The steel gates creaked open. Adriana flinched as the heavy steel door slammed close behind her. Sound bounced from wall to wall as the tall man led the way forward. Broad shoulders, a withered square face, and a stiff stride—if one could create the perfect prison warden, then this man would be the result. At the end of the long hallway, a single cell. It contained the man who awaited his execution, Adriana’s eldest brother.
The Warden stopped and turned to Adriana; his gaze was shallow and devoid of emotion.
“You have ten minutes; I’ll return for you later.”
He marched back in the direction from which they came. She heard the door slam once more. Adriana stepped up to the bars that confined her brother. He sat dejected, hunched over against the stone wall.
“Brand,” she called out to him.
Lifeless eyes rose to meet hers, and a half-hearted grin settled on his face. He pushed himself to his feet and met her at the bars.
“Hello Adri, it’s good to see you.”
His eyes were red and puffy. He’d been crying, Adriana thought. Tears streamed down her cheek. She grabbed the cell bars, her palms cooling against the cold steel. Brand squeezed her hands gently; warmth embraced her.
“Have you come to say goodbye? How’s everyone doing?”.
Adriana raised her head; her body shook.
"They're... they’re,” she fell into a sob. “It’s not fair! You saved us! You’ve done nothing wrong!”.
“We knew the risks, Adri,” Brand spoke softly.
Brand stood tall; he squeezed gently again.
“Adri, could you promise me one thing?”
She raised her head and listened to what he had to say. With every minute passing, she cursed time itself. They had grown up together, fourteen years together, and now all they had was ten minutes.
“Take care of everyone, especially Abraham. It’ll be hard, but I believe in you,” he croaked.
His lip quivered; he was mustering a brave face, but it belied him. Their combined wailing reverberated around them. Heavy footsteps interrupted the two.
“It’s time,” said the Warden.
Adriana's hands slipped from the bar; she wiped her tears away. She needed to be strong now, for him and for her family. Brand smiled through his tears.
“Bye Adri.”
“Bye Brand,” she managed through a stifled sob.
Adriana placed an arrangement of white and pink flowers upon a bed of colored fauna at the foot of a beautiful mausoleum. “The Tomb of Brand, Saviour of Barakat,” read the plaque on the marble white door of the tomb.
Just below the plaque etched into the marble were the family’s respective crests. Two leaping silverfish, the Ryba family crest. Their mother’s maiden surname. And a proud gilded Stag, the Samuels family crest. Their father’s family surname.
She inhaled the salty, pungent odor of the nearby Farraig Sea. It was Brand’s favorite smell. The wind tousled her hair. She combed it back and rose from a crouch.
A stunning chapel rose ahead atop the hill. A rose window hung above the arched entrance. Piotr recognized the symbol that dominated the window’s center. One of the oldest religions in Anriel is the Church of Axci. Since the inception of ‘The Pioneers’ and the advancements in technology, religion was quickly becoming a thing of the past. The church itself was another reason why Barakat rejected a man like him. Piotr found the wrought steel gates that guarded the graveyard behind the church and entered.
Freshly cut grass and neat patches of gravel lined the footpath. The place was well kept. At the head of each grave stood stone crosses with a ring joining each arm. He spotted Adriana and crossed over off the dry path. Dew-soaked grass depressed under Piotr’s boots. Squish, squish, squish sounded beneath him as he pressed ahead towards Adriana. He stopped behind her.
“You wished to speak?” he asked her.
Adriana turned towards him; she pulled close her coat as the wind picked up. As always, a smile adorned her face.
"Yes, I wished to make a request of you. Before we can enact our own offense against Kydin and his crew, I decided we could do with an additional input. Particularly from a man who has valuable experience in fighting Fheitgr. Horace Ashton.”
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Piotr chuckled. Horace had been the man who had taught him everything regarding combat. He remembered the strenuous drills that man had put him through. The perfectionism he demanded from each and every one of his students. Horace had been particularly tough on Piotr, but he had to admit, thinking of his clash with Korill, that his lessons had paid off.
“He’s a stubborn man. I’m not so sure he’ll come rushing to our aid.”
Adriana swept her hair back as the wind prevailed.
"Well, I’m sure you can see why I’m asking this of you. You’re quite persuasive; I’m sure you can appeal to his better nature.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Piotr responded. Adriana placed a hand on his shoulder as she left.
“Thank you. Do let me know how it went upon your return.”
