Chapter 27

Puzzle II

Mags sat on the cold metal table, her legs dangling just above the floor. The room around her was a stark contrast to the bustling life outside—here, below deck, in what Mags understood to be Skithbladnir’s infirmary, everything was sterile, silent. The walls were bare metal, gleaming under the harsh, white light of the crystal that buzzed faintly overhead. The air had a chemical smell—the sharp, medicinal scent biting at her nose. She clenched her good hand into a fist, glancing down at the other, which now lay swollen, twisted and useless in her lap.

Across from her, Scarmiglione sat hunched over on a small, leather stool perched on four small wheels. His masked face betrayed nothing—the black side of the mask gleamed in the strange white light of the room. At his side was a small table, atop which sat a metal tray holding a variety of instruments. Scarmiglione was rearranging them, adjusting the order and position of each metallic tool with deliberate and precise motions.

Finally, he stopped, apparently satisfied. His neck drooped, staring down at her wrecked hand before the mask looked back at her face. His head tilted to the side, as though barely attached to his shoulders. “Your hand appears to be broken.”

She had been in the infirmary for at least fifteen minutes. “Yes, I can see that!” Please tell me this man is an actual doctor!

“How fascinating, I can see several complex fractures,” he said, his voice high and scratchy. “What beautiful bruising. . .” The masked man’s voice suddenly dropped into a deep, guttural tone.

Mags gulped, eyeing the door behind Scarmiglione’s shoulder. She hoped she wouldn’t have to break her other hand too.

“And how did you do it?” he asked, voice plummy again.

Mags swallowed, her throat dry. “I . . . I punched someone.”

Scarmiglione didn’t respond right away, simply staring at her—or at least, she thought he was. The mask made it impossible to tell.

“I see,” he finally said, the words drawn out in a long, rasping breath. Then, after a pause, “Hard?”

Mags bit her lip, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “Yeah,” she said. “Pretty hard.” What’s this guy’s deal?

For a moment, there was silence. Then, to her surprise, Scarmiglione broke out into laughter—an eerie, echoing sound that filled the small infirmary. It was the kind of laugh that set her teeth on edge, like the creak of a door swinging in the wind, each breath coming out in rasping, unnatural fits.

“Ahh, the folly of youth,” he mused, his voice softening again into that strange, hollow tone. “I remember those days. Galivanting across cities by night, punching strangers, stealing children’s sweets, riding away on the city guards’ favorite garuda . . . To be young again!”

“What are you talking about?” Stealing sweets? Malacoda’s dislike of the masked man was making more and more sense. Scarmiglione was absolutely insane. She thought of what Calcabrina said about aether rot and Scarmiglione’s rumored origin, an escapee from Tartarus.

He wheeled closer, looming over her now despite his short stature, his gloved fingers—long and skeletal—reaching toward her injured hand. “Let me take a look at this little mess you’ve made of yourself.”

Mags held her breath as Scarmiglione took her hand, his touch cold as iron. He raised it, turning it this way and that, his head cocking curiously as he examined the bruised, broken skin. Her heart pounded as his masked face hovered inches from her hand.

“You know,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper now, “fixing this will only take a moment. But it may not feel . . . pleasant.” There was a strange, almost teasing lilt to his words. The word ‘pleasant’ was said in that strange, guttural voice of his.

Before Mags could respond, he held her hand up to his face. The room dimmed instantly, the sterile lights emitting from the ceiling crystal flickering once, then fading until only a dim, ghostly glow remained. A coldness swept through the air, like a winter’s breath, sinking deep into her bones. The sensation was followed by something far worse—her hand tingled, at first faintly, then growing into a jarring, electric pulse that shot up her arm.

She gasped, trying to jerk her hand away, but Scarmiglione’s grip was a vice, steady and unyielding. The pulse intensified, her hand trembling as if alive with energy. And then, all at once, it changed—the tingling was replaced by a burning sensation that consumed her entire hand.

Mags watched, horrified, as her hand began to mend. The broken bones shifted, snapping back into place, bruised skin smoothing over as if time itself was reversing. She could hardly breathe, her mind reeling from the impossible sight. It took only moments, but it felt like an eternity.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the coldness vanished. The room brightened again, the sterile white light flooding back in, and warmth crept over her skin once more.

