“Wh…what?”

Lauka tilted her head, the feathers crowning both of her ears fluttering slightly as she did so. She lifted the aged piece of parchment off of the rough, dust covered workbench, angling it up towards the glowing lantern that hung from the ceiling.

The lines on the paper grew more distinct and more clear, sure, but they did not become any more comprehensible. The old, immature drawings and unsure sketches once made on a bright afternoon in that isolated office of the factory complex remained as they were.

“Alright,” Lauka sighed to herself. She set the parchment back down onto the workbench, adjusting her position upon the wooden chair and pushing up the large goggles that sat on her fringe.

She squinted, leaning forward and bending her neck to carefully observe the nearly decade-old blueprint.

It detailed a typical flintlock muzzle-loaded rifle-bored musket, one she’d had no lack of experience making– barring the rifle-bored aspect. Most of the muskets she produced were smooth-bored, meaning they lacked the spiralling grooves on the barrel’s interior that would guide the bullet into a spin and increase a shot’s accuracy.

But, even if she did want to make the jump to rifle-bored muskets, two issues stood in her way. The barrels’ rifling meant that not only would Lauka’s system of muzzle-loading get them incredibly foul and require thorough cleanings to remain operable, but they also necessitated the manufacturing of incredibly accurate, tightly-fitting bullets that would consistently engage the grooves while not getting stuck during loading.

That wasn’t to say she hadn’t tried alternatives that would allow her rifle-bored dreams to come to fruition. First, she’d referred to a diagram she’d made when she was twelve, detailing wrapping the bullets in greased cloth. And while it did allow for better engagement, the bullets often ran into issues with loading– either being too large and requiring a mallet to better force the rod down the muzzle or being too loose and allowing the gases of the blackpowder to slip by in a process of winding. Then, she’d tried sticking a stem into the back of the breech– as per a diagram from when she was eleven– that would slam into the back of a bullet when it was rammed, causing it to expand and properly engage the grooves. However, she found it annoying having to repeatedly ram a bullet to ensure its expansion, and the process of expansion often left the bullet overly deformed and the shot inaccurate. And that wasn’t even mentioning how herculean cleaning those things were.

So maybe, just maybe, this diagram– dated to when she was ten or so, would be the key to unlocking more consistent, convenient use of rifle-bored muskets. It would certainly make sniping the minor beasts that roamed the frozen outback far, far easier.

And the crowning feature of the entire diagram, the main focus of the whole sketch, was a singular cylindro-conoidal bullet. The little metal thing had circular grooves etched into its back cylindrical portion, indicated to have the function of holding grease or oil if the cute little curvy arrows pointing to it were to be believed. More importantly, though, was the presence of a hollowed segment at the very back of the bullet directly attached to an iron cap bent towards it, and a very rudimentary illustration of a spiky explosion with several sound effects accompanying it.

“Okay,” Lauka said. “So I pull the trigger, fire the blackpowder.”

Her finger traced across the piece of parchment, landing on the spiky explosion.

“Then, the explosion hits the… whatever this is,” she continued, tracing on to the iron cap. “And then it goes on to hit the bullet and push it out of the barrel.”

Her finger ran off the edge of the paper, but her eyes remained stubbornly fixed upon the bullet.

“So?” She yelled, staring wide-eyed at the diagram so entirely lacking in any description or elaboration or explanation. It was just a drawing, and the only words that were present to describe what was going on already told her things she knew.

She racked her brains a little more, ultimately resigning with the heaviest sigh she’d let out that week as she leaned back into her chair. Her legs quickly kicked up and she jolted forward, stopping just as the thing threatened to tip over and throw her onto the even dustier and even dirtier workshop floor.

She eyed where she would’ve fallen to for a moment. She looked around, eyes jumping from one pristinely made gun to the next. Landing on pistols and muskets, wheellocks, flintlocks and their cousins in the snaplock and snaphaunce, and on both smooth-bored and rifle-bored guns alike. Each one she’d spent weeks forging from the iron she traded from the Sahlbaridis that frequented her and carving from the wood that she herself felled from the northern forests of Houzen.

