Moka jerked her hand back from the side of the furnace. She tried to move her fingers. All she felt from her hand was pain. She saw her fingers creep closed. They moved. That’s what mattered. Using her teeth and chisel, she stripped a piece of cloth from the hem of her coat. Lines formed on her forehead as she concentrated, sweat beading her brow. [Good Enough] flared in her soul, the knot humming with a pleasant vibration, altering the cloth in imperceptible ways.

Moka’s thoughts were miles away, consumed by breaking down what she needed to do into a list. She went over her list again and again like a mantra, leaving no room for other thoughts. Moka used her teeth and good hand to tie the end of the cloth to her wrist and begin wrapping it. Her list ran through her head, so pervasive she could almost hear it. Bandage her hand, secure an exit, and find Tevzaga, in that order, starting now. She could feel the burns reaching deep into her hand, blisters forming by the second beneath the tight cloth.

Stumbling away from the furnace, Moka severed the trailing end of the bandage with her teeth. The white light was still spreading. Thinking a quick prayer of thanks to Azarus for granting her the ability to work so fast, Moka turned and headed straight for the nearest wall. [Deconstruction] felt painfully stiff in her soul, like sore legs needing days of rest. She hoped it would hold. It had to. If everything went well, this place would go up in flames. She needed to leave.

From above, a deep voice bellowed orders that echoed through the warehouse. In Moka’s pain addled mind, it almost sounded like Granon.

“Attention! Secure the perimeter and attend battle stations! We’re under attack.”

Drawn by the voice, Moka glanced over her shoulder as she fled. A tall, powerfully built orc emerged from the office she had seen earlier, ducking low to clear the doorway. He wore what looked like a suit of armor worn over another suit of armor, blue light peaking out from the under suit. A slitted helm covered his features. The outer suit had an odd design. Uniform plates, shaped like teardrops, hung off him like loose scales. As he moved, the teardrops shifted, revealing them as buckler-sized shields.

Through the haze of pain, Moka registered enough to understand. She was too slow. Tevzaga could not wait any longer. She had failed. Granon was gone, left worlds behind while she trudged onward. It had not escaped her that both Trials were in places she never heard.

Moka shuffled to the back wall, cradling her injured arm, her hand clutched tenderly to her stomach. The formerly lackadaisical orcs were now scurrying around the factory floor, grabbing weapons and armor from lockers near the entrance. Moka leaned against the factory’s back wall, bracing herself for the incoming pain. She spared one last look behind her to see what happened to the furnace.

Circling over half the furnace, running along the base, there was a portion of missing stone about a fist’s width wide. Flames licked through the gap, gorging on the fresh supply of oxygen. The top of the furnace sagged, leaning in toward the missing section. The chimney’s durable design and solid connection to the roof kept it from collapsing in on itself. Moka groaned, cursing under her breath.

She turned around, bracing her shoulder blades against the wall as she hefted [Bolt-thrower]. Aiming it up, she found where the chimney bent under the strain of keeping the furnace upright. Letting out a slow breath, she touched her hand to the trigger. Moka flinched. The light pressure felt like thousands of burning needles under her burned skin. She decided then and there that she would break all her claws rather than get burned again.

Accepting the pain as part of her, Moka refocused, taking the trigger in a firm grip. She could not escape the pain. Her mind felt like white static. She did not need to think, just complete the task. Her body would either fail or endure. She would find out.

Moka pulled the trigger. Her hand screamed in agony. [Bolt-thrower] jerked in her grasp, the recoil causing it to jump. The injury in her shoulder flared like white hot lightning, traveling down her nerves toward her spasming hand. The pain in her shoulder and hand brought sharp points of focus, breaking through the static. In one of the brief moments of clarity, Moka saw her bolts fly true, hitting the chimney within a hand space of each other. The furnace groaned as a brick cracked and another shifted to the side, its mass shifting.

In the next moment of clarity, a pair of deep brown eyes filled Moka’s vision. She locked gazes with the armored orc across the factory floor. They were blank faced as they stared at each other. The orc’s features twisted, his brows furrowing and lips drawing up in a snarl. Brown eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth and roared, his deep voice carrying through the foundry and drowning out the distant alarm.

“Intruder! Kill the goblin!”

