Nek is so excited to show off the palace that he speaks more than I do.

“And here is where we’ve relocated the dracid,” he says as we pass a large hall from which a warm breeze wafts like the opening of a furnace. “Now that the cold no longer sends them into brumination, we’ve been more productive than ever.”

“Nek?” One of the dracid, Sora, comes to the door. “There you are. I thought I heard your voice.”

Nek sweeps his wife up in an enthusiastic hug, spinning her around as she laughs.

“What’s this?” she asks, turning to the group once he sets her down. “More outsiders? Harpies? Are they from your colony, Fyre?”

To this day, Beryl, Nek, and Mirzayael remain the only ones I’ve told about my true origins. Not that I particularly think it would be dangerous to reveal that I’m from another world—assuming anyone would even believe that—but given my reincarnation here, I’m still adverse to throwing any more fuel on the fire of the theory that I’m Fyreneth reborn.

“No,” I say. “In fact, it seems they may share more history with you.”

As the Fyrethians excitedly introduce themselves to each other, Dizzi hangs back with me.

“So you’re a new arrival here as well?” she asks.

“About a month,” I say.

“You’ve managed to make quite the impression in that time,” she notes.

I shrug. “I’m an engineer. I suppose trying to fix things is in my nature.”

She quirks a smile. “It’s satisfying, isn’t it? Getting something working again.”

“Sometimes it’s the only time I feel like I’m doing something right,” I admit.

Dizzi nods. “Is that what brought you here?”

“I’m not entirely sure what brought me here,” I say, dancing between truths. “But I’m glad this is where I ended up.”

“And you’re from…”

Nervousness tingles through me. I don’t even know enough about the rest of the world to throw out a random location. “A far away land,” I say, fully aware of how flimsy that sounds. “You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

“This seems an awfully remote place to end up.”

I meet her raised eyebrow with a coy smile. “I’m fully aware of what you’re getting at, and I’m afraid this response will have to satisfy your curiosity for now. That’s a story for another time and place.”

Dizzi chuckles. “Fair enough, fair enough. I know better than to go gliding in a gale. So what is safer territory for our discussion?”

“I’d be more than happy to discuss what I’ve been working on in Fyreneth’s palace,” I say, relieved she isn’t intent on pushing the subject. “And I would love to get your insight on a few spells still inactive in some of the rooms. Without much magical theory, I can’t deduce what they’re for or how to activate them.” Echo helpfully labels each of these as “dormant spell circles.”

“I’d love to be of assistance,” Dizzi says. “Lead the way.”

After the dracid and harpies are done with introductions, our tour of the palace continues. Some of the spells I’d mentioned to Dizzi are in towers stationed around the outer walls of the palace, which separate it from the rest of the surrounding city. However, given the steep climb and remote locations, Mirzayael wisely steers the group (and, specifically, Beryl,) toward the central part of the castle instead. Eventually we end up in Fyreneth’s throne room—a location I’ve been studying extensively.

The room is framed with ornate pillars covered in marble and gold carvings of people of all species, including some I’ve never seen before. Many appear to depict Fyreneth in various scenes: speaking with people, giving or receiving gifts, raising the castle itself. On the ceiling is a fiery mosaic of the harpy, her wings wreathed in flames and a black and red crown atop her head. And at the center of the room is her throne.

It’s a peculiar thing. There are slats in the arms to accommodate her wings, and the back curls forward and down. Having sat in it before to test a theory, I indeed found the strange backing covers the seated’s face, blocking their vision. It doesn’t seem particularly useful to address an assembly.

Apart from the strange shape, its composition is also peculiar. It’s made of hundreds of different types of stone, only half of which are already in the Dungeon Core’s catalog. Each ore is kept separate, however, and is even distinctly visible within the throne, striping the seat with all sorts of colors and textures. These lines of rock each diverge from the chair, shooting through the floor and into the palace like radiating lines of a sun. The entire setup of the room is as striking as it is strange—and perhaps it’s just me, but it all gives me the faintest sense of foreboding as well.

