Threads of Time and Steel

Marina Eldheim wiped the grease from her hands onto her leather apron, her fingers smudged with oil and soot. The air in the small workshop was filled with the scent of burning metal, the quiet hum of machinery, and the rhythmic ticking of clocks. The space was cluttered but organised in its own chaotic way—cogs, gears, and half-finished contraptions lined the wooden tables and shelves, each one a product of her restless, creative mind.

The large windows on the far wall let in the soft afternoon light, casting long shadows across the floor as the sun began to sink lower in the sky. Her father, Paulus Eldheim, was downstairs, minding their shop, dealing with customers who came for small repairs or the odd purchase of mechanical trinkets that Marina had crafted. Their home and livelihood were nestled in the upper commoner's district, where merchants and craftsmen like her father made a modest living.

Marina ran a hand through her wild, curly hair, which was always in some state of disarray, no matter how much she tried to tame it. The thick curls framed her face, their dark brown hue catching the light in ways that made her tan skin glow. Despite her rough, workshop attire—leather gloves, apron, and boots—there was an undeniable elegance in the way she moved, her slim, nimble fingers working expertly to fit a tiny, intricate gear into the mechanical arm she was assembling.

She wasn't even sure what she was building, not fully. The design had come to her in a dream, one of the many that haunted her. Her dreams were always so vivid—too vivid, in fact. They were filled with fragments of a life she couldn't remember fully, fleeting glimpses of a man's face, his voice soft but distant, as though he were calling to her from some far-off place. She could never quite place him, and every time she woke, the memory slipped away, leaving her with an aching sense of loss.

Marina sighed and set the mechanical arm down on the table, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. There was always a sense of urgency in her creations, as if her hands knew something her mind didn't, driving her to build, to create, to make life easier for those around her. It was as if she had a purpose, something important she was meant to accomplish, but it always eluded her, just out of reach.

"Marina!"

Her father's voice echoed up from the shop below, and she straightened, removing her gloves and tossing them onto the workbench. "Coming!" she called back, her voice a little hoarse from hours of working in the dusty room.

She made her way down the narrow staircase that connected their living quarters and her workshop to the shop below. Paulus was at the counter, his large, calloused hands fiddling with a broken clock as an elderly customer watched. Paulus had always been a kind man, though he rarely smiled these days. The loss of Marina's mother—his wife—during childbirth had left him with a deep sadness that never fully faded, though he hid it well for her sake.

Marina had inherited his inventiveness, his love of tinkering with machines and creating things. Though, unlike him, she didn't restrict herself to simple repairs or practical items. Her mind was constantly filled with ideas for inventions that went far beyond what most people in their district could imagine. Machines that could fly, devices that could communicate across great distances—things that reminded her, in some small way, of the dreams she could never quite shake.

"Marina, could you take a look at this?" Paulus asked, glancing up at her with a weary smile. "This old clock's giving me trouble. The mechanism's stuck, and I'm not as quick with these small pieces as I used to be."

She walked over to the counter and took the clock from his hands, her fingers deftly adjusting the tiny gears and levers within. "It's just a jammed cog," she said after a moment, working the piece free and reassembling the mechanism with practiced ease. "There you go, good as new."

The elderly man smiled gratefully as Paulus handed him the clock. "Thank you, lass," the man said, nodding to Marina. "Your father's raised a fine daughter."

Marina smiled politely in return, but her mind was already drifting back to her workshop, to the half-finished mechanical arm and the strange dreams that always left her feeling unsettled.

Once the customer had left, Paulus sighed and leaned against the counter, his eyes following Marina as she began organizing the tools scattered across the workbench. "You're always so focused, Marina," he said softly. "Sometimes I worry you're not enjoying life as much as you should."

Marina paused, her hands hovering over a set of wrenches. "I enjoy my work," she said simply, glancing at him. "It's what I love."

Paulus frowned, his brow furrowing. "I know, but there's more to life than work. You're eighteen now, Marina. It's time you start thinking about your future."

"I am," she replied, her voice tinged with frustration. "This is my future. Building things, making life better for people—this is what I'm meant to do."

