The old wooden clock by the main dining area of the inn pointed onward, like a compass guiding the way north. The tables and chairs were already arranged in place, prepared for the next morning’s breakfast service.

  Lorien lounged in one of the chairs, his leather shoes propped atop the table as he repeatedly tossed the Nebuchadnezzar’s vault into the air—catching it again with quiet precision.

  “Lorien, would you like to become God?”

  His eyes remained still, his mind adrift in he sensed as half-muttered words and blurred images echoing within—although no longer startling him as much as they once did.

  A few tables away, Larissa sat with Mosses. Unlike usual, her hair was loose and untied, framing her sharp features with a softened air. She twirled a strand idly between her fingers, laughing now and then before lifting a large wooden mug to her lips.

  Several emptied drinks stood between them, marking the passage of the evening. Mosses—tall, dark-skinned, with tight curls and an easy grin—drank with more restraint, though he guided the conversation with quiet authority.

  “The days in the barracks were never easy,” he said. “I was only able to drink like this a few times on the continent—right before we parted for the front lines. Once deployed, there was barely enough to eat or drink.”

  Larissa set her mug down and leaned forward, listening.

  “The C-rations—that’s what they called them—were mostly beans, meat, eggs, vegetables. You were lucky if you could trade your eggs for a cigarette, or whatever else someone scavenged from the ruins. Meanwhile, the parachute boys received K-rations—cigarettes, chocolate, whiskey…”

  “Princess boys… though parachuters had high mortality back then,” she replied with a faint smirk. “For us, there were plenty of chances to drink. Especially on weekends, when we were allowed to visit a nearby bar. Beer wasn’t rare.”

  “I can attest to that, Captain.”

  He adjusted his flat cap, earning a playful shove to the shoulder.

  Aside from Lorien and a handful of regulars, Mosses was the only person truly close to the keeper of the Heeler Inn. During night shifts, he filled the hall with saxophone melodies that drove weary workers to tap and dance.

  The instrument was common across the Republic. Yet in his hands, its controlled and monophonic tradition gave way to something explosive and alive—sound that seemed to bend the air itself.

  Drinking after closing was not unusual. Still, Lorien sensed something heavier that night. Mosses stared into his half-filled mug, smiling faintly at distant memories.

  “In any case… it has been a while.”

  Lorien knew the man had not always been a musician. He had fought in a war once. Yet the details were fragments at best, buried beneath movement and music. Only Larissa seemed to understand the weight behind his pauses.

  “It has been,” she said softly. “I’m sorry you couldn’t find what you were looking for.”

  “It’s not like I expected it to be easy,” he replied lightly, finishing his drink. “But with new places come new chances, right?”

  Larissa’s expression dimmed, sobriety settling over her features. “So you’ve decided to leave.”

  “An aristocrat from the West District offered me a position. He wants me to teach his son how to play like I do—said he found it amusing.”

  “That’ll help you widen your circles,” she answered. He nodded.

  “With enough luck, I’ll secure passage on the monthly transport to Selluvis. Maybe even beyond the Republic.”

  Silence followed. Then Mosses cleared his throat.

  “Larissa… I’m sorry I couldn’t help you find Thomas.”

  Her hazel eyes caught the lantern’s glow at the sound of the name.

  “It’s fine, Mosses. You’ve already done enough for my family. I owe you for that. If you ever need anything, you can count on me.”

  He rose and gathered his instrument cases. Though calm, fatigue lingered in the way he straightened his back.

  “I’ll send a worthy replacement for the shows.”

  A quiet laugh passed between them, heavy with shared understanding.

  “So it was all just a joke?” Lorien called from across the hall.

  Mosses smiled and approached him. “No lie. I am leaving the inn—for real. But I’m not leaving you two entirely. As long as I remain in New Liceas, I’ll visit.”

  He ruffled Lorien’s dark-blond hair before stepping out into the cold Licean night, instruments in hand.

