Jory woke before the first heat siren and sat up in the narrow loft above the hive room. The floor still held last night's warmth, which meant the district lines had not failed yet, though that could change by noon if the city got greedy. Below him, the cinder bees stirred in their iron-framed boxes, each colony kept behind glass-black mesh and clay vents so the wax would not cool too fast. Their work kept the pipes sealed, the walls dry, and half the block from freezing when the furnaces dipped.
He pulled on his gloves, crossed to the nearest stack, and slid out the feeder tray. The bees answered with a low, rough buzz that Jory felt through the wood more than he heard. He tipped the tray, studied the brood pattern, and frowned. Too many gaps. Too many sluggish wings. Bram, already awake and crouched by the stove, noticed his face at once.
— Do not tell me the bees have become dramatic again, Bram said, tightening a cracked feeder ring with a pair of pliers. I am too old for theater before breakfast.
— They are not dramatic. They are starving.
— Same family, different accent.
Jory snorted despite himself. Bram had the kind of humor that arrived dry and stayed dry, which was useful in a city that treated warmth like a private luxury. He carried a bowl of millet porridge to the table and set it beside a chipped tin cup of chicory broth. Outside, the alley was already awake: a laundry cart squealed over the stones, someone argued over steam hours, and a boy in a patched coat ran past with a loaf wrapped in paper thick enough to survive a furnace blast.
Jory fed the nearest colony a spoon of ash syrup and watched the queen's attendants crowd the frame. One tray in the back stack sat nearly empty. He tapped the side of the box, leaned close, and felt the colony answer in a thin, strained pulse. Not dead. Not yet. But hungry enough to make the whole room feel smaller.