Chapter 45
Lumiferous Aetherum
When Mags finally woke, she expected agony. She braced herself for a symphony of pain—a chorus of bruises, cracked ribs, and muscles torn to shreds. But what greeted her was something different. The aches were there, of course, like a dull thrum under her skin, but they were overshadowed by something far simpler: thirst. Her throat was a desert, her stomach a hollow cavern gnawing at itself. She swallowed, her tongue scraping against the roof of her mouth, and blinked against the soft amber glow of lamplight.
The ceiling above her was smooth, polished wooded beams that seemed to glow softly like captured sunlight. A chuckle might have escaped her lips if her throat weren’t so raw. She had woken up in this same bed, looking at this same now-familiar ceiling not too long ago. She was in her room aboard Skithbladnir, the Ghost Hound’s Soulship. She closed her eyes again for a brief moment, taking in the soft, steady vibration of the airship, and the faint scent of ozone. Instinctively, she reached out with her aether senses, drawing in trace amounts of the ambient aether in the air. The cool rush of the energy flooded her veins like dousing her face in frigid water.
“How…?” she murmured, her voice rasping like dry parchment.
Her attempt to sit up was met with a firm, melodic reprimand. “Ah, ah. Easy now,” came a voice like honeyed wine, rich and warm with just a hint of a long forgotten song.
Turning her head, she saw Rubicante seated beside her, legs crossed with practiced elegance. A small, leather-bound book rested in his lap, one finger marking the page he’d abandoned. In his other hand, he cradled a porcelain teacup, tendrils of steam curling up like ghosts in the lamplight.
“Good to see you awake,” he said with a smile that was equal parts amusement and relief. “You had us worried for a moment there.”
Mags blinked at him, trying to piece together the fragments of memory that danced just out of reach. The fight. Malacoda. The Angel. It all felt distant, like a dream half-forgotten upon waking. But that wasn’t a dream. “What…?” she began, but her throat tightened, silencing her.
Rubicante set his tea down with a soft clink and reached for the carafe of water on the table beside her bed. He poured with careful precision, filling a tall glass. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her.
She took it with trembling hands and drank deeply. The water was cool and crisp, and it flowed through her like a balm, easing the dryness in her throat. She drained the glass in one go and handed it back to him with a grateful nod.
“Where . . . why are we on Skithbladnir?” she managed, her voice steadier now. “How long?”
Rubicante leaned back in his chair, his book still balanced in his lap. “You’ve been out for a little over a day,” he said. “We couldn’t wait much longer. Our schedule for getting you to Wrifton before Brightwash’s entrance ceremony doesn’t leave a lot of time for delays and detours, unfortunately.”
Mags frowned. Brightwash, she thought. How could I forget we were planning on departing from Bijel Garden shortly after my tests were complete? “What happened after…?”
Rubicante’s lips curled into a knowing smile. With a long, skinny finger he placed a ribbon into the page of his book and closed it. “That,” he said, “is a story better told by Madame Frey Sarto. She and Malacoda will want to speak with you soon, now that you’re awake. There are still things that need to be discussed before we arrive at Wrifton.”
Mags shifted under the blanket, her muscles protesting the movement. “I don’t feel as bad as I thought I would,” she admitted.
“You can thank Scarmiglione for that,” Rubicante said, inclining his head. “He is a frustrating individual, but Madame Sarto keeps him around for a reason. His ability to reconstruct the human body after it’s been shattered is unparalleled. You should be able to get back on your feet, though I would recommend easing into it.” He stood, smoothing out the front of his beige kaftan, and picked up his teacup and book. “Once you are up, you can find Malacoda and Madame Sarto. In the meantime, rest. You have earned it, Mags.”
She watched him as he made his way to the door, his movements graceful and unhurried. “Rubicante,” she called softly.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
His smile widened, and he gave her a slight bow, one hand pressed theatrically to his chest. “The pleasure is mine, dear Mags.”
And with that, he left, the door clicking softly shut behind him. Alone now, Mags let her head sink back into the pillow, her thoughts a swirling storm of questions. Memories of her fight with Malacoda—more like impressions—still swirled through her head. The power she had accessed, that she had seized from the Angel—Enoch—seemed so distant. With a mental command, she accessed Yggdrasil.
[Access Granted: Yggdrasil]
[Soulsinger Designation: Magdalena]
[Class: Angelic Host (Type: N/A)]
That’s strange, she thought. She’d sworn that in the middle of the battle she had received a notification of a class change. A Type had been assigned to her Angelic Host Class. She tried focusing her intent on recalling prior information, but the silver text floating in her vision didn’t change.
“I guess that’s something I’ll need to dig into a little later,” she murmured.