“Amazing,” Dizzi says, making a beeline for the throne. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Mirzayael and I follow after her—me out of curiosity and Mirzayael out of irritated suspicion, I suspect—while the rest admire the art in the columns and mosaics.

“What about it is drawing your attention?” I ask.

“The spell lines, of course.” Dizzi traces one of the radiating threads of stone back to the throne. She crouches at its side. “It’s so intricate. So delicate. I can’t even wrap my head around the amount of craftsmanship it would take to form such fine lines—not to mention the whole network’s purpose! I don’t suppose you’ve been able to suss out its use?”

I tilt my head. “What do you mean by network?”

“The spell network.” Dizzi points out miniscule patterns embedded into the arms of the throne that I’d mistook for decoration. “Don’t you see? These runes here. They indicate that each of these lines are connected to a spell circle. Perhaps even a string of spell circles. Incredible. How could so many spells come together like this to form something coherent?”

“Of course.” Now that she says it, it’s so obvious I feel ridiculous for not having seen it myself. No wonder the throne arcs over the user’s head. You’re not meant to see visitors—you’re meant to look inward.

“It’s a user interface.” A computer. A magical logic network, and each of these lines is a different thread on a circuit board leading to a different gate or function. Now I, too, am stunned by its scope. It would take incredible precision—or an incredible ability to multi-task—to link yourself into this network and parse out all the different lines.

Running my hand over the arm of the throne, I close my eyes and use the Dungeon Core’s interface to scan the lines, searching for any compositions I recognize from the Core’s catalog.

Aha! There. One of these is the same substance as the magical lines used to provide power throughout the fortress. And another one is connected to the lines that control the plumbing system. Does that mean each of these operates another function in the castle? But there must be a hundred more!

“Fyreneth truly must have been extraordinary to operate such a magical construct,” Dizzi says.

“Or she had help,” I say. If I let the Dungeon Core’s presence move along one of these lines, tracing its entire extent throughout the fortress, would I be able to deduce what its purpose is for? Could I do that with all of them?

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

Abruptly, I realize the room has gone quiet.

“What is it?” I open my eyes. They’re all staring at me.

Or, more accurately, my wrist.

The ruby-red stone that is the Dungeon Core is glowing faintly, as it frequently does when I tap into its abilities. I quickly stop and the light fades out.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt the conversation,” I say.

Dizzi clears her throat. “Where did you say you got that bracelet?”

I tuck my hand behind my back. “Sorry for the distraction. We should continue the tour, then, shouldn’t we?”

Hetlanir is looking at the ceiling. “It looks rather like her crown, doesn’t it?”

I glance up at the mosaic as well, and wince. Her crown features a ruby-red stone, shining like a flame, fixed in place by wiry bands that wrap around Fyreneth’s head like a thicket of vines.

Or veins. Not dissimilar to the rocky veins of ore that have wrapped around my wrist.

“I think perhaps that’s enough of a tour for now,” Beryl says, breaking the stretching silence. “Where should we go from here?”

There’s a pause as my gaze dances around the room, attempting to avoid all the eyes that seem plastered to me. I meet Mirzayael’s, silently pleading for some sort of rescue. Her mouth twitches in a hint of amusement.

That traitor.

“I think,” Hetlanir finally says, “that I speak for all of us when I say we’d very much like to reunite our people, if you would have us.”

Murmurs of agreement pass between the harpies. Nek is all smiles, already welcoming the new members into our fold. Dizzi is looking at me with calculated curiosity. Even Beryl seems pleased with this arrangement.

“Praise Fyreneth,” someone says.

I want to sink into the ground.

----------------------------------------

The migration doesn’t happen overnight. While the harpies are only half a day’s flight from our caves, many more of their colony can’t fly, and the trek over the ice is a two-day affair, including one night camped out on the ice in subfreezing temperatures and cutting winds.

