"What happens after this moment is entirely up to you," Death had said.

What complete and utter bullshit. Death could go straddle a spire and rot there. Damn her for doing this to me, and damn me for...Well, just damn me in general.

Ash's words rang in my ears as loud as the bells in the Church of Bones. How strange it was to be derailed from protective-righteousness, to utter hopelessness, and round right back to bone-chilling fear. Could it really be true? If it was, I was a real horse's ass for sitting in the Blue Flame feeling sorry for myself while that was going on.

Zachariah had remained silent all of last night as Ash told her story, his face hewn from granite. He had brought Ash to me, somehow knowing exactly where I would go even without knowing what was wrong. Gods, was I that predicable? It didn't matter.

That was how it had always been while we were growing up. Some friends were only good for partying and having a good time. Others were only good for idle amusements and banter. There was nothing wrong with friends like that, but I never had any patience for that type of stuff.

But Zachariah? He was always different from the rest. He, Fayra and I had been our own little family. If Fayra was best at getting us into trouble, then he was the best at getting us out of it. To put it simply, he showed up. I knew that had something to do with the circumstances of his birth. He'd had to struggle for every meal, every clean glass of water, and every night under a roof. He was never treated with any amount of dignity or respect. A reject. A cast-off.

Being a Half-Elemancer will do that to you. It made you hated by many and accepted by almost no one. Maybe that was why we became friends in the first place.

The sounds of hooves clacking in the early morning echoed in the chilled air, the horse's breath fogging every now and again. We pushed our pace, leaning forward in the saddle. On impulse, I looked at Myra, who looked back at me with weary eyes. I still didn't know what do about the assassin coming for her and all the Deified of this town, but I had to take things one at a time.

She winced as we rounded around corner, rubbing her back. She was still riding side-saddle despite us going everywhere on Dusk. I realized for the first time how sore she must be from enduring the awkward position for so many miles. Women like her were use to riding in buggies and carriages.

"You know you're allowed to ride astride while you're with me, right?" I asked, reaching for the normal snark between us. Despite her fatigue, Myra looked appalled.

"That is outrageous! Mother would incinerate me on the spot if she saw me do such a thing!" she said, some life coming back to her voice. I gave her my best sharpshooter grin.

"She's not here," I said simply. Myra slitted her eyes and glanced around as if expecting the Matron peek from behind every corner.

"She'll know. Believe me. And besides, my dress will ride up!"

I mirrored her appalled look from before.

"You're right! Your calves will show! How scandalous! Deified are dying, an assassin has come for you already, and Elemancers are being hunted. But no, sacrificing your spine for the sake of hiding your legs is definitely the priority," I said in a mockery of posh, sarcasm dripping from each word.

"Are you just trying to get me to show a little skin?" she replied, batting her lashes at me. I saw Zachariah and Ash exchange a look behind us, the latter looking a bit confused at our banter. Zachariah waved a dismissive hand at Myra and I as if to say, Don't worry, this is normal for them.

I pulled my hat lower on my brow, suppressing a laugh.

"Suite yourself. It's not my back that will suffer," I said, silently making a note to have Myra ride in her buggy with Belle next time we went out.

We turned onto Main Street, the market clean of sidewalk vendors. Store chimneys belched hearth smoke into the air. Frost gathered on the glass of their front windows. It must have snowed last night, as small mounds of it were gathered against the sides of the street and at the bases of walls. Finally, Dusk trotted to a larger building off to the right. I could smell the forges as we approached, barrels of gunpowder piled high outside. A small storefront stood in front or the workshop, and it was by far the busiest. Several carriages were parked outside even in the early morning, people eager to stock up on the latest models, have their firearms repaired, or simply browsing.

McAlister Pistol Company. I hadn't set foot in one of our stores since my latest falling out with my father. Even so, I had practically grown into an adult amongst the various shop workers.

We avoided the storefront, instead going straight to the back door which lead to the workshop. Heat radiated from the door as the forges melded metal into the skeletons of guns. Nobody bothered us as we entered, the gunsmiths too absorbed in their work. A spacious warehouse opened before us, lines of tables extending with assembly lines for rifles, pistols, and shotguns. Offices dotted the walls of the various designers of the guns, always innovating and improving. The air carried the scent of gunpoweder, laquered wood, and molten metal.

