing. "Were you a normal person, you would've..." She stops herself, leaving the implication hanging in the air.
"I see," Alexander says quietly.
He stares at the ceiling for a moment, processing this information before his eyes sharpen with renewed focus. "You mentioned people are being moved to the Overworld. That's good, but..." He chews his lower lip, worry evident in his expression. "The quakes could start again at any moment. I need to speak with Bronya and Wildfire, coordinate our plans for facing Cocolia." Running his hand through his silver-white hair, he winces slightly. "God, how am I supposed to approach that topic with her daughter of all people?"
With determination etched into every line of his face, he attempts to stand, steadying himself against the wall. "Easy, Clara," he says, noticing her concerned expression. "I'm feeling much better now." He takes a few careful steps, his balance improving with each one. "Who's still left in Boulder Town? Have most already evacuated to the furnace core?"
"There are still a few hundred people waiting just outside," Clara says innocently, pointing toward the window.
Alexander freezes. "Outside? Why would they—"
"Everyone wanted to stay until you woke up," Serval explains, stepping closer to him. "It wasn't ideal given our circumstances, but they insisted." She glances at Clara with a small smile. "She refused to leave your side, so I volunteered to watch over both of you."
He seems momentarily surprised by this admission. Processing Clara's words, he does a double-take. "Wait—did you say hundreds? Outside?"
Cautiously, he moves to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer through. His eyes widen at the sight of the gathered crowd—people sitting in orderly rows, some with bowed heads in prayer, others with eyes fixed on the building, all waiting with reverent patience despite their own injuries.
"What are they all doing?" he whispers.
Clara approaches, standing on tiptoes to look out beside him. "After you saved the Underworld, they wanted to wait for your recovery. They're praying for your health."
His grip on the curtain tightens.
"Everyone's talking about you," she rushes on, tucking the watch securely into her pocket, excitement bubbling like a spring. "They say you're a messenger from Qlipoth, a herald, sent to save us!"
Slowly, very slowly, his eyes widen as he turns to look at her without saying a word.
"What?" he breathes, barely audible.
"Boris told me you could be one of the Amber Lord's chosen ones from ancient stories," Clara adds enthusiastically, "showing up when people need help the most."
A thin sheen of cold sweat breaks out across his forehead. Serval notices the horror dawning on his face, followed quickly by Clara's confusion.
"What's wrong?" she asks, her smile faltering. "Did I say something bad?"
Alexander painfully retracts his hand from the curtain, letting it fall back into place. He steps backward carefully until his legs hit the edge of the bed, sinking down with a preoccupied expression frozen on his face.
"I wasn't—" he begins hoarsely, then stops, swallowing hard. "Clara, I wasn't sent by Qlipoth."
"But your powers—" she protests, caught off-guard by his reaction.
"They're connected to the Amber Lord, yes," he admits, his voice steadier now. "But they're what this world calls 'Paths'—manifestations of universal concepts, not divine gifts. I'm channeling the Path of Preservation, not wielding the power of a god." His expression grows distant. "Where I come from... we understand these things differently."
Clara's brow furrows, her eyes bright with determination to defend the hero she's come to see as a guardian. "But, Mister, if Qlipoth gave you these powers, then doesn't that mean—"
"Clara, please," he interrupts, his voice gentle but firm as he leans forward. "I need you to listen to me. These powers don't make me divine. I'm just a man—a man with faults, too many to count. I'm not worthy of worship, and no one should think of me as special." His golden eyes hold her gaze intently. "Especially not you."
Clara's face falls, confusion and hurt mingling in her eyes. Her small shoulders slump slightly. "But you saved everyone. You created that golden light that protected us, the flames... Why wouldn't people think you're special?"
His jaw tightens. "Matters of faith are... delicate, complicated. I don't want anyone to believe something about me that isn't true, or put me in a place in their beliefs where I don't belong." He looks down at his remaining hand, flexing his fingers. "It would be wrong of me to accept that kind of reverence."
"Clara," Serval interjects gently, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I think what Alexander means is that people sometimes create stories to explain what they don't understand—like how the underworlders once believed geomarrow was Qlipoth's tears, when really it's something else entirely." She pauses, considering her next words carefully. "Imagine if someone mistook you for one of Svarog's automatons just because you're good with machines. It wouldn't be true to who you really are, would it?"
His expression relaxes with gratitude at her intervention. "Yes," he says in a softer tone. "I'm not comfortable with being turned into some sort of religious figure. I'm just trying to help, in whatever way I can."
Frowning, Clara doesn't fully understand but senses the weight of something beyond her reach. "So you're not mad at me?"
His look softens immediately. "No, Sunshine. Never at you." He reaches out his hand, and she takes it gratefully.
A hesitant knock interrupts the moment. Boris appears in the doorway with Maria, their faces tired but showing less fear than days before. The boy's eyes widen when he glimpses Alexander.
"Oh!" Boris whispers, suddenly nervous. "Is Mr. Xander feeling—"
Before he can finish, Alexander catches Clara's eye and quickly shakes his head—a subtle side-to-side warning. His gaze flickers meaningfully toward the window where the crowd waits outside.
Understanding immediately, she shifts to block Boris's view. "He just woke up for a minute," she says. "He still needs lots of rest. Did you need me?"
Boris shifts his weight from one foot to the other, staying respectfully by the doorway. "A nurse under Dr. Natasha sent us. The little kids won't take their medicine, but they always listen to you."
Clara bites her lip, torn between her duty to help and her reluctance to leave Alexander's side after watching over him for so long.
Sensing her conflict, he reaches into a small pouch at his waist with a slight wince. He retrieves three wrapped candies and presses them into her palm.
"Here," he says softly. "You need to eat something real soon, but take these for now. One for each of you." His voice drops to a whisper. "Sweet things make scary times better."
Her eyes brighten at the treat, something rare and precious in these difficult days. She carefully tucks the candies into her pocket alongside the watch.
"Go," he adds, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze before letting go. "Those kids need you right now."
Clara slowly stands up, her small fingers adjusting the treasures in her pockets. She looks between Serval and Alexander, noticing how they keep looking away from each other.
Grown-ups are weird.
She gives him one last look before joining Boris and Maria at the door. She pulls out the candies and hands one to each of her friends. As they walk down the hallway, she reaches for both of their hands.
"Come on," she says to Boris and Maria, trying to stand taller. "We gotta help Dr. Natasha."
As they turn the corner, Clara pats her pocket, feeling the watch inside. Mr. Svarog taught her that with the right tools, broken things can be fixed.