Electrical Aether still coursing through his veins, Dellen pushed the gaseous copper-iron-zinc into Thaddeus and Thatch. He could not see their faces, but he could feel their bodies spasm beneath his hands.

A gout of metal and uncontrolled Electrical Aether bisected Thatch. Her halves dropped to the ground with a pair of dull thuds.

Thaddeus gasped in pain, “No,” he said.

Dellen pushed harder, “It didn’t have to be like this,” he groaned. The last of the gaseous metal left his palm and burrowed into Thaddeus. Separated from the table and the contact points, the Electrical Aether coursing through him died down. He could see the lines carving into Thaddeus slow and stop. He knew the metal was hardening, solidifying in place, torturing him.

Dellen slumped backward, even that simple action hurt.

Thaddeus collapsed onto the ground.

“Not bad,” Gilgamesh said.

Dellen nodded by way of reply and spared a glance for Thatch. The sudden cut had made Thatch’s death look clean, but he could see the edges were messy and burnt. Part Aether scorching and part runaway metal. It was hard to tell through the gore, but he thought he could see metal lacing on some of her bones.

His stomach heaved, his skin pulled against his failed forging, and pain visited.

He wiped his mouth and forced himself to stand and check on Thaddeus.

“Good work,” he said to Gilgamesh.

“I don’t like to be touched.”

“I know you don’t.”

“And I know you come back, but I still don’t like seeing you die.”

“Thanks,” Dellen said, feeling weary. He ignored the constant feeling of small knives under his skin and rolled Thaddeus over. The tall, proud, powerful Aetheric Cultivator was curled into a ball, hands over his midsection, breath rasping in and out in labored heaves.

“I think he’s in so much pain that he’s oblivious to everything else,” Gilgamesh said.

Pain in Dellen’s right hand pulled him away, he looked at the blood gushing from where Thatch had stabbed him.

Some of the horror of what he’d done to her receded.

“Now what?” He asked Gilgamesh, “There are still timers under the city.”

“Talk to Lady Victoria,” Gilgamesh said, “She might be able to get them located and removed.”

Dellen nodded, “Do you see any bandages? I need to do something for the blood loss.”

“Grab Thatch’s knife and cut some of her pant leg off.”

“It would be very helpful if you could touch things other than me,” Dellen said. He dragged himself across the floor, closer to Thatch’s knife, picked it up with his left hand, and cut off the least blood-soaked section of Thatch’s pants he could find.

Holding a crude strip of cloth, he bit down on his lower lip, bracing himself for the pain that was to come. His fingers trembled as he began to wrap the makeshift bandage around his hand. Every touch to the wound sent waves of pain radiating up his arm, causing his breath to hitch. His teeth dug into his lip, the taste of his blood mingling with the sweat on his tongue.

Tying the bandage as tightly as he could manage, Dellen watched as the cloth quickly soaked up the blood.

“Think that’ll last?”

“No,” Dellen grunted. He tied off the cloth, cut another strip, and repeated the process. By the time he was done, his clothes were soaked with blood and sweat.

“How are you going to get off of the ship?”

“I need to take some risks, I have to believe that most of the people here don’t know what they did,” Dellen said, nodding at Thaddeus and Thatch, “And if they don’t know that, and they were talking about making my death look like an accident, maybe I can just walk… Just hobble, off.”

“Dellen?” Gilgamesh sounded hesitant.

“Yes?”

“You know you might not be able to fix this botched forging, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you considered… Dying on purpose?”

“Yes,” Dellen said, “But if I’ve fixed the time loop, where does that leave me?”

“Ah,” Gilgamesh said, sounding disappointed.

Dellen scanned the room, “Help me find some clothes,” there were wall-mounted cupboards and rows of drawers where he might find stored equipment, or bandages. Nestled among them, Dellen hoped there might be a set of discarded clothes or even a uniform.

“Do you see anything?”