Her stomach audibly growled in agreement. First thing’s first, I need to find something to eat.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the cool wood of the floor grounding her as she steadied herself. Her body ached, but it was a far cry from the unbearable pain she’d braced for. It was more like the soreness she felt after a grueling training session with Malacoda. She glanced down at herself—clean tunic and pants, her usual travel wear, though softer and smelling faintly of lavender. Someone had cleaned her up while she’d been unconscious, and for that, she was silently grateful. She patted the front of her right pocket, feeling the small marble-like Aether-bound Pocket there.
Her gaze swept the room, settling on the corner where Mithra stood propped against the wall. Relief washed over her at the sight of the Ivaldi blade’s jet black surface. Whatever else had happened, at least she wasn’t without her weapon.
Her feet hit the floor, bare against the cool planks. No shoes in sight, but she didn’t care. She flexed her toes, the simplicity of the sensation a strange comfort, and stood, her knees wobbling for only a moment before they steadied. She slinked over to Mithra, curling her fingers around the comforting grip of the sword’s hilt. With a mental command, she summoned her Pocket. A window of silver script appeared in her vision, outlining her small inventory: the Hag’s Eye and a couple of essentials. She withdrew Mithra into her inventory, the blade vanishing in thin air as it was deposited into the Pocket. With another blink, she dismissed her Pocket and left her room.
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The corridors of Skithbladnir greeted her with the low hum of the Soulship’s inner workings and the faint sway of the ship cutting through the skies. It had been a long time since she’d last walked these halls, and the familiarity of it all hit her like a wave. The polished brass railings, the faint scent of oil and cedar, the occasional patch of sunlight spilling through portholes—it was a homecoming of sorts, though bittersweet. This isn’t your new home, Mags, it’s just your transport. She had to remind herself that she was just a useful tool in their plan, and they would be dumping her soon—straight into the snakes nest.
Her stomach growled, louder than she’d have liked, and she took it as a sign. Yeah, yeah, I’m on it: mess hall!
The mess hall was bustling but not crowded. A handful of crew members sat at long wooden tables, plates and mugs scattered as they talked or laughed. Mags scanned the room until her eyes landed on Alichino, seated at the center of a lively group. The giant man’s red beard glowed like fire under the golden lamplight, his cheeks flushed and round like two polished apples. He noticed her and waved her over with an exuberance that felt like a splash of warmth on a cold morning.
“Mags!” he bellowed, his voice booming over the chatter. “Come on, lass, don’t be shy!”
She approached, and the table shifted to make room. Alichino patted the bench beside him, and she slid in. The others at the table—a mix of men and women, some wearing patched uniforms, others plain tunics—watched her with a mixture of curiosity and something sharper, something she recognized all too well.
Fear.
She didn’t blame them. Details of her fight with Malacoda had probably made its way through the crew at this point. She ignored their wary glances and focused on the food laid out before her. A pot of black rice stew sat steaming at the end of the table, its savory aroma making her stomach churn with hunger. She grabbed a bowl, filled it with stew, added a hunk of crusty bread, and dug in.
The first bite was heaven—a perfect mix of rich, spiced broth and tender fish. The bread, slathered with butter, was warm and crackled as she tore into it. She devoured the meal quickly, her focus split between the food and the card game the others were playing. Alichino, for his part, seemed entirely unbothered by her presence, laughing and ribbing his companions as though she were just another face at the table.
“Play a hand, Mags?” he offered, sliding a pile of mismatched cards toward her.
She shook her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Maybe next time.”
He nodded, his eyes crinkling with understanding. “Suit yourself.”
She refilled her bowl, barely pausing to breathe between bites of her second helping. The conversation and laughter swirled around her, but the glances never stopped. She felt them like pinpricks against her skin—furtive, nervous. Only Alichino seemed immune, his wide grin and easy nature filling the space where others’ unease lingered.
When her bowl was empty again, she set it aside and stood. “Thanks for letting me join,” she said, nodding to the table. Her voice was steady, but she didn’t meet their eyes.
Alichino gave her a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Always welcome!”
Mags offered him a faint smile, then turned and left the mess hall, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. As she walked, she felt the weight of those glances fade but not entirely disappear. She had been many things in her life, but someone to fear? That was new.
It wasn’t a feeling she was sure she liked.
----------------------------------------
The air on the deck was cool, almost soothing against Mags’ skin, but the view stole her attention entirely. The sunset painted the sky in fiery streaks of orange, pink, and red, blending at the edges like spilled paint on water. Below, the land stretched wide and varied—patches of forest giving way to rolling hills and winding rivers. Skithbladnir cut through the air like a regal predator, its shadow sprawling across the terrain far below.