She lolled her head to the side, eyes peeking through the lazily closed curtains that separated the workshop from the forge; the soft, red glow of the coals she'd used just earlier that day to begin work on a new pistol to test out an experimental system of caplock ignition still lingering within the mouth of the furnace.

“Maybe I just need a change of environment,” she said, rising to her feet. “Maybe some coffee, too.”

She slipped off her boots, and stepped through the curtained threshold that led into her house proper.

Through her socks, she felt as her soles pressed up against the hard, smooth wood of the planks that made up her floor. She took the opportunity to slide slightly, gliding from foot to foot as she walked past a carpeted corner, adorned with bookshelves filled with books she received from the Sahlbaridi and letters whose seals remained half-attached to their old envelopes.

She eyed the plush chair framed in the very middle of the corner, a small coffee table set up just beside with a few of the letters she’d read a million times over rather haphazardly stacked atop of it.

She slipped past the corner, turning left and gliding past the dining table set opposite it.

The kitchen counter now on her right, she shot a brief glance at the indoor garden restrained within a small glass perimeter on her left.

The tea plants were coming along nicely. This was their fourth year of growing, and soon she’d be able to harvest their leaves for a long-awaited beverage.

She remembered planting those trees, back when she was fourteen. How she’d already gotten most of the foundations of the house she now called her own up by then. How if she hadn’t managed to convince the local Sahlbaridis of her worth by felling a beast on her own at the age of ten, that she wouldn’t even have been able to continue living.

How Siraj’s great plan had managed convinced her to backstab her entire country at the age of nine.

She passed through a gap between the kitchen counter and the wall, disappearing into a small, dimly lit storeroom directly adjoining the kitchen space.

“It worked, I suppose,” she muttered to herself, recalling the sight of the Great Wheel crashing through wave upon wave of great beasts. “Though… maybe not for me.”

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Her eyes scanned the boxes that rested in the dim light of the storeroom, squinting slightly to get a better read of those enshrouded by her shadow.

“Bread… tissue paper… biscuits- ah!”

She sank to her knees, sitting herself on the floor before grabbing the box of coffee grounds and sliding it from out under the storage rack; the two salient forms of the wings on her back showing in the shadows.

Though she did wish she could see her mother again. The letters, though consistent in coming once a month, were no substitute for the sound of her voice. The warmth of her touch.

No matter how many times she reread them; sitting in that plush chair in the corner by the workshop.

She untied the twine that held the box shut, retrieving it and twirling it neatly into a loop so that she could use it later. She then put her fingers under the two flaps of the cardboard box, pulling them apart and revealing the contents inside.

She found a singular letter, stamped with a seal and decorated with a browned, fully wilted flower, placed atop a full sack of coffee grounds.

“Mother!”

She hastily half removed the seal, freeing the decaying flower from its grasp and setting it on the floor beside the loop of string while still keeping it in place. She flipped open the envelope, withdrawing the letter inside.

Dearest Lauka,

That was how she always began her letters. And Lauka’s day always grew just a little bit brighter whenever she read those first two words. Even if it was night.

Thank you for your letter.

And she always thanked her too. That was at least one way Lauka could tell that her letters got to their destination.

The part on the macarons was quite amusing. But I’m sure you’ll be able to perfect them some day, sweetie. You always excelled in what you did– as I’m sure you can see even now.

Lauka huffed to herself softly in happiness, shifting to sit on her bum and turning to the side so the kitchen lights could better reach the letter.

Anywho, I’m coming over to pay you a visit.

Huh?

Lauka dearest, I have not been in the best of humours as of late. Your siblings are all trying their best to help me, and so are the doctors, too. But I’m afraid I’ve simply run my course, and am soon approaching my end.

But I’m not planning on going anywhere without seeing you one last time. Not without seeing my dearest daughter, whose wings spread wider than Phia itself, and whose heart dwarfs even the great ocean that surrounds us.

