Late Winter/Early Spring, 2178

  Braelocke Hollow to Valmere, Continental Authority

  Dawn bled reluctantly into the Braelocke sky, revealing a settlement transformed overnight. Union patrols doubled, their dark coats stark against the dirty snow as they moved through the streets with grim purpose. Checkpoints materialized at major intersections, and rumors spread through the market like wildfire—someone had struck at the heart of Union authority, stolen something valuable from Captain Merrick himself.

  Regal observed it all from the Crimson Hinge's roof, tracking patrol patterns and cataloging changes to the security landscape. The theft provoked exactly the response he anticipated: visible force, increased surveillance, a show of control masking the deeper embarrassment of penetrated defenses.

  What he hadn't expected was how quickly they'd identified a suspect.

  "That woman," a voice muttered behind him. "Your whispery green-eyed friend."

  Regal turned to find Prescott, the innkeeper, emerging from the roof access door, a steaming mug in each hand. The older man offered one wordlessly, then settled beside Regal with a grunt that spoke of aging joints and too many winters.

  "They're saying she's the one who took the captain's prize," Prescott continued, staring out over the settlement. "Can't say I'm surprised. Girl's got more nerve than sense, always has."

  Regal accepted the mug—bitter coffee cut with something herbal to stretch the precious beans. The steam carried hints of chicory and something medicinal underneath. He took a careful sip, welcoming the warmth despite the unfavorable flavor.

  "Everyone knows her, or thinks they do." Prescott took a careful sip. "Been in and out of Braelocke for years. Sometimes vanishes for months. Always comes back with something interesting to trade or a new scar to explain away."

  "What's her connection to the Union?"

  The innkeeper snorted. "What connection? Those bastards have wanted her head since she first showed up with trinkets they couldn't trace. They say she's Accord, you know. Not that anyone's ever proven it."

  Regal kept his expression neutral, though the confirmation of his suspicions sent a ripple of unease through him. The Arcane Accord's reputation preceded them—scholars and zealots obsessed with Ro'Daerim technology, operating beyond Union control, answering to their own mysterious hierarchy.

  "Why tell me this?" he asked finally.

  Prescott shrugged, wincing at some internal pain the motion provoked. "You've been seen with her. Twice now. In Braelocke, that's enough to paint a target on anyone's back." He gestured toward the eastern district with his mug. "Union's offering ten steel chits for information. A full silver crown for her capture."

  "Substantial."

  "Enough to make even friends consider options." The older man turned, fixing Regal with a steady gaze. "Whatever she dragged you into, son, I'd suggest you cut it loose. Quickly."

  Regal watched a patrol turn the corner below, their weapons drawn, their movements reflecting trained vigilance. "And if I can't?"

  "Then don't come back here." Prescott's tone held no malice, only pragmatism. "I like my establishment unraided and my customers breathing."

  With that, the innkeeper rose, reclaimed Regal's untouched mug, and disappeared back through the access door, leaving only the faint scent of caffeinated herbs and unwanted advice behind.

  Regal remained on the roof until full daylight illuminated Braelocke's gray streets. The settlement never truly woke—it merely transitioned from one state of wariness to another, like an animal that had forgotten the meaning of safety.

  In his room, he turned his attention to the task Nessa had set him: replicating her Thermecine extraction mixture. The wooden box contained everything he needed—precision instruments, reagents in labeled vials, a small alcohol burner for heating components to specific temperatures.

  Working methodically, he followed the steps he'd observed the night before. Measure. Heat. Mix. Cool. Each action required absolute concentration, the margin for error nonexistent according to Nessa's warnings.

  The base Thermecine from the Ossuary served as his foundation. To this, he added measured amounts of the stabilizing agents Nessa called "binding elements"—microscopic fragments of Ro'Daerim steel suspended in a clear solution, each drop precisely calibrated.

  Halfway through the process, his hand faltered, nearly upsetting a crucial measurement. Not from lack of skill, but from the insistent awareness that he was being watched. Again.

  He glanced toward the window, where thin curtains diffused the weak winter sunlight. No shadow disrupted the even illumination, no movement betrayed an observer's presence. Yet the sensation persisted—a pressure at the back of his neck, a certainty that hostile eyes tracked his movements.

  Regal forced himself to continue, completing the mixture with mechanical precision despite the distraction. When finished, he held up the small vial, examining the resulting liquid. Clearer than the raw Thermecine, with the same faint blue tint he'd observed in Nessa's demonstration. Success or failure would only be determined when tested against the Ro'Daerim fragment.

  A sharp rap at his door disrupted his concentration. Three quick knocks, then silence.

  Regal secured the vial in his coat pocket before drawing his knife. "Who is it?"

  No answer came. Instead, a folded piece of paper slid beneath the door, followed by receding footsteps too light to belong to Prescott.

  He waited until the footsteps faded completely before retrieving the paper. Inside, a message in elegant, precise handwriting:

  Meeting place compromised. Union closing in. 4pm. Rail yard district. Blue door with brass knob. Come alone. Bring everything. -N

  The message complicated matters. The rail yard district lay on Braelocke's southern edge, a maze of abandoned cargo containers and derelict train cars populated by those who preferred to avoid both Union and Freehold attention. It also meant crossing the entire settlement in broad daylight, passing multiple checkpoints with Thermecine and Ro'Daerim steel in his possession.

  If Nessa was truly compromised, meeting her could be walking into a trap. If she wasn't, failing to appear meant losing his only guide to understanding the tools he needed for his vengeance.