Mags leaned on the banister, resting her forearms against the polished brass rail. Her eyes caught a haze on the horizon, a swirling mist of reds, yellows, and pale white. It roiled upward, lazy yet persistent, like the smoke from spent aether firearms. As they drew closer, the haze resolved into its source—a cluster of massive, domed buildings of stone and metal. Turrets jutted from the rooftops, exhaling steady plumes of smoke. Bridges crisscrossed the space between structures, delicate and intricate against the massive domes.
“Aetherum Factory,” said a voice from behind her.
She turned her head to find Libicocco, the tall, bespectacled woman stepped beside Mags. She stood with her hands in her coat pockets, her expression thoughtful, almost wistful.
Mags returned her gaze to the factories. Libicocco had briefly covered them in her expansive lessons. “Is this where they produce aetheric firearms then?”
Libicocco stepped closer, leaning on the rail beside her. “Lumiferous Aetherum,” she said. “It’s a concentrated form of aether—extremely potent. These factories are works of Artificery genius, you know. They draw aether from the air itself, much like a Soulsinger would to produce the substance. Not nearly as efficiently, of course, but it’s enough to fuel the Empire’s machines and, yes, to create the charges used in aetheric firearms. Though, the charges and firearms aren’t produced at the same facilities.”
The buildings came into sharper view as the ship drifted closer. The plumes of smoke seemed alive, shifting with a mind of their own as they climbed skyward. Mags studied the sprawling complex, the smoke rising from chimneys like industrial pyres.
“There is nothing else in sight—no town, or villages,” she observed. “Why is this factory in the middle of no where?”
“Lumiferous Aetherum is highly volatile, especially during its production. If something were to go wrong, the factory could self-destruct and any town close enough wouldn’t survive.”
“That’s a pleasant thought. . .”
Libicocco nodded her head towards the domed buildings. “Those there? Older factories. We’re in Uruth now. This whole region’s full of relics like that. But the real marvels are in Valhadryan. Factories there don’t just pull trace aether from the air—they process concentrated aether sap harvested from the Green Sea.” She trailed off, shaking her head. “The amount of Lumiferous Aetherum that can be pulled from the Green Sea can’t be fathomed. A fraction of what the Empire mines from that forest powers nearly all the airships in the world.”
Mags frowned. “And power all the Empire’s weapons.”
“And run entire cities.”
“Yes, I suppose that too.”
“Lumiferous Aetherum. You know, the material kind of reminds me of you.”
“Me?”
“Mm.” Libicocco’s gaze lingered on the horizon, her voice softening. “Highly concentrated power. Dangerous. Volatile. But when it’s tempered, when it’s used just right . . .” She looked at Mags then, her stern, typical frown softening slightly. “It can change the world.”
Mags didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. Her grip tightened on the banister, the smooth wood cool and firm beneath her palms. She looked back at the factories, their looming forms dwarfed by the smoky haze.
Libicocco’s tone shifted, giving way to something more serious. “I saw what you did back there. During your fight with Malacoda. I saw what you became.”
The words hung in the air between them. Mags’ chest tightened. “And?”
“And . . .” Libicocco sighed, turning to face her fully. “Most of us thought you had lost control. Even Malacoda, though he’d never admit it. And until the very end, it seemed like you did lose control. You were just another Maldrath. After the fight, we weren’t sure. Malacoda, though. . . He argued for you. Told Sarto he recognized your control. That you took control back and ended the fight not as an Angel, but as Mags. He said it was one of the most impressive displays of control he’d ever witnessed.”
Mags blinked, surprised. “Malacoda said that?”
“Mm-hm. Don’t let it go to your head, though. He’s still a pompous ass.” Libicocco’s grin was brief, fading as quickly as it appeared. “Sarto and Malacoda will explain more soon, but there’s something you need to understand before we reach Wrifton.”
Mags raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“When you fully transformed into an Angel,” Libicocco said, her voice low, “it was like a beacon. The aura you give off—it’s unmistakable. Anyone with even a lick of aether sensitivity will know exactly what you are. And in Wrifton, you’ll be surrounded by Soulsingers. Powerful ones. So, you’ll need to limit yourself.”
Mags swallowed, the weight of the warning settling over her. “I won’t be able to use my powers?”
“I’m saying you shouldn’t. At least not the power you showed during the end of that fight.” Libicocco shook her head. “The threads of Fate are coiling tightly around you, and maybe this is all just a futile attempt for me to stem tides that are already shifting.”
Mags clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. “Great,” she muttered. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not even sure yet if I can do that again. Transform. There’s still so much I don’t know.”
“That’s why I’m telling you this . . . and I know Sarto and Malacoda will be telling you the same, but I felt like I needed to say this myself. Brightwash is built to push its Soulsingers to their limits, to do exactly what Malacoda tried to do: break you, rebuild you stronger than you were before, repeat.”
Mags turned her hard stare onto her instructor.
Libicocco continued, “It’s more important for you, more than any other student. Don’t let them break you.”