I’ll be on my way in a few months, dear. Just give mummy some time to prepare.

And just know that no matter what you do, mummy will always be proud of you. That you will always be mummy's little scholar.

See you very soon,

Mummy

...

A few months.

She could beat her mother to it.

She returned the letter to its envelope, carefully placing it back atop the sack of coffee grounds before lifting both of them up. She felt her wings wave about slightly behind her as she steadied herself, eventually managing to walk her way back to the kitchen counter to plop the sack onto.

All she had to do was ask the Sahlbarid for a little bit more.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just a little bit more.”

She fetched a carafe from behind her, placing it onto the smooth mahogany of the countertop before turning to fetch a filter funnel and a piece of filter paper too.

She’d need horses, money, food…

She fixed the filter funnel into place atop the carafe, and began folding the filter paper into a cone. One crease, then another perpendicular to it.

She’d need a lot of things if she wanted to break back into Rosenlund-Oldenburg to see her mother again.

She fiddled with the thing for a good moment, finally managing to fight it into the rough shape that she desired.

“Ah, well,” she said. “I’m sure the Sahlbarid won’t mind. Especially if I can figure out however that thing is supposed to work. It’s from when I was ten, yeah," she reassured herself. "So I’m sure whatever it is is going to be profound.”

That was always how it was. The older drawings and sketches she’d made of fleeting dreams of guns she’d had when she was younger were often harder to decode, sure, but they almost always contained content that would significantly progress her understanding of the craft.

However that worked. Though, she’d already learned not to question the fact that she was the only winged person on the continent. She would learn soon enough not to waste her energy trying to figure out how the visions came to her in the first place.

She placed the filter paper into the funnel, watching it bounce back up slightly.

She pressed it down, pushing it against the walls, hoping that that would better mould it into the correct shape.

Nope.

The thing simply returned to the way it was, leaving gaps in between the funnel and itself.

She sighed.

Whatever.

She grabbed a small knife, making a small incision in the sack of coffee grounds. Cupping the opening to ensure nothing would spill out onto the counter, she carefully lifted it into place, slowly filling the filter paper with coffee grounds.

Now, once that was done and the grounds had pressed the paper into place– sealing it against the walls–, she grabbed a kettle still filled with decently hot water. She tilted it, letting steam and water flow into two streams from its opening, watching as the magical brown elixir that she always looked forward to drinking spilled into the carafe’s glass interior.

…

Wait a minute.

She stopped pouring, setting the kettle down to stare at the filter paper.

It was entirely sealed against the funnel, and she knew how the bullet worked now.

“It’s supposed to get it to fit!”

She scrambled her way back to the workshop, half-donning her boots and having to tiptoe her way to the workbench so that she could sit herself down by the blueprint and put them on properly.

“The iron cup, it’s just like the coffee grounds pressing against the filter paper,” she said to herself, grabbing the piece of parchment and holding it directly in front of her eyes in her mania of realisation. “The blackpowder hits the iron cup, the iron cup presses up against the back of the bullet, forcing it to take the shape of the cup and expand outwards– sealing it against the grooves!”

She looked around frantically, her eyes landing on one of the two rifle-bored muskets she had in storage.

She jumped from her seat, running to hoist it off its place on the wall.

She let it swing in her hands, positioning it so that she could look dead down its rifled barrel.

“That means the bullets don’t have to be perfectly made to fit the barrel,” she said, running the finger over the hole. “They can still be loose and easy to load, because they’ll just expand anyway at the back and grow to the perfect size!”

She lowered the gun, letting her eyes wander again– drifting as they perused the great collection of smoothbores she’d built up over the years.

If she could pull off manufacturing that bullet, then that would mean that every single one of the smoothbores would be able to make the transition to rifle-bored.

Her eyes landed on the greatest gun of the bunch– a roughly two-and-a-half metre behemoth of a firearm that she had crafted over the course of a few months as a test to see how far she could push the limits of her handiwork; to see how much firepower she could muster with her own two hands.

And she smiled.

“See you soon, Mother.”