Moka slammed her uninjured hand into the wall, pulling at [Deconstruction] until she feared it might break. What little of her consciousness she could cling on to focused on escaping. The static consumed her thoughts. Except for a small part of her mind, disconnected from the rest, moving just beyond the haze. It was analyzing those brief moments of clarity that broke through the pain and updating a running list of objectives, pushing the next to the forefront of Moka’s focus as she completed the last.

The wall fell away from Moka’s fingertips, opening up to the outside in an expanding circle. She jolted to the side as a crossbow bolt hit the wall next to her head, its shaft quivering. Her gaze flashed across the foundry to find orcs lining up with crossbows to make a pincushion out of her. [Deconstruction] was an angry, pulsing mess inside her.

Without a second thought, the goblin [Architect] dove through the widening hole. She flew head first, [Bolt-thrower] pinned to her chest beneath her injured arm. Her already hunched shoulders made it through without issue. She felt the cool air of freedom on her face, hardly able to process it before she slammed to a halt. Her uninjured hand stretched out to the ground to keep her from smashing her face into the ground. She clenched [Bolt-thrower] on instinct, her shoulder screaming in protest. Pressure gripped her waist and pulled at her shoulder. Without looking, she knew her hips and bag had caught in the hole.

Kicking and wriggling with all her might, Moka pushed through an inch at a time as the hole expanded. She pulled at the ground with her good hand, straining to escape. Crossbow bolts hit the wall around her like a hive of angry, suicidal bees. Sand and dust fell around her hips, goop smearing her clothes. The hole widened a little more. Without warning, the pressure on her hips was gone. She was free.

Moka pulled herself through the hole with single-minded focus. Her feet hit the ground as her good hand dragged her forward, claws digging into the dirt. Her limbs moved, never stopping as she picked herself up off the ground and broke into a sprint.

Moka made it two steps before she jerked to a stop. The leather strap around her neck and shoulder yanked tight, pulling her backwards off her feet. Her back hit the ground, eliciting a sharp grunt and hiss of escaping air as her shoulder sent a spike of pain through her arm. The damned thing would be easier to deal with if the pain stayed consistent.

Moka latched onto that thought, letting it taint her focus. She welcomed it. Anger helped her keep moving. She directed it at herself, at whatever pulled her off her feet, and at the god who sent her here with impossible standards. Here she was, alone and in pain, abandoned to do her duty with no care for her well-being.

Moka rolled to her stomach, pushing herself to her feet with her good hand and angling the hilt of her chisel with her injured one. Once her good hand left the ground, she went straight for the hilt of the chisel, ready to cut down whoever was foolish enough to stop her.

She turned to see her duffel bag wedged in the still expanding hole, caught on by the bolts sticking out of it like a spike-pig. The idea of cutting the bag loose and running crossed Moka’s mind. She dismissed it, tucking her chisel back into her belt and bracing herself to heave the bag out of the hole. Pain be damned. Letting out a roar, beyond caring about being seen, she pulled the strap with all her might. The wall exploded.

Dozens of small metal shields burst through the wall, reducing it to splinters. The force of the blow shot Moka’s duffel bag into her chest, her body curling around it as she went flying. She tumbled across the ground, wrapped around her bag like a ball. Sharp-edged tools dug into her chest and thighs. Vicious splinters peppered her back and shoulders, sticking out of her coat and driving into her skin as she rolled. She hit the side of a building with a heavy impact, making her head ring. Her stone filled pockets slammed into the dirt next to her ears.

Moka did not stop moving. She could not stop moving. The second she rested, she did not know if she could force herself to keep going. Her bruised and groaning muscles were just another voice, adding to the static. They had to be. She refused to spare them any of her attention. Anger felt better than pain.

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Rolling to her stomach and leveraging her protesting body off the ground, Moka looked toward the source of the blast. A man walked through a storm of flying shields, covered head to toe in armor, glowing with lines of power. His helm shifted as he scanned both directions, his eyes falling on her. She could tell by the weight of his attention, his gaze obscured by his shadowed visor. Moka wedged [Bolt-thrower] between her legs and used both hands to lever the pump-action stock.

She recognized [Mage Armor] when she saw it, despite Tevzaga’s megre descriptions. Of course, there would be a lieutenant here. Sabotaging a factory in the middle of a veritable fortress was too easy. Obviously, she would be injured and need to reload when the confrontation came. What else would happen?