  Silence soon followed, thick and hollow. Mosses had been more than an acquaintance. He had shared countless nights beneath the inn’s warm lanterns, and his absence reshaped the room in subtle ways.

  Still, Lorien understood the rhythm of the working class. Opportunity demanded movement. It would be foolish to resent a man for chasing better fortune.

  Yet when his gaze returned to the vault, temptation stirred.

  Would it also be alright if I sought my own gain?

  The previous day, he had slipped into the pantry and poured concentrated vinegar over the cloth holding what remained of the golden dust. The brightness had not faded. The dust had remained untarnished—quiet proof of the miracle.

  Now, as he sat alone, Larissa’s presence suddenly appeared beside him. He lowered his feet from the table at once.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked, eyes fixed on the vault.

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  He pressed it against his chest instinctively. “I found it with some scrap parts…”

  “Really?”

  The disbelief in her tone lingered, though she did not press further.

  Lorien swallowed. He found no courage to speak of the artifact, of Laplace, of the power to change the world. Those truths remained sealed within him.

  Not that I’ve done anything wrong, though…

  “In any case, don’t forget about church tomorrow,” she said before leaving him alone in the dim hall, thinking for his own.

  The next day, Lorien fell asleep over the grease-stained surface of his workstation, despite the clamor of hammers and soldering ringing through the workshop.

  Arin’Zenith’s arm draped across his shoulder stirred him awake.

  “Don’t feel discouraged about the board’s decision. I know you were eager, but there is still a long road ahead.”

  In truth, Lorien had been thinking of everything but that. He rose slowly and met his mentor’s gaze.

  “Professor Zenith… you already knew what was going to happen, didn’t you?”

  The man scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin, afternoon light reflecting across his bald scalp.

  “A setback doesn’t mean you must stop. It is a window to pause, reconsider, and improve. Tell me, Lorien—do you believe any of the board’s criticism was unjustified? Or irrational?”

  “Mostly not…”

  “I’m sure none of them meant to pin you down. We all acknowledge your talent, and it is for that very reason we wish to see you improve. Growth demands time, and time demands patience.”

  Though wise, the advice brought little relief. When Lorien closed his eyes, he saw only the same emptiness swallowing him whole.

  “Even then, what kind of trouble plagues you so deeply?” Zenith interjected, perceptive of the boy’s unrest.

  Unable to conceal his concern any longer, Lorien finally spoke—carefully choosing his words. “I want to solve problems. Yet the one problem before me feels unsolvable—unless turning trash into gold isn’t mere fiction… Do you think such a thing could be physically possible?”

  Zenith’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as he pinched the end of his moustache. A flicker of understanding passed across his features.

  “Well, you are young and impressionable, easily captivated by old stories. There is no shame in that—I once felt the same.” His gaze drifted, as though revisiting a buried memory. “There is wonder in changing the composition of things, but it is not worth growing impatient with the world.”

  “But is it possible?” Lorien insisted.

  Seeing the boy’s resolve, Zenith chose a different approach. “If you truly wish to know, perhaps you should visit the library. It holds books on many particular subjects—perhaps even the one calling to you.”

  The library building…

  “Still,” Zenith added, lowering his voice, “I advise caution. You are a grant-holder, sponsored by the Church of Possibilities. They do not look kindly upon such inquiries.”

  Legally, nothing in the Republic forbade that kind of curiosity. Religion and state, once united, now stood apart. Yet most citizens still followed the teachings of the Cult of Possibilities. Lorien’s own connection to the Church required careful steps in such matters.

  “I understand.”

  Not long after classes ended, the churches across the Skyport of New Liceas rang their bells in unison, the chime sending flocks of birds into flight. Though the Cathedral in the Central District thundered loudest, Lorien made his way to a smaller stone chapel near a park plaza in the heart of the East Port district, only streets away from the inn.

