A Perverted Path to Victory

David Brown

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On principle, he had nothing but praise for how his daughter had designed the seat of Tulian’s government. The name alone, “Peasant’s Theatre,” was hilarious. David loved that part. But even on its own, the building she’d commissioned the construction of was a very interesting piece of architecture.

Some people had some serious problems with it. But nobody could deny it was interesting.

The five pentagonal streets leading to and from the Peasant’s Theatre had been widened considerably, ultimately stretching three times the width of other Tulian roads. Innumerable alleyways cut through the buildings which separated them, slicing at sharp and irregular angles, creating a spider’s web of pleasantly sparse foot traffic that radiated outward from the Theatre itself. The building had plenty of natural light from its many, many windows, allowing a good view of the surrounding grassy park with its numerous benches and tables that the Ministers frequently took their lunches at. It was a very beautiful part of the city, sure to become a treasured nugget of historical architecture as the Tulian republic developed its own rich history.

The Peasant’s Theatre interior was similarly unique. Once one stepped through the humble entryways, of which there were nearly a dozen, they climbed a short flight of stairs before coming to the railing which allowed them to look down on the Tulian Parliament at work. The entirety of Parliament was dug into the ground, concentric rings of seats allowing those behind to have a clear view of the speaker at the center. The Minister’s seats were plain, uncushioned wood, and they had a simple flat desk to lay their materials on, but even without having spent a coin on embellishments, the entire building belied a subtle, graceful elegance.

But that wasn’t why Sara had designed it so.

Buildings had been knocked down and the streets widened not to aid traffic, but to make it harder for guards to secure it against rioters. A mob thousands strong could roar down the street at a dead sprint without a thing in their way, countless alleyways allowing the more canny dissidents to sneak and slip their way around any barricade. The buildings nearest the Peasant’s Theatre had their windows sealed off, preventing gunmen from firing down onto the open plaza, which had trees, benches, and tables set at too irregular a frequency to easily stretch defensive troops between. The bottom floor of the Peasant’s Theatre seemed to have more glass than wood, the windows designed to be thin and fragile– easy to shatter with even the weakest of tossed objects. Even if the windows were someday enchanted for sturdiness, the many entrances would allow a mob to gain access regardless.

The interior further developed the theme. The pit in which the Parliament sat was one of the lowest points in the city, ensuring that any damage suffered by Tulian during its common typhoons would be felt first by the Ministers. If any part of the city flooded, so too would the Peasant’s Theatre. The seats, benches, and walls being built of wood was a deliberate choice; they could have gone for concrete, which had become something of a Tulian symbol of progress. Yet Sara had wanted to ensure that the building could burn just as easily as the rest of the city. She’d even briefly considered constructing wooden bridges that connected the Peasant’s Theatre to the surrounding buildings, in order to ensure that a fire could spread to the seat of governance more easily. She’d only axed the idea out of concern that government sharpshooters could use them to suppress a crowd below.

As far as David was aware, no capital in Earthly history had been designed to fail as spectacularly as the Peasant’s Theatre. Sara cared for governmental stability, true, but it was a distant concern next to her frothing hatred of dictatorship. As far as she was concerned, the entirety of Tulian would be better off broken into a bonfire’s kindling before it spent a single day under the boot of a tyrant.

Yes, David reflected, the Peasant’s Theatre was a brilliant reflection of his daughter’s values. Extreme, prepared for violence, and designed to empower the common man. No Tulian Minister could walk into the building without understanding just how profoundly vulnerable they were to the mercies of the people they represented. Even if he disagreed with just how far she’d taken her ideas (how many times would the fragile thing have to be rebuilt over the coming years?), he was proud of how well she’d executed her plan.

David just wished that he wasn’t the subject of the building’s campaign of psychological warfare.

With a thick sheaf of twine-bound papers in his hand, David shuffled his way down the steps, moving toward the pulpit at the deep center of the Parliamentary Hall. He mostly passed empty seats as he went; Sara knew that Tulian, once given access to fertilizers and other modern conveniences, would explode in population. Though there were currently a handful more than a hundred Ministers serving Tulian’s people, there were seats enough for a thousand. Most clustered near the bottom of the pit, to best hear the speaker.