It only took asking a few of the assembly workers to find my favorite gunsmith.

"Yared!" I called in greeting, feeling genuine warmth come to my chest. Yared had worked for my father's shop since before we had franchised. The man was an old veteran from the War of Ages, and had been using guns and artillary through the turn of the century. Despite the violence of his past, or maybe because of it, he was one of the most gentle people I had ever known. As I turned from toddler, to child, and then to a teenager, Yared's office had been the one safe place to wait while my father was doing business.

A shock of gray hair peeked out from the small door, dark skin a stark contrast below it. Thick glasses covered a large portion of his face. He was still wearing his apron, his fingers stained black. I realized with a small twist of my heart that he had aged since I had last seen him. His back had bent, and there were deep lines in his face now.

Struggling up from a generously-padded chair, Yared smiled at me, his warm brown eyes dancing.

"Hello, Little One," he said in a weathered voice that had breathed too much powder and smoke. Smiling at his well-worn nickname for me, I waved for him to sit. He ignored the gesture, holding out his hands out to give me a fragile hug. After a moment, he pulled away and gazed at me with appraising eyes.

"Not so little anymore, I suppose," he said, giving my hand a subtle squeeze, "How many years has it been?"

"At least ten. It's good to see you," I said, feeling the weight he put through my hands. Spying the cane he had ignored, I helped him into his chair again. I did my best to ignore the bustle of the other workers, giving him my full attention. Yared folded his hands in his lap, appraising me again.

"What brings you here?" he asked, the smile never leaving his face. I hesitated before answering, choosing my words carefully.

"I need your help with some repairs. And I have some questions."

A corner of his mouth lifted.

"You always have questions. It is what I liked about you," he said as Myra, Zachariah, and Ash filed into the office at last. His eyes shifted to them kindly before returning to me.

"I will answer your questions if I am able," he said hesitantly, "but I'm afraid that I will be less than useful for the repairs."

I sighed through my nose, clasping his hand again.

"Look, I know my father forbade any service to me, but--"

"No, Little One, it's not that," he said quietly, coughing into a handkerchief.

It came away bloody.

Eyes wide, I looked at the garment as if it were a snake. Yared dotted the blood from his lips and chin, his throat bobbing. Our eyes met as he tucked the hankerchief back into his coat pocket, folding it neatly as he did so.

"The years have not been kind to this old man," he said, and I saw the slight quiver to his worn hands now.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

A symptom of poisoning, my inner healer reminded me.

The workers had recently begun to protect their faces and hands with gloves and masks in recent years, but Yared came from a generation of war. There was no time to worry about your health sixty years down the road when you might not live to see the next day if you didn't stock up on your bullets.

"I am preparing for retirement," Yared continued, cutting my thoughts off, " And before you ask, Yes. I have been seen by the physicians. No. There is nothing they can do. No potions, no magic, and no medicine will change what is to come."

I furrowed my brow, forgetting the others in the room as I knelt down in front of his chair.

"Are you being taken care of?" I asked as evenly as I could. He smiled, patting my hand.

"Your father has set me up with plentiful funds to keep me comfortable as a reward for my years of service," he murmured. I lifted a brow.

"Have the hells frozen over?" I asked dryly, making Yared chuckle. His back bent again with another violent cough, making me wince. He waved away my attempts to help, and I saw the stubborn pride gleaming in his face.

"He's not all bad. You know that, right?" he asked once he recovered. I leaned back, sitting on my heels.

"Agree to disagree," I said, making Yared smile sadly.

"But enough about me. As far as your repairs go, I will have my apprentice assist you. I'm sure your father would understand if you are using it to protect Lady Beaufoutonte."

Gods, he missed nothing.

Yared inclined his head toward Myra, who curtsied in return despite her rumpled dress.

As if on cue, a young man entered the office, his face entirely obscured by a stack of books teetering precariously on gun components. He was muttering to himself, clearly oblivious to everyone around him. He went straight to a small desk in the corner of the room in a well-worn path. As if he had already walked it a thousand times this morning. The items collapsed onto the desk just as he got to it. Still ignoring us, he collapsed into a simple chair and began to work.