  Regal burned the note over the alcohol burner, watching the paper curl and blacken until nothing remained but ash. Decision made, he began gathering his possessions, packing them with the efficiency of someone accustomed to swift departures.

  The Crimson Hinge's rear exit opened onto a service alley rarely used even by staff. Regal slipped out just as the midday meal service began, the commotion in the kitchen providing cover for his departure. He left payment for his stay on the bed—professional courtesy to an innkeeper who'd offered fair warning.

  Braelocke's streets bustled with the usual midday activity, though today an undercurrent of tension ran beneath the surface. Union soldiers questioned merchants, examined travel papers, and scrutinized faces with uncharacteristic attention. Twice, Regal adjusted his route to avoid checkpoints, taking circuitous paths through narrower alleys where surveillance was minimal.

  In the general market, he purchased supplies for what might become a hasty departure from Braelocke—dried provisions, water purification tablets, and a secondhand compass that looked more reliable than it probably was. Each transaction was conducted swiftly, with minimal conversation, his hood drawn to shadow his features without appearing obviously furtive.

  As he navigated the increasingly decrepit structures of the southern district, the sensation of being followed intensified. Twice he doubled back, using reflective surfaces to scan for pursuers. Nothing obvious presented itself, yet the feeling persisted—not the heavy-handed surveillance of Union soldiers, but something subtler, more practiced.

  The rail yard district announced itself with the scent of old oil and rusted metal. Once a busy cargo loading area connecting Braelocke to settlements across the continent, it had fallen into disuse after the collapse, leaving behind skeletal train frames and abandoned cargo containers slowly sinking into the mud and gravel.

  Regal moved cautiously through the labyrinth of decay, alert for signs of ambush. Few residents remained in this district—those who couldn't afford better, or those with reasons to welcome isolation. Most stayed inside the rusted cargo containers and repurposed train cars they called home, though occasionally hollow eyes watched his passage from shadowed doorways.

  The blue door appeared exactly as described—faded paint peeling from weathered wood, a tarnished brass knob reflecting weak afternoon sunlight. No windows flanked it, no obvious signs indicated the building's purpose or occupants.

  He approached obliquely, scanning the adjacent structures for movement before approaching. At precisely four o'clock, he knocked—three sharp raps followed by two softer ones, a pattern Nessa would recognize.

  The door opened inward, revealing darkness beyond. No Nessa. No greeting.

  Just emptiness and the distinct impression of a calculated risk.

  Regal drew his knife and stepped inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The space appeared to be a former storehouse, its high ceiling lost in shadow, its floor covered with scattered debris and patches of greenish mold that thrived in the damp conditions.

  The door swung shut behind him with a decisive click.

  "You came." Nessa's voice emerged from the darkness to his right. "I wasn't entirely sure you would."

  "Neither was I," Regal admitted, not lowering his knife. "The bounty on your head is substantial."

  "A full Silver Crown," she said sarcastically, stepping into a shaft of light filtering through a hole in the roof. "Enough to tempt anyone in Braelocke. Yet here you are, still choosing the riskier path… or hoping for a bigger bounty to match my value."

  She looked different—harder, somehow. She wore a modified Union scout uniform: dark, reinforced at the joints. Her hair was still pulled back in that severe style, but now a thin scar traced along her hairline, disappearing beneath the dark strands. Fresh, by the look of it.

  "Coin has no value to me," he replied. "What happened to our original meeting place?" Regal asked, finally lowering his knife—but not putting it away.

  "Union raid, two hours ago." She gestured to a crude bandage visible beneath her collar. "They were waiting. Someone talked."

  "Davyl?"

  "Possibly. Or someone observing our movements." She glanced toward the roof, her expression suggesting she'd had the same sensation of being watched. "Braelocke has many eyes, not all of them Union. Some less friendly."

  Regal produced the vial of Thermecine mixture he'd prepared. "You still want to continue with this?"

  "More than ever." Nessa approached, examining the vial with critical attention. "The theft has accelerated certain timelines. We don't have the luxury of patience any longer."

  She held the vial up to a beam of light, studying the clarity and color of the mixture. "Good work. The balance looks correct. Did you have any difficulties with the binding agents?"

  "No," Regal replied. "Though the process requires more precision than I expected."

  "That's the difference between science and artistry," she said, returning the vial. "The Union understands the chemical properties but not the subtle interactions that make Thermecine truly effective." Her eyes lifted to his. "Did you bring the fragment?"

  He produced the leather pouch containing the Ro'Daerim steel. "As requested."

  "Excellent. Then we can proceed with the practical test." She moved deeper into the warehouse, gesturing for him to follow. "Time is limited. The Union is systematically searching every district. They'll reach this area by nightfall."

  At the rear of the building, Nessa had established a makeshift workspace—a table fashioned from salvaged wood, illuminated by a single oil lamp with a hood that directed light downward. Various instruments lay arranged in precise order, similar to those in the wooden box she'd provided, but more specialized.

  "The mixture you've prepared should allow for controlled energy extraction," she explained, retrieving something from a nearby crate. It appeared to be a hollow tube of brass, etched with fine lines that formed complex patterns along its surface. One end tapered to a narrow tip, the other widened into a chamber sized to hold the Ro'Daerim fragment.

  "A focus," she said, handing it over. "Machined brass. Inscribed with micro-grooves to regulate thermecine activation. It channels the energy drawn from the steel—shapes it, like a nozzle on a pressure valve."