As he neared the denser collection of Ministers, heads began to turn. Conversations halted, replaced by murmurs and whispers. Chairs were scooted forward, papers were set aside, and throats were cleared. Several Ministers sitting nearest the aisle blatantly turned their heads like owls, trying to catch a glimpse of the sheets of paper David carried, hoping to have the slightest preview of his investigation’s findings. He kept the report close, pointedly keeping a blank sheet facing outward.

As he stepped down the last step, David took a deep breath. The speaking pulpit was empty already, of course. This Parliamentary Session had been called specifically for him, and no one else would have the right to speak unless he ceded his time to them.

He walked to the center. He placed his papers on the pulpit, ignoring the growing whispers as he carefully undid the string keeping the sheets together. Two crystals were placed on the pulpit: one for his personal use, and one that connected to the larger network. He didn’t let himself look up at the many faces staring at him, but he felt their eyes all the same. He could feel sweat beginning to bead at his brow. He licked his lips and found his tongue dry as sandpaper. He reached down to one of his pockets and pulled out a water canteen, taking a long, long drink. He set it on the pulpit beside the papers. He had a feeling he’d need a lot of it.

Then he dared to look up.

The Tulian Ministers were staring at him, one and all. They were a collection of faces that would have been impossible for David to fathom even a year ago; tusked and green-faced orcs, multi-colored catfolk, and innumerable humans of races and countenances which didn’t map to any he’d known on Earth. Up above, ringing the entirety of the Parliament, was a vast and teeming crowd of civilian spectators. They were packed in so tightly, leaning so far forward, that David was worried about the integrity of the wooden railing holding them back. He could only hope it didn’t fail, sending them plummeting twenty feet down.

One by one, everyone in the room fell silent. The Ministers, the civilians, they all stilled. David cleared his throat.

He cleared it again.

He looked down at his paper, adjusting the stack.

He looked back up and took a breath.

And cleared his throat.

The anxiety in the air was palpable. Voices began to rise once more, under-the-breath comments muttered to neighbors. David was sweating properly now, and he could feel it staining his armpits. He’d smell awful after this.

Then, so abruptly that it made him jump, a whisper wormed its way into his ear.

“You are merely reciting a paper you wrote,” Garen’s familiar, calm voice told him. “It is as simple a task as all the other lectures of yours that I have attended. You are a fine orator, Professor Brown, and you are the one with the facts. It is not your job to politick; you are here to educate them. A task at which you excel.”

The whisper faded. No one else had heard it, of course. David’s eyes flicked up to the railing, looking for Garen. The archmage, as per Sara’s laws, had no special authority in Tulian. He was just another civilian among hundreds. David couldn’t pick him out of the crowd.

But his words rang true. What David had before him was not a political manifesto. It was a rote litany of facts, the result of exhausting days and sleepless nights spent investigating something for which he was the only individual in the world qualified to analyze.

This is not a speech, he thought to himself, trying to press the thought into his skull, it is a lecture. It’s my job to teach, and theirs to learn. That’s all.

He took one deep, final breath.

“The Sauvin Powder Mill,” he began, casting his voice across the vast chamber, “suffered a catastrophic explosion four days ago, at approximately 7:30 am. Of the three hundred and eighty-five workers, two hundred and forty died in the initial blast. A further fifty-five died as a result of their wounds before Healers could arrive. The following report makes heavy use of the remaining survivor’s testaments, as well as extensive mathematical and magical investigative methodologies, which this report will do its best to explain in the simplest of terms. Though I am the only person speaking before you, the report I am dictating is signed and endorsed by no less than eleven of Tulian’s finest mages, artificers, and engineers.”

He paused to flip the page. Steeling himself, he read the first line of the summary.

“It is the conclusion of this report that the detonation of the Sauvin Powder Mill was an act of intentional sabotage.”

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Sara Brown

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The meeting of the First Blackpowder Army’s commanders was an agonizingly slow affair. It normally would have been made far more palatable by the presence of Evie in her lap, the stroking and petting of her wife a fine distraction as members of various Houses vied for the recognition of General Borek by offering ever-more convoluted plans, but she wasn’t there. This was an emergency meeting that had been called just after Evie had left with her collar on, going to help Mui with his training. Sara had been nervous about limiting her wife to the combat skill of a Fourth Level Irregular, but she’d insisted it was safe. The broken collar could be easily removed, after all.