“There you go,” Scarmiglione said, his voice bright, cheerful even. “All done!”

Mags flexed her fingers, slowly at first, then more confidently. Her hand—her once shattered, throbbing hand—felt completely normal. Better than normal. She blinked, staring at it, half-expecting it to fall apart the moment she moved it.

But it didn’t. It worked. The pain was gone.

“What did you do?. . .” she muttered, flexing her hand again cautiously.

She looked up at Scarmiglione, who was already turning back to his instruments, seemingly uninterested now that his work was finished. “You’ll want to be careful with that hand in the future,” he said, almost absently. “Though I’m sure you’ll find new ways to break it.”

Mags slid off the table, her feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud. “Thank you,” she said, though the words felt odd leaving her lips.

Scarmiglione waved a hand dismissively, not even turning to look at her. “Run along, girl. There are always more bones to break, after all. Just don’t go giving any of those broken bones to anyone other than me. I’ve called dibs.”

She hesitated for a moment, staring at his back, before turning toward the door. As she stepped out into the dim corridor, she flexed her hand again, marveling at how it felt—whole, powerful, as if nothing had happened.

But something had happened. She had felt the power, that surge of aether, and now, she could still feel it lingering at the edges of her consciousness.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

Mags sat cross-legged on the floor of her cabin aboard Skithbladnir, the Daedalus Orb resting gently in her lap. The light filtering in through the narrow window was dim, casting the room in a pale, amber glow. She could hear the distant sounds of the crew moving about the deck above, but here, it was quiet. The faint hum of the ship’s engines provided a low, steady rhythm, a pulse that matched her own heartbeat.

Her mind, however, was elsewhere.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the fight with those thugs. It had been over as quickly as it started. The way her body had moved, the way power had flowed through her in that single, explosive moment when her fist connected with the thug’s jaw. She had felt it—aether. The raw, volatile energy, burning like a sea of fire beneath her skin, filling her with strength she hadn’t known was possible. But more than that, it had been intentional, if only for a fleeting moment.

She glanced down at her hand, flexing her fingers. The same hand Scarmiglione had mended now felt . . . different. More alive, somehow. As if that power still lingered, waiting to be summoned again.

Her gaze drifted to the Daedalus Orb. Malacoda’s words echoed in her mind. The orb has its own aetheric field. That’s what he had told her. That’s when she realized what she had been doing wrong that entire time. She had been mistakenly focusing solely on the orb. Instead, she was meant to focus on herself, drawing from the orb’s aetheric field.

Mags took a deep breath, steadying herself. She rested her hands on either side of the orb, feeling the cool, glass-like surface under her palms. It looked inert, just a simple sphere, but she knew better. The orb was brimming with potential, its aetheric field there, waiting to be channeled, like a current of wind she had yet to harness.

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Stop focusing on the orb, she told herself. Focus on yourself.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, feeling the slow rise and fall of her chest. She centered her thoughts, pushing away the distractions, the noise of the ship, the lingering tension in her muscles. She reached out—not with her hands, but with her mind—toward the aether that surrounded the orb, the invisible field that Malacoda had described.

At first, there was nothing. Just the dull thrum of the ship beneath her. But then, as she focused inward, something shifted. She felt it—a faint, pulsing energy, like the thinnest strand of silk brushing against her skin. It was weak, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

Her heart quickened. This is it, she thought, excitement flaring in her chest. This is how it felt in the alleyway.

Slowly, she drew that energy inward, pulling the aether into herself, just as she had in the alley. It was like taking in a sharp breath of air. The sensation was subtle at first, filling her body, lighting up her senses. Her skin tingled, and her heart pounded harder. She felt alive, like her veins were coursing with liquid fire. She had channeled aether for the second time in her life, and—for a first, under her own control. She was feeling her own aura, produced by the channeling of the orb’s aetheric field.

Okay, Mags. Now, just channel that aether into your hands, like before. But into the orb, and no broken bones.

She focused her intent, through her hands, and into the Daedalus Orb.

The Daedalus Orb began to react.

A faint glow spread across its surface, tendrils of light unfurling like frost on a windowpane. A small, spiral-shaped symbol formed on its surface, between her two thumbs, pulsing with a soft blue light. Mags watched in awe as the symbol danced in place on the surface of the orb. The orb was alive with energy, responding to her, feeding off the aura she was channeling. It was as though she and the orb were creating a feedback loop of aether and aura.