“No,” Gilgamesh said, “You’re going to have to open the drawers.”

Dellen forced himself up, breathing through the simple struggle of finding his feet.

His fingers brushed along the cold, metallic surfaces as he steadied himself against the counter, every movement causing his injured side to scream in protest. Sweat beaded on his brow, the dull echo of his heartbeat throbbing in his ears. He drew a steadying breath, grimacing at the coppery tang of his blood that still filled his nostrils. His hand landed on a drawer near the lower end of the wall.

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Pulling it open, he was greeted by an array of sterile surgical instruments, their cold, metallic surfaces gleaming ominously under the infirmary's bright lights. His hopes sank a little, but he forced himself to close it, gritting his teeth against the jolt of pain the movement elicited.

Next, he tried a cupboard. Rows of bandages and gauze greeted him, stacked with meticulous care.

Finally, the third cabinet. Folded neatly were spare garments. They were simple uniforms, colored in the dull greys and blues of the Aetheric Cultivators. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he pulled out the clothing. The fabric was coarse and practical, but it would serve his purpose.

His fingers fumbled with the pockets of his ruined attire, removing the few coins he still had. The clink of coins against coins seemed unbearably loud in the hushed silence of the infirmary. He transferred them to the pockets of the uniform, then slowly pulled the garments over his injured body. His skin protested at the contact with the rough fabric, his side sending fresh waves of agony at the disturbance.

With a deep, ragged breath, he forced himself away from the counter. The agonizing effort to move each foot forward was written clearly on his face, though he did his best to keep any outward signs of pain to a minimum.

He shuffled out of the infirmary, every step a test of his will, leaning against the wall for support. The ship was relatively quiet at this hour, but the possibility of running into a familiar face was ever-present, a risk he had to take.

He moved down the corridor, every so often passing other members of the crew. He did his best to avoid their gazes, it was unlikely, but someone might recognize him and ask questions.

Gilgamesh scouted ahead, finding him a path to a dock.

The sound of work, of airships docking and undocking, grew louder as he approached the exit. He limped towards the end of a gangway, squinting in the sudden burst of daylight. Below him, the hustle and bustle of the dock area provided a stark contrast to the tense silence of the corridors. Crews hurriedly moved around, loading and unloading supplies onto the airships.

He made his way down a service stairwell, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the railing for support. He scanned the area for a carriage that could take him away from this place. Off to the side, he saw a group of drivers chatting while waiting for passengers.

“It’s surprising they allow drivers to wait here, they always struck me as so private,” Gilgamesh said.

“Even they need to go down to the city, it would be inconvenient for them if they had to send someone like Tristan to find a carriage for them,” Dellen said through gritted teeth.

Mustering the last of his strength, he shuffled towards the carriages. As he neared the drivers, one of them noticed his condition. The driver, a middle-aged man with a bushy beard, took one look at Dellen, and his eyes widened. Without a word, he jumped off his perch, offering a steadying hand as he helped Dellen into the carriage.

"Where to?" the driver asked, concern evident in his eyes.

“The Lockridge Estate,” Dellen managed to gasp out, his strength finally giving out as he collapsed back into the seat. With Thaddeus and Thatch incapacitated, he assumed it did not matter if anyone knew where he went next, if anyone was even still looking for him.

The journey back to the House Lockridge was a blur, a patchwork of disjointed memories and sensations. He vaguely recalled the gentle motion of the carriage, the hum of the engines, and the constant, gnawing pain.

The carriage landed at the grand gates of the Lockridge estate. As the driver helped him, Dellen stumbled, gritting his teeth as pain lanced through his side. He walked perhaps ten feet from the carriage before the estate doors opened and footmen spilled out.

The footmen, dressed in the immaculate livery of House Lockridge, reacted immediately to Dellen's state. Two of them rushed forward, their eyes wide with alarm. "Lord Northcote!" one gasped, his voice a shocked whisper.