The shields shifted around the man, linking into two large flying shields reminiscent of blunt claws. Twisting almost horizontally in the air, they hovered overhead, their tips pointed at Moka. The armored orc levelled his finger at her, his rich voice booming out from beneath his helm.

“Surrender, goblin. You are outmatched. There is nowhere to run.”

Somewhere, a lucky star shone in Moka’s name. The orc wanted to talk instead of striking her down instantly. Her mouth opened, words forming on her lips through the static. There was one topic on her mind.

In the foundry, the furnace buckled inward. It teetered on a few bricks anchoring its place. The chimney holding it up deteriorated at an increasing rate, each failed brick adding pressure to the next. Spiderweb cracks spread through the structure, lancing out from where Moka embedded her bolts. Moka did not stop moving, slumped against a wall with [Bolt-thrower] wedged between her knees, fighting to eke out one more crank with each passing second.

Moka looked the orc in the eye and said the only thing she could think of.

“Behind you.”

The orc cocked his helmed head to the side at her words. He raised a hand, sending one shield closer to Moka, the other dropping to hover vertically in front of him, preemptively blocking a wild charge. With the same motion, he turned to glance over his shoulder. Moka pushed herself off the wall and ran.

Fleeing for the nearest gap between the buildings surrounding the foundry, Moka clutched her half cocked [Bolt-thrower] to her chest. Her bag flailed behind her, throwing her off balance with every step. She let her upper body fall, pushing her legs for all they were worth. Reaching for the ground with her good hand, it came up faster than she was expecting. Her loaded pockets pulled her down. She tensed her core and braced against the ground with her outstretched arm. Her elbow held firm, catching her. She ran on three limbs, her lower center of mass easing the burden of her bag.

Behind her, Moka heard the armored orc roar something indecipherable. She planted her hand in front of her, pivoting on her straightened arm like a lever, as she brought both knees up in one motion. Her eyes locked onto the gap. Moka planted her feet in the ground and pushed with all her might, jumping horizontally toward safety. She heard a great crash. Then the world was on fire.

Moka tumbled into the gap, pushed forward by air so hot it felt like it would burn her lungs. She landed, head over heels, against a wall, arresting her momentum. In a way, she was grateful everything hurt. It made the individual injuries seem less pressing.

The tongues of fire that found nothing to latch onto retreated, burning away. Upside down, Moka saw patches of spreading flames. Fire spotted the landscape, eager to consume the orc’s building material. It spread, devouring whatever it touched.

Through the massive gap in the wall, Moka glimpsed the fire consuming the base of a cauldron the orcs stirred goop in. The iron pot was glowing cherry red in a ring around the lip, the fire already consuming the goop from the top down. Eating through the supports in seconds, the fire brought the cauldron crashing down. The goop splashed into the fire as it fell, igniting in a whoosh that made the earth quake.

Moka rolled to her side, the unstable ground pushing her off balance and back to her senses. She took off running the best she could, stumbling and pushing herself forward with the help of her good hand and the nearest wall. Her subconscious pushed another matter back into her focus. She needed to reload. There was no way the orc with the magic flying shields was dead.

Moka staggered around the nearest corner, guided by the hand she kept pressed against the wall. She turned the corner and pressed her back against it, feeling instant regret as it worked sharp, hard splinters deeper into her skin. Letting out a grunt, she collapsed to her knees. Once again pinning [Bolt-thrower] between her thighs, she used her good shoulder to lever the rope into position. Throwing her body weight into each push, the muscles on her legs straining to keep [Bolt-thrower] from slipping out, she threw herself into the work. Each time the gear slipped, failing to catch and move, she winced, admonishing herself for not taking the extra time to make it perfect. The self-recrimination slipped into place like a wheel into a well-worn rut.

Time seemed to blur. Moka let herself be consumed by her task. The next thing she knew, the gear locked into its final position. Moka’s hand was already moving before she registered the change, completing the next task on her list. She retrieved an orb out of her pocket. The bolts would be useless against magic armor. If she had one shot, she needed to make it count. Besides, the damned bolts might slip out. She wedged the orb into [Bolt-thrower].

Moka stood up, adjusting the leather strap digging into her shoulder. She smelled the air, finding smoke, burning flesh, and the scent of approaching magic. The last one was new, but unmistakable.