  Regal turned the device in his hands. It felt dense, precise. Not a weapon, exactly, but close. "Channel it into what?"

  "Today? A demonstration." She nodded toward the targets lined up at the far end of the room. "Projection range, heat output, control. Simple enough—if your mix is stable and your focus is properly tuned."

  She sat at the worktable and motioned for him to join her. "The process isn't complicated once you grasp the basics. The Thermecine activates the latent energy within the Ro'Daerim steel. The focus acts as a conductor—regulating and shaping that energy. But here's the catch: your neurological feedback influences how the energy behaves."

  "Neurological feedback," Regal repeated, skeptical.

  "Intent," she clarified, her voice sharper now. "Ro'Daerim tech doesn't just respond to chemistry or circuits. It reacts to bioelectrical input—subtle, subconscious patterns. Thought. Emotion. Focus. The Union calls it metaphysical resonance because they don't know what else to name it. But it's measurable. Repeatable. They just don't understand how to control it."

  She tapped the brass instrument lightly. "This thing doesn't decide anything. It channels. You do the shaping. Like a tuning fork, it resonates—only with your mind instead of sound."

  From another pocket, she produced a slender vial similar to the cartridges she'd shown him before. "This one's fully calibrated. Stable mixture. We'll use it first as a baseline, then try yours."

  She opened the focus chamber, inserted the Ro'Daerim fragment, and added three precise drops of Thermecine. A faint hiss escaped as the liquid contacted the metal, followed by a soft vibration in the brass casing. The fragment began to glow—not with the chaotic flare he remembered from the theft, but a slow, steady pulse of blue light. It felt alive now, like something stirred from dormancy rather than forced awake.

  "Observe," Nessa said, lifting the focus and leveling it at the nearest target. Her expression shifted—eyes narrowing, jaw tightening—concentration made visible.

  A thin beam of blue-white energy snapped from the tip, striking the metal with surgical precision. The impact point glowed cherry red, then white-hot. A clean hole formed, edges smooth as if etched by a laser on rails.

  "Minimal output," she said, lowering the device. "Just enough to demonstrate control." She extended it toward him. "Your turn."

  Regal accepted it cautiously. The brass vibrated faintly, as if holding something barely restrained. "What am I aiming for?"

  "Intent first," she said. "What do you want to achieve—cutting, heating, disruption? The field adapts based on neural signature. Purpose guides the flow."

  He studied the targets. "Same as you. Precision cutting."

  "Then visualize it. The beam. The contact point. The result." She stepped closer, adjusting his grip with practiced ease. "Don't just see it. Sync with it. The energy responds to what you mean—not just what you imagine."

  Her nearness was distracting: the scent of metal, oil, worn leather. The heat of her hand against his. He shoved the awareness aside and focused.

  He visualized the beam, the strike, the result—metal yielding in a smooth line.

  Nothing happened.

  "You're still in your head," Nessa said gently. "You're analyzing. But this isn't about calculation—it's about signal clarity. Feel it."

  "This feels like a ritual," he muttered.

  "It's both," she replied. "The Accord understands that. The Union pretends they don't, which is why their tech stutters and surges. Try again—this time, let your purpose speak."

  He took a slow breath and let the memory rise: the Ossuary, the girl on the table—bound in tubes and restraints. The sterile air. Her eyes. The fire he'd kept banked ever since.

  The device thrummed louder. The glow deepened, synced to the rhythm of his pulse.

  Then the beam surged—wild and brilliant. It struck off-center, tearing through the metal with explosive force. Shards scattered like shrapnel.

  Regal lowered the focus, muscles tight with shock.

  Nessa examined the ruined target. "More power than precision. But your emotional tether is strong—stronger than I expected." She looked at him again, and this time, caution joined curiosity in her gaze. "That kind of intensity is useful—if you learn to control it. Dangerous, if you don't."

  She returned to the table, disassembled the device, and wiped the chamber clean. "Now let's test your batch. Same procedure. Expect some variation—each formulation has its own signature."

  Regal loaded his prepared Thermecine. The reaction came slower this time—the glow steadier, cooler. The vibration less volatile. The energy felt calmer, more deliberate.

  "Good stability," Nessa observed. "Try again. Same goal. But this time, no anger—just control."

  He nodded and raised the focus again. With calmer breath, he pictured the strike—not vengeance, just precision.

  The beam fired—a cleaner shot this time. It cut a perfect hole through the center of the second target.

  Nessa gave a small nod. "Much better. You're a quick study."

  "I've had practice adapting to hostile environments," he said, lowering the device. The glow in the fragment began to fade, its light sinking back into dormancy.

  "So I've gathered." Nessa began packing her equipment with swift efficiency. "Unfortunately, our lesson must end here. Union patrols will reach this district within the hour, and we both need to be elsewhere when they arrive."

  "Where will you go?" Regal asked, helping dismantle the workspace.

  "Away from Braelocke. The region has become temporarily inhospitable." She secured the last of her instruments in a weathered leather satchel. "You should consider doing the same."

  "Our arrangement isn't complete," he pointed out. "I've barely scratched the surface of what I need to know."

  Nessa paused, studying him with those unnaturally green eyes. "True. But circumstances have changed. Continuing your education here has become impractical." She seemed to debate internally before coming to a decision. "There's a settlement to the northeast. Valmere. It's larger than Braelocke—a proper city, or what passes for one these days."

  "And you'll be there?"