She could feel it now—her aura. It was like a second skin, a shimmering field of energy that surrounded her, crackling with raw potential. She focused it, pulling the power inward, directing it toward the orb, willing it to respond.

Another symbol appeared on the opposite side of the orb, this one a square, its edges glowing faintly. The two symbols pulsed in unison, growing brighter with each beat of her heart.

Mags smiled, a thrill rushing through her. It’s working.

She pushed harder, pulling more aether from the orb’s field, channeling it through her body, then letting the resulting aura flow into her hands and back into the orb. The symbols brightened, their glow now almost blinding. She could feel the energy building, a rising crescendo of power.

But then, something shifted.

The spiral flickered. For a split second, the light dimmed, faltering, and then both symbols vanished in an instant, leaving the orb dull and inert once more.

Mags gasped, her breath coming in ragged pulls. The aetheric energy she had sensed before faded, leaving her feeling drained, as if all the power had been ripped from her in a single moment.

For a long while, she simply sat there, staring at the lifeless orb. The thrill of success was tempered by frustration. She had been so close—she had felt it. Perhaps that was what the orb is meant to do, and I’ve succeeded? But something had gone wrong. She had pushed too hard, or maybe too fast. Her gut told her she only had the first piece to the puzzle that was the Daedalus Orb.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Of course it wouldn’t be that easy,” she muttered under her breath.

But despite the setback, Mags couldn’t help but feel exhilarated. She had made progress—real progress. The Daedalus Orb had responded to her, her aura. And though the symbols had faded, she had seen them, felt them.

She was on the right path.

Mags stood up, cradling the orb in her hands. She would try again. And again. Until she figured out whatever the next step was.

The door to her cabin creaked open, and Calcabrina stepped in, her arms full of neatly folded clothes and colorful boxes. “You’re still here? I thought I’d find you wandering the ship by now,” she said, tossing the bundle onto the bed. “You’ll be happy to know your new wardrobe is officially ready.”

Mags glanced at the clothes, but her mind was still on the orb. “Thanks,” she said, her voice distant.

Calcabrina tilted her head, noticing the orb in Mags’ hands. “Still trying with that thing?”

Mags nodded. “I think I’m getting closer.”

Calcabrina smirked. “Good. Maybe one day, you’ll be able to force Malacoda to get off his lazy ass and teach you some magic.”

Mags grinned, the fire of determination sparking again. “I intend to.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

Because they were only docked in Perun for a single night, Mags had been informed that the entire crew would be having dinner together in town that evening.

The tavern of choice was a total dive—low ceilings, smoke-stained rafters, and a stench that clung to everything. A mix of sweat, spilled ale, and something sour Mags didn’t care to name. But for the Ghost Hounds intention, it was perfect.

The Ghost Hounds had descended on the Round Toad like an invading army. The crew had settled into the place like they owned it, spreading out across tables, filling the room with raucous laughter and the sound of instruments that seemed to appear out of nowhere in the hands of several of the Company’s members.

Mags sat wedged between Calcabrina and Rubicante at a table that seemed to buckle under the weight of the Ghost Hounds and their appetites. Across from her, Libicocco and Malacoda were already deep into their tankards, ale sloshing over the sides as Malacoda shouted half-remembered songs and beat time on the scarred wood of the table and Libicocco yelling at him to not spill any of his ale on her.

The servers didn’t stand a chance. They bustled about, trying to keep pace with the constant demands for more food, more drink, more everything. Platters of steaming meat and bread, thick stews, and pies of questionable content were delivered in waves. Not that it mattered to the crew, who devoured everything in sight with the kind of enthusiasm that only came after weeks of travel by airship and the permission of their Captain to let go and enjoy themselves.

Mags let out a breath, watching the chaos unfold. It was loud, hot, and smelled awful, but there was something about the energy in the room that made her feel alive. In some ways, it reminded her of Pod Starim. She glanced at Calcabrina beside her, who had already downed a full tankard and was smiling lazily as she twirled a dagger between her fingers, the tip flicking dangerously close to the table’s surface. Mags followed Calcabrina’s eyes to a corner across the room, where a group of Ghost Hounds were throwing knives into a target mounted on the wall.

“Not a bad place for a hole in the wall,” Calcabrina said, leaning back in her chair, one boot propped up on the edge of the table.