Despite all that, I was rather curious to see their cave system, but Beryl insisted I was of more use here, working on restoring the Fortress, and I reluctantly have to admit she’s right. I couldn’t have flown back with the harpies even if I wanted to—though a couple of the townsfolk have begun working on a harness for me and Ollie, fashioned from the hide of animals that have been recently hunted. Maybe in another few weeks I’ll get to stretch my wings.

Mirzayael tasks Nek and some of her guards to assist the newcomers with whatever is needed, but she too stays close to home. Despite Beryl’s stamp of approval and a complete lack of suspicious behavior on the harpies’ part, Mirzayael continues to treat them with distrust.

“What are you doing?” Mirzayael’s voice cuts through the room.

I jump, hitting my head on the top of the throne, then scramble to climb out. “Sorry,” I say, my wing snagging on the throne and causing me to tumble over one of the arms. “I was just examining the circuits…” I trail off once I realize Mirzayael wasn’t actually talking to me.

I’d thought I was alone in the throne room—the only time I risk a visit is when there aren’t other people here to compare me to the highly detailed art of Fyreneth that covers every inch of the hall—but Mirzayael appears to have snuck in while I was focused on the throne. Presently, she’s just inside the entryway, spear held across the frame to block the entrance.

Dizzi peaks her head around the doorframe. “Am I not allowed in? I thought no room was off limits.”

It’s only been three days since the harpies first showed up at our doorstep; we’re expecting the first group of transplants to arrive any day now. And with each that passes, Mirzayael seems to have another rule about what the newcomers are and are not allowed to do.

“You’re allowed in the room.” Reluctantly, Mirzayael removes her spear. “But no sneaking.”

“I see,” Dizzi says. “So if I come in un-sneakily, I should be in the clear, right?”

I snort as Dizzi spreads her azure wings and gives them a good flap, a gust of wind accompanying the move to help flip her over Mirzayael’s head and into the hall. She lands with arms spread wide and wings pointed to the ceiling.

“Ta-da!”

Mirzayael is decisively unamused.

“Hey, Fyre!” she says, heading over to me. “What are you doing on the ground?”

“Examining the floor,” I say. “Could use a good dusting.”

“Harpy feathers are great for that.” Dizzi shakes out a wing. “Just wait until molting season and we’ll have a duster for every household.”

I pale. “Molting season?”

“So what are you investigating today?” Dizzi asks, taking a lap around the throne as I pick myself up. “Ooh! Figure out any more of the functions?”

“A couple.” I gesture over to a workbench I’ve set up against the nearest wall. “Wrote some of them down. It’s a lot to keep track of. One has to do with keeping the earth in the gardens properly fertilized, I think.”

“Oh, fascinating! Let me see.” Dizzi skips over to the work bench, another gust of wind helping her glide most of the way with her feet barely scraping the ground. A twinge of jealousy needles through me, but I brush the feeling aside.

“She’s trouble,” Mirzayael grunts, stopping at my side.

“She’s spirited,” I say. “A young scientist. I can’t fault her for that.”

Mirzayael snorts in a way that indicates she can, and will, fault her for that.

“You know, as a scientist myself, I’ve observed something over the past couple of days,” I say.

Mirzayael glances at me with a frown. “Something important?”

“Depends on your perspective.” I wink. “Do with this information what you will. But I’ve noticed that the deep suspicion you had for me seems to have switched to them. Am I no longer considered an outsider?”

Mirzayael scoffs. “Don’t be absurd. You’re still an outsider, Outsider. Now there’s just more of you.”

I smile, shaking my head.

“What?” she asks defensively. “I can be suspicious of multiple people at once.”

That does get a laugh out of me. “Clearly!”

Frowning at my amusement, Mirzayael wordlessly follows me over as I move to meet Dizzi at the workstation. “Say, do you think she was serious about the molting thing?” I ask.

Mirzayael raises an eyebrow. “Do I look like a harpy to you?”