Yared cleared his throat, and the young man immediately looked up, blinking in surprise at our presence even though he had walked straight past us.

"Otta," Yared began in a voice one would use to a frenzied horse, "This a Rowena McAlister accompanied by her friends-"

A slight huff came from Myra which I did my best to ignore.

"Miss McAlister needs you to--"

"MCALISTER?!" Otta exclaimed in a high-pitched yelp that barely passed as masculine. Making his chair and most of the items on the desk crash to the floor, he leapt to his feet. Otta rushed toward me, but tripped on a gun part and joined the rest of the items of the floor. Yared put a hand to his face, sighing.

"Otta is young, but I assure you that he is a prodigy. He is responsible for several of our fresh models."

That got my attention as Zachariah and Ash helped Otta to his feet. He looked at me like an acolyte would look at a goddess. The boy was maybe eighteen or nineteen, with every part of him twitching with energy. His hands went to his face, to his hips, and then to his heart in a never-ending cycle.

"Gods! Are you a McAlister? Really? I get to work on a gun used by an actual McAlister?! This is a dream! An absolute dream! I--" he said in a barely restrained scream. Otta continued to babble about how much he loved the way my family had revolutionized firearm production. He went on...and on...and on.

"This is going to be a long day," Yared muttered dryly, massaging his eyes.

*******

Eventually, we calmed Otta down enough to actually look at Fayra's pistol remnants. The news wasn't good.

"All the Gods and their nannies! What in the hells happened to this poor baby?" Otta asked, as he held up the ruined thunderwood handle like a baby bird with a broken wing. He pulled out a set of smith's glasses from his back pocket. Each of the eyes had a set of twelve lenses that could be dropped down to increase the magnification. Otta wasted no time in waiting for us to answer, dropping seven lenses in front of one eye and squeezing the other shut. A reply to his question did seem necessary as he started to mutter with words that were entirely beyond my comprehension.

"Can you repair it?" Yared asked, his voice straining around another cough.

Otta didn't answer at first, dropping the remaining lenses in front of his eye.

"Maybe. The amalgamation of the sentry fibers of the thunderwood and reignition of the semi-automatic mechanism--"

"The short version please, dear boy," Yared interrupted, though I saw a hint of fondness wander into his eyes. Otta peered at the rest of us, blinking again as if to remind himself that we existed. He seemed to do that whenever he was interrupted.

"There is no short version," he said simply. Yared supressed a sigh as he looked at the boy.

"The shortest version you can manage, then," Yared urged with the patience of a saint. Otta looked at all of us, then hesitated, clearly biting back a long-winged explanation.

"It will take a long time," he said finally, his eyes looking at the fragments of Fayra's pistol as if they were a piece of art. It was clear that he was rather looking forward to the project.

"Alright, then we have some questions," I said around the sharp pang of disappointment, drawing Otta's attention before he became too absorbed. I glanced at Ash, who stepped forward with the grace of a cat, her eyes piercing.

"We know you guys have been working on a special type of weapon. One that absorbs and shoots the elements?" Ash began shifting her gaze to the corner of the room. Her eyes lingered on a peculiar shotgun with strange symbols carved into it. I knew I had seen them before on a twisted of metal. The metal that the Elemancers had found near their murdered warriors.

Otta grinned, looking like a child who was asked about his favorite toy. He even clapped his hands a little. Yared's brows knitted, eyeing Ash warily.

"How did you know about--" Yared began, but Otta cut him off as he warmed up for another excited ramble.

"Yes! I invented them!" Otta said, looking proud of himself. Without further explanation, he sprinted to the corer of the room and grabbed the shotgun we had seen earlier. He placed it on Yared's desk for all of us to see. It seemed about the size of a basice twelve-gauge, except with four rotating barrels. Interlaid in the metal of each of the barrels was an odd sort of crystal with more strange symbols.

In any other circumstance, I would have been fascinated by the gun. However, all of I could think of was the Elemancers who were being hunted. The ones who were being killed like the Deified. I thought of Renjin and Oji visiting the town to report the morbid news, and the fire they had brought with them.

"How does it work?" Myra surprised me by asking, looking at the gun with a keen eye. She trailed the symbols on the barrels, her lips pursed in thought.

