My name is Jace, and I've spent seventeen years surviving in the shadows of a world that forgot its own history. Two centuries ago, the Great War between the kingdoms of Varyon and Thaladir nearly scorched the earth to ash. They say the kings wielded weapons that could level mountains, powered by machines no one understands anymore. Now, steam engines hiss in the streets of Varyon's capital, Ironreach, but they're clunky, unreliable things—toys compared to the legends.
I tightened the bolts on a broken steam-powered plough, the brass bracelet on my wrist humming faintly as I worked. The relic was the only thing my parents left me before they vanished. When I touched machinery, its intricate gears glowed gold, showing me weaknesses, solutions, *secrets*. To everyone else, it was junk. To me, it was a lifeline.
The forge's bell jingled. I didn't look up. "If you're here about the boiler repair, it's not ready. Come back tomorrow."
"I'm not here for boilers."
The voice was sharp, aristocratic, and utterly bored. I turned to see a girl my age, her emerald gown too fine for the soot-stained district. Chestnut hair coiled in braids beneath a lace veil, and her gloved hands clutched a leather satchel. But her eyes—pale blue and piercing—held a hunger that didn't match her noble poise.
"You're the tinkerer they call *Bracelet*," she said. "I need you to fix this."
She unzipped the satchel, revealing a pistol. Not the crude steam-powered kind the city guards carried. This was sleek, its barrel etched with spirals, its chamber glowing faintly violet. My bracelet flared, its warmth searing my skin as visions flashed—a crack in the pistol's core, a fracture in its fuel line.
"Where did you get this?" I breathed.
"That's none of your concern. Can you repair it?"
I hesitated. The design was ancient, far beyond the steam tech of today. But the bracelet's pulse guided my fingers. "Yes. For double your usual rate."
She smirked. "I'm Lira Thaladir. And if you succeed, I'll pay you ten times that."
*Thaladir*. The rival kingdom. The name alone could get her hanged here.
Chapter 1b: Sparks of Rebellion**
Lira watched silently as I worked, her gaze dissecting every tool I touched. The pistol's core was damaged, its fuel—a shimmering black powder—leaking from a cracked vial. My bracelet's glow intensified, revealing symbols etched inside the metal. *Old language*. Words from the war era, forbidden now.
"This isn't steam-powered," I muttered. "What's the fuel?"
"A relic," she said. "From the Great War. The Church calls it 'heretical.' They'd burn us both if they knew it existed."
I froze. "Why bring it here? Why *me*?"
"Because you're the only one in this rotting city who doesn't stare at machines like they're witchcraft." She leaned closer, her perfume smoky, dangerous. "And because that bracelet of yours… it's not just a tool, is it? You *see* things others can't."
The Church's warnings echoed in my head. *All relics of the war are cursed.* But the pistol's design—it was *beautiful*. Precision like poetry. I replaced the cracked vial with a reinforced glass chamber, sealing it with a alloy the bracelet's visions suggested.
When I handed it back, Lira tested the weight, then aimed it at a rusted gear on the wall. She pulled the trigger.
A beam of violet light lanced out, vaporizing the metal.
"Fascinating," she whispered. "You repaired a weapon lost to time in three hours."
"You're welcome," I snapped, though my heart raced. "Now pay up."
She tossed a coin pouch on the bench. "Come to the Thaladir embassy tomorrow. I have a proposition."
"Why would I work for you?"
"Because you're bored." She swept toward the door. "And because the Church is lying to us. This fuel—this *magic*—they've hidden it. Buried it. And I intend to steal it."