With careful efficiency, they moved to Dellen's sides, looping his arms over their shoulders. Despite their caution, Dellen couldn't suppress a sharp gasp as a jolt of pain shot through him. He bit his lip, refusing to show more discomfort than necessary.

One of the footmen called back to the house, and another two men hurried out, bringing a sturdy wooden chair, its cushioned seat providing at least some comfort. They set it down beside Dellen and eased him into the chair together.

"Careful now, Lord Northcote," said one, his voice gentle and reassuring. His concern was genuine, but Dellen barely registered it, his focus solely on enduring the pain.

They lifted the chair, moving with an ease born of training and experience. The journey through the manicured gardens and opulent halls of the estate was a blur to Dellen. The marble floors gleamed under the soft light of crystal chandeliers, but Dellen had eyes for none of it.

Finally, they reached the private parlor of Lady Victoria. They set the chair down as gently as they could, but the jostling still elicited a wince from Dellen. His eyes found Lady Victoria, her face a mask of concern and shock.

"Dellen... what happened?" she asked, quickly crossing the room to his side, worry etching lines in her normally calm countenance.

“Forging mishap,” he groaned, “I have a great deal of metal cutting into my skin from within.”

Lady Lockridge didn’t say anything, but her face took on a paler hue.

“Thaddeus and Thatch caught me and tried to torture your name out of me.” He coughed, then grimaced at the burning in his chest and stomach, “I was… lucky… and managed to push gaseous metals into both of them, it killed Thatch, and I think I may have crippled Thaddeus.”

Lady Victoria’s eyes grew larger as he went on; she looked at Gilgamesh, “Do you have anything to add?”

“It was messy.”

Lady Victoria nodded, “So the city is safe?”

“Maybe, do you think you have the influence to have the constables check for sabotage? I’m sure there are infusers in place.” Gilgamesh said.

Dellen nodded his agreement.

“Let’s get you on bed rest.” Lady Victoria said, her voice soft and reassuring, “I’ll see to the infusers.”

Nodding gratefully, Dellen relaxed back into the chair as much as his injuries allowed, his face a mask of exhaustion and pain. He watched Lady Victoria rise from her seat, her face determined. "I will contact the constabulary and ensure they initiate an investigation immediately.”

She moved toward the door, pausing to look back at Dellen. Her eyes softened. "And don't you worry, Lord Northcote. We will take care of you."

With those comforting words, she left the room, her skirts rustling softly as the door closed. Dellen was left in the company of a quartet of footmen, their faces etched with concern and alarm.

Gently, they carried his chair through the ornate hallways of the estate, their destination a guest suite in a quieter wing. The room was spacious and well-appointed, with a large bed at the center, its sheets turned down in anticipation of his arrival.

With the footmen's assistance, Dellen made his way to the bed. There, he collapsed. He felt like a broken puppet. It hurt to stay still and hurt even more to move.

The door opened, and Philip Deoden, the Lockridge physician, strode in. “What did you do to yourself?” He asked in a shocked voice.

“Botched forging,” Dellen said, not wanting to explain further.

“I don’t know if I can fix this.”

“Just give me something to numb it.”

"Understood," Philip murmured, pulling a small vial from his medical kit. His hands were steady, his movements practiced and efficient as he prepared a dose of a dark, viscous substance. "This will alleviate the pain, but I must warn you that it might also make you drowsy."

"Drowsy is welcome,” Dellen replied, holding back a grimace.

With a nod, Philip leaned forward, helping Dellen take the draught. The medicine was bitter, an unpleasant taste spreading across his tongue, but Dellen swallowed it all the same. Within moments, he could already feel a slight numbing sensation, the intense pain in his side easing a fraction.

Philip watched him closely, then sighed. “This is a temporary solution, not a permanent one,” he warned, his tone solemn. "You've inflicted a serious injury, one that requires proper treatment, if it’s even possible. But for now, rest. We will discuss further options in the morning."

Four days later the time loop reset.