Shrugging her duffel bag to the ground, Moka scanned her immediate surroundings. She stood in a street with buildings on either side. Heat pressed against her back. Rising from behind her, a new, growing orange light competed with the moon. Further down the street, in either direction, she could see mobilizing orcs, carrying what looked like buckets of dirt. Moka bent down to give the bolt studded bag a pat.

“I’ll be back for you.”

Feeling half delirious, Moka whispered the promise and set off across the street. Her steps led her to a dark doorway. On a whim, she tried the handle. It was unlocked. She pushed the door open, reasoning it was empty. Any orcs stationed here would be out doing something productive, like fighting the fire or responding to the alarm. Inside, she found scattered clusters of desks piled high with important looking papers. To the side, a stairway led to the second level. Moka sighed. She had half hoped it would be the crossbow workshop.

The smell of burnt metal and magic grew stronger. Moka shuffled inside, closing the door behind her. She slid over to a window, opening a crack before sheltering under it. Cradling [Bolt-thrower] in her arms, Moka watched the empty street where she abandoned her bag, peeking just over the edge of the window’s sill.

The armored orc stomped into sight, rounding a corner further down the street. The stench grew stronger. His heavy steps and the whistle of his shields heralded him. The shields whirled around him like angry hornets, over half bearing blackened scars. His glowing magic armor looked untouched.

Spotting Moka’s bag, he approached it, his helmed head taking in the empty street, pausing every so often on a deep shadow. When he turned her direction, Moka ducked out of sight, hiding her red eyes. She listened for the sound of approaching steps, keeping as still as she could. The silent inaction brought the pain to the forefront of her mind. She gritted her teeth, half hoping the orc would rush over. Now that she was ready, the waiting was grating on her. In the stillness, she could pick out individual voices in her body’s chorus of pain.

Moka heard the orc kneel next to her bag, the sound as loud in her ears as the voices in her mind. She let out a breath. Leveraging herself up, ignoring the creaking protest of her limbs, she propped [Bolt-thrower] on the window’s sill. Across the street, she saw the orc bent over her bag, rummaging through the contents. Around him, the metal triangles had formed into five medium-sized shields which floated in a continuous circle. The floating shields, obscuring the orc’s upper body, moved too quickly for Moka to aim through a gap.

Squinting, Moka judged the distance between the ground and the shields. About a hand and a half. If she could not shoot through the shields, she would need to skip the orb like a stone on water. Considering and dismissing the idea of reshaping the orb to a flat stone, she grabbed one of her handmade bolts and placed it on the ground next to her. Next, she took the stone orb out of [Bolt-thrower]. Moving as quick as she could with one hand, Moka pulled on [Deconstruction], pleasantly surprised it was no longer as sore as it was a few minutes ago. The bolt became three neat piles. Moka rolled the orb in the goop, [Good Enough] humming a note in her soul. The note resonated with the wild idea running amok in Moka’s mind.

Not pausing to check what the orc was doing, Moka reloaded the goop covered orb and resumed her position. In the distance, the ringing alarm sounded like the forward march of time. She had left her bag was for this opportunity. There was no hesitation left in her.

The idea of hiding and letting him pass did not cross Moka’s mind. Tevzaga needed to kill the lieutenants in [Mage Armor]. Azarus deemed the orc [Hero] worthy. This was what needed done. She was the only one here to do it.

Moka aimed for the ground, right under where the shields hovered. The orc planted a hand on the ground, the other on his knee as he shifted to stand up. Moka pulled the trigger. Her hand flared like she was burning it all over again. [Bolt-thrower] jerked, the recoil sending wave after wave of pain through her shoulder.

The ball hit the ground in a blur. Moka half expected it to dig into the dirt, ripping open the ground and sending a cloud of dust up. To her surprise, it bounced. She did not stay to watch, her focus consumed by her next task.

To the sound of cracking metal and a roar of pain and rage, Moka retreated from the window and fled deeper into the building. She needed to prepare for retaliation, then finish the job.

Clutching her hand to her stomach, [Bolt-thrower] hanging loose from its strap, Moka ran for the staircase. She was angry at herself for not taking any of the fallen orcs’ crossbows with her. A formation of shields smashed the door off its hinges as she leapt up the stairs. Half the wall blew inward. Moka frowned, her harried expression reflecting a reality she did not feel. She could really use a second shot right now.