Ratchet entered the lounge of their new lodgings. A two-story house situated directly on Valence Street. Sprawled out on a camelback Elmstone couch was Sam. His feathered hat obscured his face. From above, a series of loud bangs and knocks could be heard. Sam groaned.
“What’s with all the racket?” Ratchet asked Sam.
"Oh, that would be Christi; I can’t for the life of me believe that such obnoxious behavior is necessary,” Sam droned.
Ratchet chuckled as he sat on the armchair adjacent to the cast iron fireplace.
“Still hungover?”
Sam groaned again.
"Oh, dreadfully so. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to do my best to sleep through one of Christi’s more annoying idiosyncrasies.”
Sam turned over and pressed against the couch, smothering himself. Another bang rattled the floor. Ratchet instinctively looked above. He strode to the staircase and began his slow ascent. For once, a set of steps didn’t creak under Ratchet’s weight.
At the peak of the stairs, he looped around the banister to his left and found the door to Christi’s room. She hadn’t left the room since last night. Raising his scarred hand, he knocked.
“Christi, it’s me, Ratchet. Can I come in?”
Another bang inside. He rapped again.
“The door’s unlocked,” Christi’s muffled voice reached him.
Grabbing a hold of the copper doorknob, he twisted and pushed. The door swung back on its hinges, granting him entry. Sat on a stool at a Bournewood desk, legs crossed, was Christi. Her hair was let down and disheveled. The wrist of her prosthetic arm was hollowed out, and screws, cogs, and gears were scattered across the desk. Christi clicked her tongue and threw down a small spanner.
“Could you grab a wrench from the bedside locker?”
Ratchet retreated some steps and found her bed. It was a mess.
Nice to see some things haven’t changed, Ratchet thought to himself.
Glimmering in the sunlight that beamed through her bedside window, Ratchet spotted the pendant the large Fheitgr warrior had given her. The interlinked chain was red, like the flame-shaped symbol at its center.
Why had she kept it? Ratchet mused.
Pulling on the handle of one of the locker’s drawers, Ratchet found the desired wrench. Returning with the wrench in hand, he dropped it beside Christi.
“Thanks,” she said quietly, not removing herself from her work.
“What’s all this for?” Ratchet inquired.
“Increase in startup time; need to remove the delay. Has to be instantaneous,” she responded, not explaining further.
Ratchet left her work; he knew better than to interfere. Mechanics was the one thing the girl often lost herself in. Unconsciously, Ratchet let out a chuckle as he watched her tinker. Her eyes darted towards him.
"Sorry, it’s just seeing you like this. It reminds me of our garage back in Chrodrift.”
A shrill ringing pierced Christi’s head; she clutched her forehead and practiced her breathing techniques. Inhale, hold, and exhale; the ringing gradually faded.
“You okay, kiddo?” Ratchet asked; the concern was evident in his voice.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. That’s all,” Christi said dismissively.
She returned to her work. Her arm lit up after two seconds; she cursed. In frustration, she threw down the wrench. Ratchet plucked it from the ground. He stood and began working alongside her. Christi paused and continued with Ratchet’s help. His brow furrowed as he analyzed the arm.
“Your mana pump isn’t built for instant start-up. Trying to substitute it and force the mana through quicker would create a lot of stress. Have you tried reducing the thickness of the inner tubing insulation?”
Christi pointed to a replica of the pump on the desk.
“The flame element melts the thinner lining of insulation; it needs to be thicker for the resistance.”
“Shame you can’t just remove the tubing entirely.”
Christi perked up, “I think that’s it.”
After some ten minutes of furiously tinkering with the arm, she finished. The arm ignited instantly as desired.
“How’d you manage that?” Ratchet asked.
"Well, I thought of it like neurons in the body. With regular receptors at appropriate intervals, you can lessen the overload of mana being transported. Each chamber here is like a receptor, rather than one continuous stream. The mana is broken into more digestible bites.”
“That’s clever, well-done, kiddo,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Why don’t we show Sam that all your hard work paid off?”
Sam sat, sipping a cup of tea in hand. Ratchet and Christi entered, drawing his attention. He placed the cup onto a ceramic floral saucer.
“I hope all that incessant noise proved fruitful.”
Christi extended her arm out and ignited it with no delay. Sam’s eyebrows raised in a curved manner; he was surprised, to say the least.
“Ohoho, now that is some fine work.”
The door to the lounge opened, and Piotr looked around the room.
“Oh good, you’re all here. Saves me the trouble. Gather yourselves; we’re leaving for Kinoa. There’s someone there we need to speak with.”