  "Eventually. I have matters to attend to first." She hesitated, then reached into her satchel, withdrawing a small leather-bound journal. "This contains basic formulations and application notes. Enough to continue your practice in my absence. Guard it carefully—the Union executes those found with such knowledge."

  Regal accepted the journal, recognizing the value of what she offered. "How long?"

  "Three weeks. No more." She finished packing, slinging the satchel over her shoulder. "Look for a man named Lathim at the Broken Cog. He deals in specialized components but avoids Union attention. Tell him I sent you – he'll provide what you need to continue your practice until I arrive."

  "And if you don't show up?"

  A smile touched her lips, dry and unreadable. "Then assume I'm dead. Mourn briefly, then get back to work." She handed him the journal, fingers brushing his just a little too deliberately. "This should keep you busy until I rise from the grave."

  She made her way toward the far end of the warehouse, where a narrow passage wound between leaning crates and rusted storage racks. "One last thing, Eldain," she said without turning. "The Union isn't the only faction after Ro'Daerim tech. Watch your back. Trust no one who takes too much interest in your movements."

  "Including you?" he asked.

  She paused mid-step, half-turned toward him, one brow raised. "Especially me." Then she slipped through the corridor, not vanishing—just gone before he thought to follow.

  He secured the journal inside his coat, then checked that the Thermecine vial and Ro'Daerim fragment were safely stowed in separate pockets. The focus, too valuable to leave behind, he wrapped in a spare cloth and tucked into his pack.

  As he prepared to depart through the same exit Nessa had used, a sound from above froze him in place—the subtle creaking of weight on ancient timbers. Someone moving across the rafters with careful precision.

  The watcher had found him.

  Regal drew his knife, eyes scanning the darkness overhead. Nothing visible presented itself, yet the sensation of observation remained palpable—a presence felt rather than seen.

  A figure dropped from the rafters, landing in a crouch with unnatural silence. No sound of impact, no grunt of effort—just a soft thud that barely stirred the dust.

  He rose with deliberate grace, limbs moving too fluidly for a body so twisted. Regal froze, the sight of him igniting something old and cold in his gut.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  Gaunt. Misshapen. Skin pulled tight over asymmetric bones. Sparse tufts of gray-brown hair clung to a skull warped by time or trauma. But the eyes—those were the anchor. Amber-gold, luminous even in the gloom. Too bright. Too aware.

  "Eldain," the figure said, his voice calm, nearly melodic. "Still chasing the fire. Still blind to the smoke it leaves behind."

  Regal's knife came up instinctively. "Caelum."

  The memory returned like a punch. A containment wing. Reinforced glass. That face watching silently as Regal passed through Ossuary corridors in search of someone he hadn't dared name aloud in two years.

  He'd disabled the lock on that cell. He hadn't opened the door. But someone had. And now Caelum stood here, whole—or as close as someone like him ever got.

  Caelum's head tilted at an unnatural angle, those golden eyes never blinking. "You remember. Good. That will save time."

  "What do you want?" Regal demanded, taking a step backward. "How did you find me?"

  "Want?" Caelum repeated, as if testing the word. "An interesting concept. As for finding you—I've never lost sight of you, Eldain. Not since you broke the lock but left the door closed."

  The reference sent a chill through Regal. During his infiltration of the Ossuary, he'd bypassed the security lock on Caelum's containment cell—but hadn't opened the door. He'd been focused on someone else. Something more urgent.

  Later, as the escape unraveled, alarms had screamed through the compound—too late to change course, too late to go back. Someone else had opened that door. Freed the thing that now stood across from him.

  "You're walking into a trap in Valmere," Caelum said, his voice calm, measured. He moved with unsettling fluidity despite his malformed frame. "Lathim plays both sides. He'll greet you with technical components in one hand—and a Union contact list in the other."

  Regal's grip tightened on his knife. "Why should I believe anything you say?"

  "Belief doesn't interest me." Caelum's amber-gold eyes drifted slightly, as if tracking something just beyond the room. "I recognize patterns. Reactions. Outcomes waiting to happen. Lathim's part is already written."

  "Sounds like a long-winded way to say you're guessing."

  "Guessing is for those without data," Caelum replied, blinking slowly—for the first time since his arrival. "Union patrol. Entering this district from the north. Four soldiers. Two with hunting rifles. Two with sidearms. They'll reach this building in approximately seven minutes."

  As if on cue, distant voices carried through the broken windows—orders being shouted, the rhythmic thud of military boots on wet cobblestones.

  "A lucky guess," Regal said, though uncertainty had crept into his voice.

  "Luck is for those who can't see the signals," Caelum said, stepping closer. His gait was uneven but eerily balanced, like his body had learned to compensate in ways nature hadn't intended. "The Thermecine you're carrying—it's unstable. Your prep was competent, but the base is degrading. Use it within two weeks, or it becomes inert."

  Regal took a step back. "How the hell do you know that?"

  Caelum's head tilted slightly, expression unreadable. "I know a great many things. About compounds. About behavior. About people."

  He paused, eyes narrowing. "Including the one you pulled from the Ossuary."

  Regal's posture shifted instantly—tighter, protective. "That's none of your concern."

  "No," Caelum agreed. "But I still wonder. The patterns around her are… harder to follow. Less linear. There's noise I can't trace. That's rare."

  His eyes grew distant again, then blinked slowly—refocusing. "Rare usually means important."

  The clinical dismissal in Caelum's voice—referring to her like she was just another datapoint—ignited something sharp and immediate in Regal.

  "Say another word about her," he growled, "and I'll put you down right here."

