The Thaladir embassy was a gilded monstrosity, all marble and stained glass. Lira met me in a hidden basement lined with tools and half-dismantled war relics. Her gown was gone, replaced by a leather smock, her hair tied back with grease-stained ribbon.
"You're late," she said, tossing me a blueprint. "I need a steam engine. Small enough to fit in a carriage, powerful enough to outrun cannon fire."
I studied the schematics. "Impossible. Steam cores this size overheat in minutes."
"Not if we use this." She held up a vial of the same shimmering black powder from the pistol.
"That's not steam fuel."
"No. It's better." She poured a drop into a prototype engine. The machine roared to life, pistons firing silently, no smoke or heat. "The Church calls it *Aetherium*. A energy source from the war. They've hoarded it for centuries."
My bracelet burned, its golden light reflecting in Lira's eager eyes. "Why trust me with this?"
"Because you're brilliant. And because you hate them as much as I do." She stepped closer. "Help me build an army, Jace. Not with steam. With *magic*."
Chapter 2b: Whispers in the Dark*
We worked for days, the Aetherium-fueled engine humming like a living thing. Lira's cold nobility melted as she tinkered, her laughter sharp and bright when the prototype hit speeds no steam engine could match.
"Imagine," she said, oil smeared on her cheek, "airships. Automatons. A world where we don't choke on coal and lies."
But that night, I found her in the embassy's library, pouring over maps of Church vaults. "They're stockpiling Aetherium beneath the cathedral," she said. "Enough to power a thousand wars."
"Or to rebuild a broken world," I countered.
She glared. "Don't be naive. The Church will burn kingdoms to keep this power. Just like they burned your parents."
I stiffened. "What?"
"They were relic hunters, Jace. The Church executed them for 'heresy' when you were a child. Your bracelet—it's one of their finds."
The room spun. "You knew."
"I *rescued* you," she snapped. "Now help me finish this. Or spend your life fixing ploughs while the world crumbles."
We argued until dawn. But as I left, a figure emerged from the alley—a priest in black robes, his eyes on my bracelet.
"Jace Veyren," he hissed. "The Church remembers your bloodline."