“Might be even better if I could hear myself think,” Libicocco added from across the table. Malacoda had tossed a friendly arm around her shoulder and was yelling an obscene joke at someone sitting at a nearby table. She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

Mags smirked. “I doubt that’s going to happen.”

Across from her, Malacoda let out a bellowing laugh, wiping the foam from his face. “That’s because you’re too sober, Libi!” He banged his fist on the table, sending cutlery clattering. “No thinking needed here. Just drink and be merry! Or try to be, in your case.” He sniffled as something tickled his nose.

Malacoda leaned in, his grin crooked as he peered at Mags. “Speaking of drinking, looks like you’re lagging behind, kid. You need to put that Vitality Attribute to good use!”

Before Mags could respond, Rubicante slid a cup toward her. Tea, of all things. Not ale, not mead, but something delicate and fragrant. He caught her look and raised an eyebrow. “It’s better for you. Trust me.” He took a sip from his own cup, which Mags realized could not have possibly been provided by the tavern.

She was already growing sick of the sale after half a tankard, so she took a sip of Rubicante’s tea. Warm, bitter, and definitely not from the Round Toad. But as the liquid settled in her stomach, she felt a strange sense of calm wash over her, cutting through the noise and the heat of the room. It was definitely the same tea Rubicante often brewed during their lessons.

“Mags, how’s the hand feeling?” Calcabrina asked, cutting through the chatter. She glanced down at Mags’ hand, now resting on the table, fingers flexing absentmindedly.

Mags shrugged, holding it up for her to see. “Good as new. Scarmiglione fixed it.”

Malacoda, mid-swig, lowered his tankard, eyes narrowing. “Fixed it, did he? What exactly happened?”

Mags recounted the encounter in the alley, keeping it short.

“I didn’t know Soulsingers could heal,” she said, finishing the recounting of events.

“That is because most of them cannot,” Rubicante said, his voice low. “Healing abilities are rare. Very rare.”

“And those that have access to them are worth their weight in gold. The kind of people kingdoms fight over. More than Fateweavers, practically,” Libicocco added.

Malacoda grimaced, his lips curling into a sneer. “Still doesn’t mean I’d trust that masked weirdo on the battlefield. There’s something off about him. Always lurking about. Gives me the creeps.”

“Doesn’t give a damn what you think,” Calcabrina muttered with a grin. “He fixed her hand.”

Before Malacoda could retort, a hush fell over the room. Mags looked up to see Frey Sarto standing at the head of the table, her presence alone enough to bring the entire tavern to a standstill. Even the musicians paused, instruments half-raised, as if the very air had been sucked out of the room.

Sarto’s smile was calm, composed, that same quiet power radiating from her without effort. “I wanted to thank you all,” she began, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “For your continued service. For your loyalty. Enjoy this night. Tomorrow, we take to the skies again.”

A cheer went up from the crew, loud and raucous, but Sarto’s eyes lingered on each of them for a moment longer. When she was satisfied, she gave a single nod and turned, slipping out of the tavern, disappearing into the night.

As soon as she was gone, the music started again, louder this time, and the revelry resumed with renewed energy. Mags sat back, letting the noise wash over her, but her mind was elsewhere.

Mags glanced down at her tea and took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through her chest.

After finishing her cup of tea, she excused herself from the table, letting the others know that she would be heading back to Skithbladnir. The Round Toad was close enough to the sky-docks that she remembered the path back, the initial shock of Perun’s size having had time to settle in. She decided it was best to handle the city in small, bite-sized pieces.

She took the Daedalus Orb out of her satchel and was pondering the orb as she made her way towards the tavern’s exit.

“Ah! . . . A Daedalus Orb,” a lilting voice came from off to her side as she approached the doorway.

Scarmiglione stood near the exit, leaning against the wall, observing the Company’s festivities from behind the painted half-smile of his mask.

“Er . . . Yeah. I’ve gotten the symbols to light up, but haven’t quite totally figured it out yet.”

The mask turned itself towards her. She felt Scarmiglione’s attention pressing down on her.

“Yes, the Orb is a formidable test for the budding Soulsinger. It’s quite the maze.”

Something clicked in Mags’ mind.

She curtly nodded, before pocketing the orb and making her way into the streets of Perun.