At the workbench, Dizzi is rooting through my papers. “Really interesting stuff,” she says. “If you’re able to trace each of these lines to their source spell circles, I should be able to read a bit more into their intent. Say, what’s the blocky page here for?”

I peer around her shoulder to get a better look. “Ah, yes, that’s my amateur attempt at making a periodic table.” Or reverse engineering one, really. There’s a handful of elements and atomic weights I can remember off the top of my head: hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen—thank you Mrs. Betcher in 10th grade chemistry class—but beyond that I’ve mostly lost the plot. I figure I can fill out what I know, and use the knowledge gleaned from the Dungeon Core to deduce many of the rest. Or at least, many of the more common ones. At any rate, it will be helpful for avoiding any future sodium fiascos.

Or perhaps creating more effective ones.

“I’ve not heard of many of these terms,” Dizzi says. “Are they alchemic?”

“Scientific,” I say. “That’s… the study of nature. A methodical approach to uncovering how the physical world operates.”

Dizzi snorts. “I know what science is, Fyre, I’m not six years old.”

Heat creeps up my cheeks. “Right—of course—sorry. I still sometimes struggle to distinguish what’s common knowledge from what’s extraordinary, here.”

“Right,” Dizzi says flatly. “Your homeland sure does seem to lack a foundation in magical theory. Pretty impressive, the scale of magic you’re able to do, considering.”

I glance at Mirzayael, and she returns the look with a miniscule shake of her head. Probably for the best. Even if I didn’t share her distrust, getting Dizzi to believe I’m from another world is a rather large pill to swallow.

“So anyway,” Dizzi says when I don’t respond. “Tell me about this table of yours. What’s it for?”

“Distinguishing the composition of materials I work with, mostly,” I say. “Different elements will have different properties. It will help me catalog all kinds of ore within the cave system and what they can be used for.”

“Sounds good for construction,” she says.

“It is,” I admit. And a lot more. “I dabbled in materials science a little in my past, but only when it came to composites for airplanes.”

“Airplanes?” Dizzi asks, leaning forward. “What are those? Tell me!”

I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. Finally, territory I feel comfortable in. “A contraption to help people fly who don’t have wind magic. In fact, it works for anyone without any kind of magic—it operates entirely on an intricate understanding of physics and aerodynamics. The basic principle is working out the balancing act between weight and lift, and thrust with drag…”

Mirzayael lets out a heavy sigh as I dive into an overview of fluid dynamics. It’s an excited, rambling explanation she’s unwillingly been subjected to before. But this time, I have a willing audience. Dizzi cranes her head over the papers as I sketch out the shape of an airfoil, marking the camber and chord as I explain the importance of each quantity.

“So that’s why the wind has to shift around the wing when we fly,” Dizzi says, nodding along. “Manipulating the magic eventually becomes instinct, but I never really thought about the mechanics of it before.”

“Yes, it’s all about the center of pressure relative to the center of gravity,” I say.

“Fascinating,” Dizzi says. “You know, if you could make a spell to track each of those quantities, you might be able to create a self-correcting flight spell that the user wouldn’t even have to adjust. It could compensate as needed to keep the mage airborne.”

“You could do that?” I ask. First the Dungeon Core’s meticulous cataloging system, then Fyreneth’s circuit-like magic network, now programmable spell circles. Magic is sounding more and more like sufficiently advanced technology by the day.

“Of course! It should be easy.” Dizzi pauses. “Okay, no, actually it would be really hard. But theoretically, it should be possible.”

“I’d love to work through the idea further with you,” I say.

Dizzi beams. “I’d be honored! I mean, who’d pass up a chance to experiment with a new spell circle application?”

Mirzayael frowns. “Sounds dangerous.”

“That was rhetorical,” Dizzi says.

I glance between the two, chuckling. Somehow, I feel like Mirzayael will take even more time to warm up to Dizzi than she did to me. But it’s a temporary inconvenience I’m more than willing to suffer through.

Perhaps my dreams of achieving flight are not so distant as I once thought.