Her father's expression grew more serious. "You're a bright girl, and I'm proud of everything you've accomplished. But you can't ignore the way the world works. You're a merchant's daughter, and in our society, that means—"

"That means I should find a nobleman or a wealthy merchant to marry to raise my status.," Marina finished, her tone flat. "So I can spend my days pretending to be a 'proper lady' while giving up everything I love. Is that what you want for me?"

Paulus sighed heavily. "No, Marina, that's not what I want. But it's what would secure your future. You could have a comfortable life, a family—"

"A cage," she interrupted, her voice hardening. "I'd be trading one kind of life for another, one that wouldn't make me happy. I don't want to spend my life hosting tea parties, gossiping and discussing fashion."

Her father didn't respond immediately, and for a moment, the only sound in the shop was the ticking of the many clocks that lined the walls. Finally, Paulus spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "I just want to know that you'll be taken care of. I won't be around forever."

Marina's heart ached at his words. She knew he meant well, that he only wanted what was best for her, but he couldn't see the world the way she did. "I don't need a nobleman to take care of me," she said softly. "I can take care of myself."

Paulus nodded, though there was still worry in his eyes. "I know you can, Marina. But the world isn't always kind to women who want to stand on their own. And I don't want you to be alone."

Marina turned away, staring out the window at the bustling street below. She wasn't alone—at least, not entirely. There was always Cog, her small, scrappy black cat who often lounged on her workbench or curled up in the corner of the workshop. And then there were her dreams, the ones that haunted her at night, reminding her of a man she couldn't quite remember, a love she felt but couldn't explain.

She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "I'm not alone," she said quietly, more to herself than to her father.

Paulus glanced at her, his expression softening. "I know you have your inventions and your dreams, but they're not the same as real people, Marina. You need someone who can stand beside you, someone who understands you. Dreams are just that, dreams. The waking world is less kind."

Marina didn't respond. How could she explain to him that there was someone out there, someone she felt connected to in a way that went beyond the ordinary? She had never told her father about the dreams, about the man who appeared in them, his face always just out of focus, his voice a distant echo in her mind. It felt too strange, too personal to share.

Instead, she simply nodded and walked back toward the stairs. "I'll be in the workshop," she said quietly, her heart heavy with the weight of their conversation.

Paulus watched her go, a deep sadness settling in his chest. He loved his daughter more than anything, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she was drifting further and further away from the life he had hoped for her. He couldn't pretend like the world didn't scoff at him for raising his daughter the way he did. Even other merchants daughters were trained the same way as young noble ladies so that they could be seen as equal. 

Marina never saw herself as lacking or lesser, something that he had always admired and hated himself for loathing. She didn't understand that as part of the merchant class, we were held in higher regard to the rest of the population, but to nobles, we were all just commoners. Merchants just happened to be smarter than the average person living in the Atlassian Empire. Noble men so women who were not noble as property, not even human, they simply did as they wished. 

The only way to protect Marina from all that would be to marry her into nobility or have her promoted through merit. The latter is impossible because women do not have the same recognition as men. It was frustrating to him that until he had a daughter, he thought this was way things must always be.

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Up in the workshop, Marina sank into her chair, her hands resting on the edge of the workbench as she stared at the mechanical arm she had been working on. Her mind raced, the conversation with her father replaying in her head over and over. She understood why he was worried, why he wanted her to marry a nobleman and secure a stable future. But that wasn't the life she wanted. She couldn't imagine spending her days locked away in some grand estate, forced to give up everything that made her who she was.

Her thoughts drifted to her dreams again, to the man who appeared in them so often. His face was always a blur, but his presence was undeniable. There was a sense of familiarity about him, as if they had known each other for years, perhaps even lifetimes. She couldn't shake the feeling that he was important, that he was connected to her somehow, though she didn't know how or why.

Marina shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. It was foolish to dwell on dreams. They weren't real, and whatever connection she felt to this mysterious man was nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

And yet, as she picked up her tools and resumed her work, she couldn't help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—there was something more to it. Something that went beyond the boundaries of this world, beyond the life she knew.

As the evening light faded, casting long shadows across the workshop, Marina worked in silence, the ticking of the clocks and the quiet purring of Cog the only sounds that filled the room.

Somewhere, deep in her heart, she felt the faintest flicker of hope.