The steam pipes in Sub-Level 4 hummed with their usual low-hum drone as Arthur sat at the steel workbench, clipping the black silk stitches from Vesper’s left ear with a pair of delicate iris scissors. The workshop was quiet, lit by the warm glow of an electric fire bowl where Toby was brewing a fresh batch of stone broth. In the center of the bay, Grimm lay flat on his side, his belly full of braised marrow bones from their victory ration allowance, snoring with the volume of a muffled two-stroke diesel engine.
Vesper sat perched on the edge of the check table, her small body fully still. Her right foreleg was extended forward, resting on a clean lint-free towel. Meanwhile, Arthur carefully unwrapped the final layer of cotton gauze from her wrist.
“Hold still, little empress,” Arthur whispered, his fingers gentle as he slid the light metal splint free.
The lynx didn’t growl, but her notched ear pinned back. Her golden eyes tracked every movement of Arthur’s hands with intense, guarded scrutiny. The last layer of gauze fell away. Then, the razor-sharp site was revealed under the yellow halogen light.
The jagged, purplish swelling of the snare wound was gone. In its place was a clean, pale scar running along the lateral aspect of her wrist joint. Beneath the skin, the grafted grip tendons had knitted into dense, stringy cords that shone with a clear silver-black sheen—the living fingerprint of stygian iron integration.
