The heavy iron door of the Anvilrun Works didn't just open; it groaned as if the building itself was exhausted. Inside, the air was thick with the familiar, comforting stench of coal smoke and heavy oil.

  Marnie was already awake, perched on a high stool under a hiss-pipe lamp, scrubbing a gear with a wire brush. She didn't look up when they entered. "The sign says 'Closed,' unless you're here to tell me the city is falling into the sea, in which case, leave the gold on the counter and—"

  She stopped, her brass goggles sliding down her nose as her eyes landed on Aiven’s left arm.

  "By my ancestors' rusted hammers," Marnie breathed, hopping off her stool and stomping over. She grabbed Aiven’s brass wrist with a grip like a vice. "Aiven! I gave you a masterpiece of magi-mechanical engineering less than a week ago. How in the hell did you already turn the protective casing into a spiderweb of cracks? Did you try to punch a mountain?"

  Virelle drifted over them, her translucent sleeves fluttering in the heat of the forge. "Perhaps," she said, her voice dripping with aristocratic disdain, "it is simply that your masterpieces are nothing more than over-engineered junk."

  Marnie’s face turned a dangerous shade of beet-red. "Junk?! Listen here, Sparky! My gear out-performs every mainstream enchanted sword in the Guildhouse. I’ve never received a single complaint about durability in ten years!"

  "That is likely because no one survives the frequent explosions long enough to file a report," Virelle countered, her prismatic orb flashing a sharp, mocking violet.

  "I...might have overcharged it," Aiven interrupted, his voice quiet but steady. He looked at Marnie, who was currently squinting at the mana stone. "I did a mana blast. But I didn't stop at five seconds."

  Marnie froze. She looked up at him, her goggles reflecting the dying white light of the arm. "What do you mean you didn't stop? How long?"

  Aiven swallowed hard, the memory of the vampire’s smug face and the burning village flashing through his mind. "Almost twenty seconds."

  The workshop went silent. Even the rhythmic hiss of the pipes seemed to die down. Marnie let out a long, low whistle, her hands dropping from the arm.

  "Twenty seconds?" Marnie repeated, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "Lad, the five-second limit isn't a suggestion. It's a physical law. After five, the heat alone starts to warp the internal conduction lines. Why in the name of the Forge would you need to charge a blast for twenty seconds?"

  Aiven looked at his boots, then at Virelle, who was watching him with a sudden, intense focus.

  "It’s a long story," Aiven said. "But back there... I had to give it my best shot. I had to know I tried everything I could. If I hadn't, I would have regretted it for the rest of my life. I couldn't just stand by and watch anymore."

  Hearing that, Virelle’s prismatic orb began to pulse, its light growing brighter and warmer, shifting from its usual sharp violet to a soft, radiant lavender. A faint blush touched her cheeks, and she turned her head away, her hair hiding her expression.

  Marnie blinked, looking between Aiven’s determined face and the suddenly glowing mage. "What's wrong with her?" the dwarf grunted, gesturing toward Virelle. "She looks like she’s about to overheat."

  "N-Nothing is wrong!" Virelle snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She kept her gaze fixed on a shelf of rusted wrenches. "You might have simply spent too long in this greasy, dark warehouse so your eyes are overly sensitive to my brilliance. You should focus on solving my Master's problem instead of staring at me like a confused ox."

  Marnie snorted but turned her attention back to the Mark 3. She tapped the circular glass cage. "Kid, you're lucky you still have a torso. If you had held that charge for ten seconds more, the arm would have reached the absolute meltdown limit. The mana stone would have turned into a localized sun."

  Aiven nodded, taking mental note of the "thirty-second" warning. He knew he had pushed his luck, but looking at Virelle now, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

  "Can you fix it?" Aiven asked.

  Marnie hopped back onto her stool, already reaching for a specialized brass wrench. "Fix it? I’m an Anvilrun. I can swap out a cracked stone and a shattered casing in my sleep. It’s just a modular swap."

  She looked at the clock on the wall. "Give me fifteen minutes. I'll have the Mark 3 humming like it was born yesterday. But Aiven? Next time, try to remember that you're human, not a siege engine."

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Aiven leaned against a workbench, feeling a wave of exhaustion hit him as the adrenaline finally left his system. "I'll try," he whispered.

  Marnie blinked, looking between Aiven’s determined face and the suddenly glowing mage. She sighed, her engineering brain already pivoting to a solution. "Okay. I'm going to put a five-second physical limiter on the internal valve. It'll prevent the mana stone from drawing more power than the glass can hold. You won't be able to overcharge it again, even if you panic."

  Aiven looked at the cracked stone, then back at Marnie. "No. Don't put a limiter on it."

  Marnie stopped, her wrench halfway to the casing. "Are you thick? I just told you ten more seconds and you would've been injured. You're lucky you still have a head to put a hat on."

