The Repairer's Gift — The Clockwork Pilgrim

The gate opened not for a warrior, but for a mechanic. They didn't want his stories yet. They wanted his hands.

The settlement's water filtration pump had seized three winters ago. Since then, they drank snow-melt that tasted of ash.

"Can you fix it?" the Elder asked.
The Pilgrim didn't speak. He tuned the dial on his chest. [CLICK-WHIRR-CLICK]. Frequency 94.7. A hum of affirmation.

He worked for fourteen hours without pausing. No sleep. No food. Just the rhythm of tools against rusted iron.

The Beast Beneath the Skin

While he worked, the girl—Anna, the first Decoder—approached his mount. The horse stood perfectly still in the freezing wind. It looked like a roan mare, shaggy coat dusted with frost.

Anna reached out to pat its flank. She felt the warmth. But she heard the truth.

Under the synthetic hide, she didn't feel muscle. She felt the vibration of a Fusion Core. She heard the whir of hydraulics where a heart should be.

"It's like you," she whispered to the Pilgrim.
"It's pretending to be alive so we don't get scared."

The Pilgrim paused. He rotated his wrist, swapping a wrench for a delicate manipulator. He looked at the horse, then at the girl.

"We are not pretending," his voice grated, played through the speaker in his chest. "We are maintaining the shape of what you lost."