  Caelum didn't flinch. His expression didn't shift. If anything, he looked… interested.

  "Violence," he murmured. "Still your default response. Predictable, if ineffective." He gestured toward the exit hidden behind the crates. "The patrol is now five minutes out. You may want to save your energy for something you can actually change."

  "We're not continuing anything."

  "Then enjoy your meeting with Union interrogators." Caelum turned, moving toward the exit with that unsettling fluidity. "I'll be in Valmere when you reconsider. The abandoned cathedral in Lower Valmere. Come alone, if you survive your encounter with Lathim."

  Before Regal could respond, Caelum had slipped through the door, vanishing into the gathering twilight outside. The patrol voices grew louder, now accompanied by the sound of doors being forced open nearby.

  With a muttered curse, Regal followed, emerging into an alley slick with melting ice and refuse. Caelum was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared with the same unnatural stealth that had marked his arrival.

  The journey northeast to Valmere took nearly two weeks, far longer than it should have. Late winter had surrendered to early spring in name only—the season marked by freezing rain rather than snow, turning roads to nearly impassable mud and sending icy water through every layer of clothing until it seemed Regal would never be truly dry again.

  Travel between settlements had grown more dangerous in recent months. Union checkpoints had multiplied, forcing lengthy detours through terrain that broke equipment and tested endurance. Twice, Regal encountered remains of travelers who hadn't survived the journey—picked clean by scavengers, both animal and human.

  His side wound, never fully healed from the Ossuary escape, reopened during a particularly difficult river crossing, leaving him feverish for three days. He pushed forward anyway, sleeping in abandoned structures or makeshift shelters when the weather turned too vicious to continue.

  The wound wasn't his only physical burden. Old injuries collected during two years of searching, planning, and fighting, throbbed with renewed intensity in the damp conditions. A badly healed collarbone. Three fingers that never quite straightened after being broken. The constant companion of hunger as provisions ran low and game proved scarce in the muddy landscape.

  By the time Valmere appeared on the horizon, Regal moved more by stubborn will than physical strength.

  The city announced itself first by smell—coal smoke and industrial discharge, the distinctive scent of too many bodies crowded together with inadequate sanitation. Then by sound—the distant thrum of generators, the metallic clatter of machinery, voices carrying across open ground like ghosts.

  Finally, by sight—a sprawling expanse of structures divided by the invisible but unmistakable lines of class and privilege. Lower Valmere spread across the southern and eastern sections like a stain—makeshift dwellings constructed from salvaged materials, narrow streets congested with desperate commerce and even more desperate faces. Middle Valmere occupied the central district, its buildings more substantial but showing signs of decay and neglect, a once-prosperous zone slowly succumbing to the gravitational pull of poverty.

  And Upper Valmere, perched on the northwestern rise like a statement of defiance—solid construction, electric lighting visible even in daylight, Union flags flying from administrative buildings that had survived the collapse with their dignity intact.

  Regal approached from the south, joining the flow of refugees, traders, and miscellaneous travelers seeking entry through the Lower Gate. Union soldiers conducted perfunctory inspections, more interested in collecting entry taxes than providing actual security.

  "Business?" a bored guard asked when Regal reached the checkpoint.

  "Looking for work," he answered, the standard response of those without official purpose or connections.

  The guard's eyes traveled over Regal's mud-stained clothing, lingering on the poorly concealed fever flush across his cheeks. "Entry tax is three copper pennies. If you're sick, avoid the Clean Zones. Infirmary won't take you without Union clearance."

  Regal produced the coins—among his last—and received a crude entry stamp in return, the ink still wet as he passed through the massive gates into Lower Valmere.

  The contrast between outside and inside struck him immediately. Beyond the walls, space stretched unconfined, open to horizon and sky. Within, everything compressed—narrow streets barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, buildings leaning toward each other as if sharing secrets, the press of bodies moving with the restless energy of those perpetually seeking something just beyond reach.

  The Broken Cog proved difficult to locate, tucked into a warren of similar establishments in what passed for Lower Valmere's commercial district. A narrow facade wedged between a pawn shop and a dubious medical clinic, its sign depicting a gear with several teeth missing. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scents of cheap alcohol, unwashed bodies, and something chemical that stung the nostrils.

  Regal found a seat in the corner, ordering the cheapest drink available—a cloudy concoction that tasted of industrial runoff and artificial sweetener. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior, cataloging exits and potential threats while seeking the man Nessa had named.

  The bartender, a heavyset woman with a significant facial scar, noticed his scrutiny. "Looking for someone?" she called across the half-empty room.

  "Lathim," Regal answered, seeing no benefit in subterfuge.

  The woman's expression remained neutral, but something shifted in her posture—a subtle alertness that hadn't been present before. "What's your business?"

  "Nessa sent me," he said, keeping his voice low enough to avoid carrying to other patrons.

  The bartender studied him for a long moment, then jerked her head toward a back door. "Through there. Down the stairs. Knock twice, then once."

  Regal followed her directions, descending a narrow staircase lit by a single bulb that flickered erratically. The basement corridor smelled of mildew and something metallic, reminiscent of the Thermecine but sharper, more industrial.

  He knocked as instructed.

  The door opened to reveal a makeshift workshop—tables crowded with mechanical components, vials of various substances, and instruments similar to those Nessa had used for her demonstrations. A man stood at the center of the chaos, tall and gaunt, with a shock of white hair despite a face that suggested he was only in his early forties.

  "Lathim?" Regal asked.