  He met Larissa at the entrance. Her usual apron and plain attire had been replaced by a long dark overcoat, a white linen shirt, and fitted trousers with polished boots. Her hair, almost always tied back, flowed freely in the wind.

  “And here I thought you would be late again,” she remarked, arms crossed.

  “I left early,” he replied without enthusiasm.

  She offered her arm with casual grace, and he stepped beside her. Together, they ascended the stone steps toward the solemn fa?ade.

  Two carved dragons supported the columns flanking the wooden doors—a common symbol of that faith. Though humbler than the grand cathedral, the chapel served both travelers and locals alike, a sanctuary before journeys to the surface or beyond the stars.

  Inside, dim light spilled across a single hall lined with wooden benches. Mosaics shimmered along the walls, vibrant glass recounting the Republic’s eras and sacred history.

  They took their seats among the gathering crowd. When the hour struck its first quarter, the chapel bell tolled once more in harmony with the distant cathedral.

  A tall priest emerged from the rear, robed in dark cloth embroidered with golden scales and wings. His bearing was noble, his presence calm—an air Lorien had long admired.

  “The first to witness the almighty Dragon was Gadan’Virion, saint and father of our church,” he began, voice deep and measured. “False gods roamed creation during the age of heresy, sowing chaos among our kind. Yet our one God rose above. Through His guidance, our ancestors beheld the miracle of the impossible made real—and turned their faith toward the soul’s salvation.”

  Lorien’s pupils remained widened, though weariness lingered beneath them.

  “The first saint spoke on our behalf: that we shall not pray to the possibilities with a one-sided heart. Where good dwells, evil lingers. Where fortune shines, loss follows. Only through both shall we grow, for hardship is the fire that tempers the soul.”

  He folded his hands. “Thus let us embody the will of our God through prayer.”

  As always, Lorien glanced at Larissa. She remained seated, arms crossed and chin lifted. She raised an eyebrow at him, prompting him to stand with the others.

  The faithful began to chant:

  “Give us highs, then give us lows; where there’s pain, grant joy.

  Give us wealth, but keep it scarce; unmeasured desires–control.

  Give us fear and make us brave; let it break, and let it mend.

  After dusk there’s dawn again; and between the stars–void.

  Give us hate then teach us love; make it rest, and make it toil.

  Give us journey, give us home; make it long, make it whole.

  Give us hope, then despair; after death–to be rebirth.”

  The priest raised his arms, voice resonating through the hall. “Remember the gospel of possibilities: we are shaped by what we are, as by what we are not. No limit binds what we may become. Thus we forge the will of dragons.”

  When Lorien lifted his gaze, he met the priest’s knowing smile—a silent promise of a conversation yet to come.

  The remainder of the ceremony unfolded with quiet grace. An hour later, the congregation dispersed, leaving the chapel hushed. Only Larissa and Lorien remained.

  She nudged him forward toward the altar, where the priest polished ceremonial trinkets.

  “Father Ben’Kairos,” she greeted.

  “Larissa Heeler,” he replied warmly, turning toward them. “A blessing to see you again—and you as well,” he added, resting a hand upon Lorien’s shoulder. “How fares academic life?”

  “Uh—good, I think,” Lorien stammered, earning a subtle nudge. “It’s going well, Father Ben. And… we are grateful for your help.”

  “There is no need for thanks. It would have been a sin to ignore such potential.” His eyes softened. “Still, you claim to be well, yet you appear weary.”

  “…It’s nothing. I’ve simply been thinking a great deal.”

  Father Ben nodded. “Despite your gifts, take care not to burn out. Sometimes life must be taken slowly. What we may become is important—but so is what we already are. Do not forget that.”

  Soon their conversation drifted to other matters: the inn, the East Port district, the passing of days.

  As they turned to leave, the priest’s voice echoed softly from the altar.

  “Lorien—let us speak again soon. I will pray that the possibilities grant you the time.”

  The boy with silver eyes bowed his head before stepping into the fading light, leaving the priest alone within the silent hall.