  "I know the risk," Aiven said, his voice dropping an octave. "But the things we're facing... they aren't standard monsters. If I'm backed into a corner, if I have to choose between a meltdown and letting someone I care about get taken... I need that extra power. Even if it kills me."

  Marnie stared at him for a long beat. She saw the look in his eyes—the kind of look men get when they realize the world isn't fair and they're the only ones holding the door. She shrugged. "Fine. Your funeral. Just don't come crying to me when your shoulder is in the next island over. I'll swap the stone and the casing, but I'm leaving the conduit wide open."

  Aiven nodded. "Thanks."

  Marnie hopped onto her stool and began to work. The workshop was filled with the sharp clack-hiss of pneumatic tools and the smell of ozone. Aiven sat on a nearby crate, resting his right hand on his knee.

  As the dwarf hammered and tinkered, Virelle drifted closer. She didn't say a word. Slowly, she descended until her feet were mere inches from the floor. She reached out, her porcelain fingers trembling slightly, and rested her hand directly on top of Aiven's right hand.

  Aiven jumped slightly, startled. He looked at her, his face flushing. "Virelle? What’s the matter?" he whispered.

  Virelle didn't look at him. She kept her eyes fixed on Marnie’s work, her thumb tracing the line of his knuckles with a slow, rhythmic motion. "I do not know," she replied, her voice soft and fragile. "I just... I felt like wanting the warmth from your hand, Master. Is it... a problem?"

  Aiven looked at her— the way her shoulder was leaning ever so slightly toward him. The girl without much memory of her past, with the only traces being that of destruction, and she had to shoulder a burden no one knew how heavy. Deep down, Aiven still had many questions, especially involving Lyra, but looking at Virelle’s face, those questions were buried temporarily.

  "No," Aiven said softly. "It's okay."

  He let her be. They sat in silence, two survivors tethered by a single point of warmth, while the industrial roar of Marnie’s machinery echoed around them.

  "Done," Marnie grunted, breaking the silence as she wiped her greasy hands on a rag. She hopped off her stool and signaled for Aiven to stand up. "Time for the re-sync. It shouldn't be as nasty as the first time since the interface already knows your mana frequency."

  She positioned the repaired Armvil Mark 3. With a practiced clack, the socket locked into place. Aiven braced for the lightning-strike pain he remembered from before, but this time it was merely a sharp, cold jolt—like plunging his shoulder into ice water. The white mana stone flickered once, then settled into a steady, calm glow.

  Aiven flexed the brass fingers, testing the tension. "Thank you, Marnie."

  "Yeah, yeah," Marnie said, pulling her goggles back up to her forehead. "Just listen to me: Measured responses, lad. Measured. Measure the level of the threat before you go deciding to turn yourself into a localized supernova. If you can solve a problem in five seconds, don't use twenty."

  Virelle drifted back into her usual hovering height, her theatrical smugness returning like a shield. She adjusted her translucent sleeves, her eyes flicking toward the dwarf. "My Master is perfectly aware of the parameters, Merchant. Do not underestimate his intelligence by constantly harping on the risks as if you were his mother. He has me to manage his safety; he does not need a lecture from a soot-covered gremlin."

  Marnie opened her mouth to deliver a particularly sharp retort about Virelle’s "safety management," but she was cut off by a sudden, heavy thud.

  BAM-BAM-BAM.

  A violent knocking rattled the iron door of the workshop. Marnie frowned, reaching for a heavy pipe-wrench. "We're closed! Can’t you see the sign?!"

  She marched over and unbolted the heavy latch. As soon as the door swung open, a blur of polished steel and dark blue fabric burst into the room.

  "Hey!" Marnie yelled, but she was cut off mid-shout. A soldier in heavy plate armor slammed into her, pinning her to the oil-slicked floor with a shield while another leveled a halberd at her throat.

  Aiven lunged to his feet, the Mark 3 whirring into a combat-ready hum, but he stopped as a dozen more figures flooded the workshop. These weren't adventurers. They were Aerilis Government Soldiers, their silver breastplates bearing the city’s crest, accompanied by mages wielding staffs that glowed with a suppressive blue light.

  The soldiers formed a semi-circle, swords drawn, surrounding Aiven and Virelle.

  A man stepped through the ranks. He wore a high-collared dark coat over a silver-trimmed uniform, his posture radiating a rigid, military authority. He had a scarred jaw and eyes that looked at Aiven as if he were a particularly troublesome insect on a ledger.

  "Aiven Roan," the man said, his voice cold and official. He flicked his gaze to Virelle, then back to Aiven. "And the unregistered entity known as Virelle. By order of the High Commander of Aerilis, you are both under arrest for the possession of prohibited anomalous artifacts."

  "Under arrest? Prohibited artifacts?" Aiven stammered, his brass hand clenching involuntarily. "We don’t have such-"

  "Quiet," the general-like figure commanded. He gestured to the suppressive mages. "Take them. If the anomaly resists, use lethal force."