  The man nodded, measuring Regal with practiced assessment. "Nessa's latest project. You're early—she said three weeks." He gestured Regal inside. "And looking half-dead. Fever?"

  "I'll manage," Regal replied, entering cautiously.

  "No doubt. The ones she picks usually do." Lathim closed the door, engaging multiple locks with practiced efficiency. "What do you need? Components? Stabilizers? Raw materials?"

  The casual offer of regulated substances confirmed what Nessa had implied—Lathim operated well outside Union law, dealing in the specialized materials required for Ro'Daerim technology.

  "Information first," Regal said. "What's your connection to Nessa?"

  Lathim's laugh held no humor. "Direct. Good." He moved to a cabinet, withdrawing a bottle of clear liquid and two glasses. "We go back. Way back. Before she found the Accord, before she became whoever she is now." He poured two measures, offering one to Regal. "To old debts and new opportunities."

  Regal accepted the glass but didn't drink. "When do you expect her?"

  "That's the question, isn't it?" Lathim took a seat on a stool, studying Regal over the rim of his glass. "Nessa operates on her own timeline. Could be tomorrow, could be never." He took a sip. "In the meantime, I'm supposed to provide whatever you need for your... education."

  Caelum's warning echoed in Regal's mind. Lathim works for both sides. Welcome with one hand, betray with the other.

  "I need stabilizing agents," Regal said, deciding to test the waters. "For Thermecine maintenance."

  Lathim's expression remained unchanged, but something sharpened in his gaze. "Maintenance, is it? Not application?" He set his glass down. "Show me what you're working with."

  Regal hesitated, then produced the vial of Thermecine he'd prepared in Braelocke. If Lathim was indeed working with the Union, he'd already incriminated himself by asking for stabilizing agents. Might as well get something useful from the exchange.

  Lathim examined the vial with expert attention, holding it up to the light. "Decent work for a beginner. Balance is close to optimal, though your temperature control during preparation was inconsistent." He returned the vial. "You're right about needing stabilizers, though. This has maybe a week before degradation compromises efficacy."

  He moved to a different cabinet, retrieving a small case containing vials of various liquids. "Standard stabilizing kit. Enough for four maintenance cycles. Used properly, it will extend viability by up to a month." He placed it on the table. "Five steel holdings."

  The sum was exorbitant—far more than Regal's remaining funds. "Nessa said you'd provide what I need."

  "Provide, yes. For free? No." Lathim's smile was thin. "Even old debts have limits."

  "I can pay two steel holdings," Regal countered, though even that would leave him nearly destitute.

  Lathim considered this, head tilted in assessment. "Two holdings plus information. What exactly did you and Nessa steal from Captain Merrick?"

  The question confirmed at least part of Caelum's warning. How would Lathim know about the theft unless he had connections to those hunting them?

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Regal said evenly.

  "Don't insult my intelligence." Lathim's voice hardened. "News travels. Descriptions circulate. A man matching your appearance helped Nessa steal something valuable from a Union officer in Braelocke. I'm merely curious about the object's nature."

  "Curiosity is expensive these days."

  "So is survival." Lathim's hand moved beneath the table—not reaching for a weapon, but something else. A telegraph transmitter, perhaps. "Two steel holdings plus the nature of the stolen item, or I can't help you."

  The trap was springing closed. Regal tensed, calculating odds and angles. The distance to the door. The locks that would slow his escape. The fever that made his reactions sluggish.

  "I need to think about it," he said, buying time.

  "Take your time," Lathim replied with false generosity. "Though I should mention—Union patrols sweep this district every hour. Next one due in about..." he checked a clock on the wall, "ten minutes. Wouldn't want them catching you with unstabilized Thermecine. Penalties are severe."

  Before Regal could respond, a commotion erupted from upstairs—raised voices, something heavy falling. Lathim's expression shifted from smug confidence to wary alert.

  "Stay here," he ordered, moving toward the door.

  The moment Lathim's back turned, Regal lunged, not for escape but for the case of stabilizing agents on the table. His fingers closed around it just as Lathim spun back, reaching for something in his coat.

  Too slow. Regal's fist connected with Lathim's jaw, sending the older man staggering backward into a shelf of components that collapsed under his weight. Glass shattered, liquids mixing in potentially volatile combinations.

  Regal bolted for the door, yanking it open just as Lathim recovered enough to shout, "Union! Down here! Thermecine!"

  The corridor beyond was no longer empty. Three Union soldiers in standard red coats blocked the narrow passage, weapons drawn. Behind them, the bartender watched with the impassive expression of someone who'd seen this script play out many times before.

  "On the ground! Now!" the lead soldier ordered, rifle aimed squarely at Regal's chest.

  Regal assessed options that ranged from poor to suicidal. Fighting three armed soldiers in a confined space while feverish and weakened? Unlikely to succeed. Surrendering and hoping for leniency? Equally improbable given what he carried.

  He chose option three—reckless improvisation.

  With a desperate lunge, he charged the soldiers, shoulder lowered like a battering ram. The unexpectedness of the move created a moment's hesitation—just enough for him to slam into the lead soldier, driving him backward into his companions. All four went down in a tangle of limbs and curses.

  Regal scrambled over them, ignoring the pain that flared through his reopened side wound. He made it halfway up the stairs before a hand caught his ankle, yanking him backward. His chin struck the edge of a step, stars exploding across his vision as his teeth clacked together with teeth-rattling force.