"Why are there Kaze symbols all over the barrels?" she asked further, pointing to the first barrel.

"Fire," she said, indicating a symbol of neatly curved lines. Now that I was looking for it, I could see the resemblence to a flame.

"Water...Earth...Air," she continued, indicating the other barrels and their crystals. Otta, unable to hold back any longer, seized the shotgun and sprinted to the nearest lantern giving a feeble light at the back of the dark office.

"Watch this! This is so cool!" he said, holding the flame crystal to the small spit of fire inside the lantern.

"Anataii non chikata oi kashitei kudasaii!" he cried, and we all flinched as the crystal glowed a sudden red light. I watched, amazed, as the the flame flowed onto the gleaming metal. It transformed into a red marking high on the barrel.

"It could absorb an entire wildfire, but this will be enough to show you," Otta said, picking up the shotgun and pointing it at the wall of the office. He didn't seem to realize the amount of gun power and explosives in the room in his excitement. We watched in horror as his finger curled around the trigger.

"All you have to do is--"

"STOP!"

Zachariah, Myra, Ash, and I all screamed the word in unison, but it was Yared who surprisingly screamed the loudest. The old man had shot to his feet, but the motion cost him dearly. His back rounded into a series of bone-rattling coughs. The sound was horrid and wet as his hankercheif became soaked in blood.

Otta, as if coming back to himself, immediately set the gun on the floor and sank to his knees next to the old man. The boy's face twisted in concern, but I didn't care as I pushed him aside roughly, his back colliding with the wall.

I patted Yared's back in soothing circles as the coughing subsided, the trembling in his hands now worse than ever. He let Zachariah and I lift him back into the cushions of his chair. All went silent for a moment as I picked the shotgun up, examining it.

"Otta," I began in as patient a tone I could manage, "Who gave you the crystals?"

"I-I don't know. Mr. McAlister gave them to me one day and told me what they could do. He said this was to be my most important project, and to follow Yared's guidance," Otta said hesitantly. He looked liked he wanted nothing more than to grab the gun and work on it. I sent him a dangerous look, keeping him from tearing it from my hands.

"How many have you made?" Zachariah asked, speaking for the first time. He still knelt in front of Yared, pressing his own hankerchief into the old man's hand. Otta hesitated again, his eyes going to Yared. Taking Zachariah's hankerchief with a grateful murmur, he nodded consent for Otta to reply.

"I have around fifty crystals or so, but this is the only sucessful shotgun I've made so far. We already have a few orders, though. One for a dozen to be delivered in Grimwater."

My eyes went to Ash. So she had spoken the whole truth. She had told me what the payment was meant to be for the Pumas attacking the Deified at the engagement party.

A dozen guns which could use Elemancy magic.

"Who placed the order?" Myra asked, beating me to the question.

"There was no name on it. It was paid in full, with orders to be delivered to an address in Grimwater," Yared said, his voice the barest whisper.

All went silent again. I could feel my head spinning, trying to put the pieces together. I felt like I was standing to close to a painting, then whole picture eluding me. Massaging my temple I focused on Otta and Yared again.

"What was the other order?" I asked. Yared looked at me a long moment before replying, his eyes guarded all of a sudden.

"It came directly from the court of King Lorimor and Queen Aricella," Yared said, naming the king and queen of Luradia. I felt like someone had just dropped a boulder into my stomoch.

I ran my tongue over dry lips, not really wanting the answer to my next question.

"How many?"

Yared swallowed hard.

"The order was simple. As many as we can make. Enough to equip the officers of his army at the very least."

A mass order. Enough for an army. One part of the puzzle suddenly made sense. I now knew why Father was so eager to make the deal with the Beaufoutonte family steel industry. He would need all the steel he could get if he was making an order this big, and he needed easy access to it. Easy access that only a marrige could provide. I looked sidelong at Myra, and knew she had made that same exact connection.

Everyone in the room stared at the shotgun again, the red flame marking still gleaming on the fire barrel. I knew what we were all thinking, even though none of us wanted to say it out loud. If King Lorimor and Queen Aricella were mass ordering weapons for their armies, then that could only mean one thing.

Luradia was preparing for war.