Indrá, a boy no older than fourteen, trekked through cotton fields in sandals worn and browned. Silent were his steps; silent were his breaths.

Silent was the man who walked by his side. Mōden.

"Are we near?" said Indrá, his linen tunic damped with sweat and sod of dirt. His adoptive father appeared much the same.

"We are," said Mōden. He had a beard where Indrá had none and bushy brows they both shared.

So resumed their silent march. Horse and wain oft passed them by in the aching sun, peppering the fallow mulch with hoof and feces and wheel. Crops waned and villas waxed beside their trotting gait.

"Are you hungry?" said the father.

"I am," said the son.

Mōden's silver ring glinted in the shade of an elm, gifting a square of jerky to his fingers.

"For food"—Mōden held up the jerky—"or knowledge?" He held up the ring.

Indrá eyed both, so hungry was his gaze. "I hunger for food and knowledge, Father. Which is greater?"

Mōden tossed the boy his jerky. "Food, of course. Knowledge is a beverage scalding hot. It cannot be eaten, only sipped. Slowly."

"Then, Father," said Indrá, stealing a bite of jerky, "I am thirsty and I am cold. May I have a sip of knowledge?"

"Of course. The ladies often call me a hot glass of water, after all," said Mōden, winking.

"But Innkeeper Marge said spicy jäger—"

Ahem!—"Today's lesson covers spiritual induction. Tell me, my boy, what is spirit energy?"

Indrá bared his tongue.

"Building blocks. All matter starts and ends with spirit energy."

"What of its movement?

"Spirit energy moves where it isn't, like water or jäger—"

"Correct. And how do we artificers accomplish this?"

"We poke two holes in a spirit stone—the power cells of Heaven and Earth. One is plugged with spirit metals, and the other a 'flush cavity.' Conductive wires can then be used to join both ends."

"Good. Induction builds on our understanding even further. Today, I will teach you how to induct tiny shifts about the ambient environment."

"That sounds closer to a fan than a space ring," grumbled Indrá.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Mōden chuckled. "If you can't call upon wind, how can you call upon space? Now hush, child. To understand induction, we must first understand polarity ..."

Their lesson ferried them through tracts of meadow and the rare village.

So enamored was the child that the father could not cease. Induction bled to capacitance to transformers, yet Indrá still thirsted, and Mōden's wellsprings never parched.

"Wow! So, with Fourier sampling, we can achieve long-range spirit resonance?"

"In theory, yes. At present, we're limited to audio transmissions. However, recall that ..."

The air chilled and manors grew common, many pocked by menials armed with hoe and rake. Indrá knew naught, cared naught. The world was beautiful, but artifice created beautiful.

And Indrá was a creator.

=====

"Our lesson ends here—we've arrived."

A garish citadel erected before them. Shops, stalls, and wains lined her streets of brick and grout. Merchants hawked their wares, innkeepers hailed their patrons, and whores purred for custom.

"What do you think of our new home?" said Mōden. His arms splayed like heron wings, taking the city into his broad shoulders and iron chest.

"It's ... dirty and crowded," said Indrá, fidgeting.

"That it is."

They pushed past man and limb through markets and tenements. Several times was Mōden irked by an urchin's thieving hand, swatting too gently to maim yet firmly enough to teach.

They soon came upon a dingy storefront of oak and spruce. The father pushed a key into a lock, leading the son into the shop's interior.

Mōden waved at the dusty shelves and fluted ceiling. "What do you think of our old home?"

"It's dirty and empty," said Indrá, beaming.

"That it is!" Mōden loosed a hearty laugh. "That it is."

Indrá and Mōden launched into a duet of sweep and scrub. Coughs, jokes, and giggles pealed from noon to eve, their smiles ever-bright in the dimming daylight.

When the shelves regained their sheen and the floor revealed its tiles, the son and the father retired up creaking steps.

"Tomorrow," said Mōden, sinking into his sleeping bag, "our workshop makes its debut."

"Tomorrow," murmured Indrá, ceding to his heavy lids, "I create."

=====

Waving a warding hand, Indrá cringed at the sun's morning rays. The staircase groaned his descent to the backdrop of clanking metal.

"Indrá, is that you?" said Mōden, fiddling with a smoldering iron. "Grab some bacon and come help me."

Stepping into the back room, Indrá nabbed a plate of untouched bacon.

So many! he thought, scanning the heaps of machines he had long dreamed of. Is this ... paradise?

He inhaled a handful of bacon and set to work beside his father. The two clambered without pause, sorting the mess that was into the haven that would be.

"Son, stop."

"Why?" said Indrá, his linens stained in oil and grease.

"Go clean yourself. When you're done, meet me at the counter."

"Fine." Indrá wiped his hands and climbed to the second-floor washroom.

=====

Standing over a woodwork tub and lathered with soap, Indrá scraped the gunk from his dark-brown hair to his blistered feet. His garbs followed, soon set to dry at the window sill.

When they returned to his body clammy and wrinkled, he jogged down to his father with a scowl. "Why must I clean?" he called, rounding a doorframe. "I'd rather be a dirty worker than a sterile laggard—" his voice trailed at his father's humorless stare. "What?"

"Son, you're wrong. Filth makes lepers of us all," said Mōden, taking heavy steps from behind the counter. Towering over Indrá at the doorway, he continued, "Which is why"—he raised an open palm—"I got you this."

Indrá's knees buckled as a leather apron weighed him down. Mōden crouched beside his son in teary laughter and hugged him tight. "I'm proud of you, Indrá, my son—my artificer son!"

"You mean?" cried Indrá, his auburn eyes meeting his father's ocean blues. Hope was reflected in each of their gazes.

Hope, and tears.

"I do," said Mōden, rising. "I do. Come, say it with me: I am an artficer! Ready, set, go—"

"I am an artificer!"