  A fist connected with his kidney. Another with his jaw. Someone's knee drove into his wounded side, sending white-hot agony lancing through him. Regal fought with desperate intensity, landing solid blows that would have incapacitated fresher opponents. But three against one, with fever sapping his strength, proved insurmountable odds.

  A final blow to the temple sent him spiraling into semi-consciousness. Through the haze, he felt hands rifling through his pockets, taking the coin purse, the vial of Thermecine, the journal Nessa had given him.

  "Thermecine confirmed, sir," a voice reported. "Class three violation."

  "That's automatic detention," another replied. "Processing at central."

  "Wait." A new voice, carrying authority. "Let me see him."

  Rough hands turned Regal onto his back. Through swollen eyes, he made out the insignia of a Union lieutenant on the uniform of the man crouching beside him.

  "This one's half-dead already," the officer observed. "Fever, prior injuries. Won't survive processing."

  "Regulations say—" the first soldier began.

  "I know the regulations." The lieutenant cut him off. "We also have discretion in certain cases. This one's not worth the paperwork." He stood, brushing dust from his uniform. "Take what he's carrying, leave him where he falls. Nature will handle the rest."

  "Sir, he assaulted Union personnel," the second soldier protested.

  "And received appropriate response," the lieutenant replied coldly. "He won't make that mistake again, assuming he survives the night. Besides," he added, examining the vial of Thermecine, "this is the more valuable capture. Command will be more interested in the source than the courier."

  Regal felt the stabilizing kit being pried from his fingers, heard the sound of boots on stairs as the soldiers departed. The lieutenant paused beside him, crouching once more.

  "Consider this mercy," he said quietly. "Though if I see you again, there won't be a second chance."

  Then he was gone, leaving Regal bleeding on the staircase, stripped of everything valuable he possessed. Everything except the most important items—the Ro'Daerim fragment and focus, hidden in specially sewn compartments in his coat that the hasty search had missed.

  Some time later—minutes or hours, he couldn't tell—Regal dragged himself upright, using the wall for support. His body screamed protest at every movement, but he forced himself to climb the remaining stairs, emerging into the bar to find it empty save for the bartender, who watched his painful progress with detached interest.

  "You survived," she observed. "Impressive."

  Regal spat blood onto the floor. "Your establishment has customer service issues."

  A sound escaped her that might have been a laugh. "Lathim catches more flies for the Union than their own traps. You're lucky the lieutenant was feeling generous."

  "Where is Lathim now?"

  "Gone. He never sticks around for the aftermath." She approached, offering a rag soaked in something that smelled strongly of alcohol. "For your face. You look like hell."

  Regal accepted it, wincing as the liquid found open cuts. "Why help now?"

  "Professional courtesy. And I don't like Lathim's methods." She studied him with unexpected intensity. "When Nessa arrives, tell her Maeve says the debt is settled. She'll understand."

  Regal filed the name away for future reference. "When will that be?"

  "Who knows? Nessa's like the weather—she shows up when she shows up, and there's no predicting which way the wind blows." The bartender—Maeve—gestured toward the door. "Now go. Union will be back for a second look once they process what they found. You don't want to be here."

  Regal staggered into the street, the cold drizzle a bitter relief against his swollen face. Night had fallen during his ordeal, transforming Lower Valmere into a maze of shadows broken by occasional lamps burning low to conserve fuel. The few people still moving through the streets gave him a wide berth, recognizing the aftermath of violence when they saw it.

  With no coin for lodging and no allies in an unfamiliar city, Regal's options had narrowed to one—the abandoned cathedral Caelum had mentioned. Assuming it wasn't another trap.

  He moved through the rain-slick streets, each step a negotiation with pain and exhaustion. The cathedral wasn't difficult to find, its broken spires visible even in the gloom, rising above the surrounding structures like accusing fingers pointed at an indifferent sky.

  Once grand, the building had fallen to ruin during the collapse—its windows shattered, its doors hanging from broken hinges, its interior open to the elements that had begun the slow process of reclamation. Graffiti marked its exterior walls, some political, some obscene, all expressing the rage of those abandoned by systems that had once provided meaning.

  Regal entered through a side door, finding the interior surprisingly dry despite the building's decrepit state. The roof, though damaged, still provided shelter from the worst of the weather.

  The former nave now served as temporary shelter for those with nowhere else to go. Small camps had been established between broken pews, marked by blankets, makeshift bedding, and the occasional low-burning lantern. A few occupants looked up at his entrance, but most paid no attention—another damaged soul seeking refuge was hardly noteworthy.

  He found an unoccupied corner beneath what had once been an ornate altarpiece, now stripped of anything valuable or portable. Sinking to the floor, back against the wall for security, Regal took stock of his situation.

  No Thermecine. No stabilizing agents. No coin. Injuries that would slow recovery and limit mobility. In an unfamiliar city with active Union presence and no confirmed allies.

  All that remained were the fragment and focus—powerful tools rendered temporarily useless without the catalyst needed to activate them.

  As the fever surged again—flashes of heat chased by bone-deep chills—Regal's thoughts drifted to what he'd lost beyond blood and bruises. Two years chasing shadows through corridors of steel and silence, only to find someone barely holding on. The escape had left scars on both of them—some visible, most not.

  Now, he was all that remained of what once was. The last thread of memory, the only barrier between Shori Ashford and the reckoning she deserved.

  The rain intensified outside, drumming against broken windows and damaged roofing. Inside, water found its way through compromised ceilings, creating a symphony of drips that echoed through the vast space. A fitting accompaniment to failure.

  Regal let his eyes close, surrendering to the weight of exhaustion. His final thought drifted to two pairs of golden eyes—one filled with questions, the other with answers Regal didn't want.

  When consciousness returned, the quality of light had changed—gray daylight filtering through broken stained glass, casting fractured patterns across the worn stone floor. The rain had stopped, but the pervasive dampness remained, seeping into clothing and skin with the persistence of a geological process.

  "Finally awake," Caelum said from nearby, his voice dry with observation, not concern. "I calculated an eighty-three percent probability you wouldn't survive the night. Always interesting when outliers persist."

  Regal turned his head slowly, every joint in his neck and shoulders protesting from the cold floor and crooked posture. Caelum sat cross-legged on a broken pew, watching with those unblinking amber-gold eyes.

  "What do you want?" Regal croaked, his throat raw with thirst and fever.

  Caelum tilted his head—not curious, more like calibrating. "Want implies discretionary action. I don't operate on desire. I run on need, risk, and probability."

  "Then what do you need from me?"

  "Partnership," Caelum said, as if it were a math solution. "You require a stable catalyst to activate your Ro'Daerim fragment. I require protection while acquiring it. For now, our purposes intersect."

  Regal struggled to sit upright, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his abused body. "Why would I trust you?"

  "Trust is irrelevant. I informed you about Lathim. You verified my information through painful experience." Caelum's expression shifted into something approximating amusement. "Your alternative options approach zero. Current trajectory without intervention leads to death within seven days from infection, exposure, or Union detention."

  The clinical assessment matched Regal's own. Without resources or allies in Valmere, his chances of recovery, let alone continuing his mission, were minimal.

  "What catalyst?" he asked finally. "Where?"

  "Union research facility. Northeastern district. Middle Valmere adjacent to Upper." Caelum rose with that unsettling fluidity that belied his twisted form. "Secondary storage for materials deemed useful but not critical. Security accordingly moderate rather than maximum."

  "When?"

  "Tonight. Probability of success highest during shift change. 2300 hours." Caelum approached, producing a small vial from within his ragged clothing. "For your fever. Antibiotics with mild analgesic properties. Stolen from Union supplies yesterday in anticipation of your condition."

  Regal accepted the vial cautiously. "You knew I'd agree."

  "I mapped probabilities," Caelum said. "This outcome ranked highest."

  His golden eyes lingered on Regal—measured, detached. "You keep moving because the alternative is worse. Stopping would mean accepting that what you lost… stayed lost. That kind of psychological inertia creates highly predictable behavior."

  The observation struck too close to truths Regal preferred not to examine. "You know nothing about what I have done or what I gave up."

  "Incorrect. I know everything about what you endured and Subject 437-A," Caelum said, the Ossuary designation landing like a hammer between them. "I was in the adjacent cell. I heard the procedures. Saw the schedules. Watched the extractions."

  Regal lurched forward despite his injuries, a surge of adrenaline momentarily masking the pain. His forearm connected with Caelum's chest, pinning him against the wall with surprising strength.

  "She's not a number," he snarled through clenched teeth. "Not a file. Not a subject."

  Caelum didn't resist. His golden eyes never blinked, never shifted. "Anger. Predictable. Unhelpful." His voice remained eerily calm, even under pressure. "I meant no insult. I use the terms they used. It's the framework I was given."

  Regal's grip held for a long moment before he released him, breath ragged, rage giving way to the dull weight of exhaustion.

  "What were they doing to her?" he asked finally, voice quieter.

  "To all of us," Caelum corrected, rubbing his throat. "They were extracting anomalies—genetic traits altered by Ro'Daerim radiation. Some of us were born with it. Others... changed later. The Union catalogued every deviation. Anything useful was flagged for retention. Everything else was discarded."

  "Useful how?"

  "Weaponization of human potential," Caelum replied simply, moving to retrieve a worn satchel from beneath a shattered pew. "But the specifics exceed our current timeline. Rest. Take the medication. If you're going to survive tonight, you'll need more than fury."

  He placed the satchel beside Regal. "Food. Water. Clean bandages. Probability of success increases 27% if your condition improves before infiltration."

  With that, he moved toward the cathedral entrance, pausing at the threshold. "I'll return at sunset. Be ready."

  Then he was gone, leaving Regal with the satchel, the medication, and questions that multiplied rather than diminished with each new piece of information.

  Human potential. Genetic anomalies. Golden eyes the Union had taken far too much interest in.

  And Caelum—twisted in form but unnervingly precise, calculating outcomes before they unfolded. What connected them? What had the Ossuary been trying to harness?

  Regal uncapped the vial and drank, ignoring his instinct to second-guess. If Caelum had meant him harm, there were easier ways. The liquid was bitter, earthy—more herbal than synthetic. Familiar in a way that surprised him.

  The satchel contained exactly what Caelum had promised: water, rations, basic medical supplies. Enough to stabilize him—maybe enough to push through whatever came next.

  As he cleaned and rebandaged his side, Regal's thoughts returned to the Ro'Daerim fragment tucked safely in his coat. Without Thermecine, it was dormant. Latent energy. Untapped potential.

  If Caelum was right, that would change tonight. One step closer to Shori Ashford. One step closer to the truth he'd been chasing since the night everything was set ablaze.

  Outside, the rain returned, tapping steadily against broken glass. Inside, Regal Eldain prepared for another night of infiltration and risk—driven not by revenge, but by something colder. Sharper.

  A promise made to someone the world had tried to erase. The only debt that still mattered.