Even as military officers bickered around her, frustration and anger warring in their voice, Sara couldn’t help but miss Evie. It was the first meeting she’d attended in gods-knew-how-long without her Feline wife.

The meeting’s purpose should have kept her interest. Griffon reports had come in of a large Rebel army marching northward, a force large enough that they were forced to split themselves along three separate roads. Judging by their heading, they were making their way to the jungle’s edge. There was no Imperial city for them to capture in that direction, and the motley collection of farming villages in their path wouldn’t contain enough food to feed their soldiers, much less be the reason for their advance.

“It is clear that they are seeking to use the same strategy you yourself once employed, General Borek,” an officer insisted. Chaya was a Lieutenant only, but from Sara’s study of the political dimensions of the Empire, her House’s authority granted her leeway beyond her comparatively humble military rank. “They will use the open plains of the north to rapidly traverse en-masse, reentering the Empire’s borders when and where they please.”

“What makes you so certain the intelligence of our spies has grown so inaccurate?" Another woman snapped. She was a Colonel, but from a weaker Imperial dynasty, and resented Lieutenant Chaya’s abuse of her House’s status to butt in on conversations where she did not ‘belong.’ “For years now it has been all but certain that the isolationist faction reigns supreme amongst the illegitimate Empire. Why would they dare to expose themselves to the greater world now, after so much effort expended to hide their weakened state from the world’s predators?”

Rather than the first woman, it was Mage Mayaran who responded. The elven woman was wearing her battle robes, so heavily enchanted that they lit the tent as much as the crystal lights decorating the table.

“Because we have broken our isolationist status ourselves,” the elf said, a sneer to her words. “Our involvement with the city-state of Tulian has revealed the Empire’s civil war as surely as any of their own efforts might have. Our meddling in the outside world has prompted them to do the same, but unlike us, they are doubtlessly seeking more powerful allies.”

Sara knew bait when she saw it. Calling Tulian a city-state, despite the Imperial Adjutant formally recognizing the entirety of the former Tulian Kingdom’s territory as belonging to the Tulian Republic, was as direct a provocation as one could manage in the exceedingly polite realm of Imperial politics. Mayaran may as well have said that the Empire would be better off abandoning its involvement with Tulian– and thus the Powdered Lead– entirely.

Unfortunately, Sara wasn’t very good at ignoring bait.

“More powerful allies?” She asked, smirking. “And who would that be? One of the fractured western kingdoms, who can barely levy an army twenty thousand strong? Surely not. Or are speaking of the Sporaton Kingdom, whose armies were so recently shattered by Tulian forces a fraction of their size?”

Mayaran used a finger to sweep her dark hair back behind her ears, highlighting their long elvish tips. Sara had noticed it as a habit she fell back on when she felt her authority was being challenged.

“Defeating a fractional tithe of the Sporaton Kingdom’s military is impressive for so insignificant a people, Honored Chosen,” Mayaran politely agreed, “but is it not true that the treaty between our peoples includes provisions for Imperial defense from Sporaton aggression? Hardly an article I imagine you would have negotiated if you did not fear an assault from your northern neighbors.” Mayaran looked around the tent, meeting eyes in turn. “I believe that we must consider that the Rebel army does not intend to cease marching north once they exit the jungle. The possibility of a joint assault by the Rebellion and Sporatos must be something that concerns you deeply.”

“It does not, in fact,” Sara stated confidently. “Though the hypothetical is concerning, I am confident that the reality will not come to pass. The Rebellion lacks the resources and motivation to attack Tulian, something you must realize. How is it that you claim Tulian is too weak to be a valuable ally, yet important enough to be a target for the Rebellion? You argue with a mind for insults, not reason.”

“That is enough, General Brown,” Borek interjected. “Your point is made.” He rapped a knuckle on the table. “I hereby declare that, for the purposes of this discussion, the exact objectives of the Rebel army is immaterial. The fact remains that we are in a position to intercept them, and therein lies the crux of our dilemma. To utilize the First Blackpowder Army’s weaponry to destroy a superior army is an opportunity that cannot be missed. The question I called you here to answer is thus: are our weapons superior enough to manage the feat?”

Sara sat back as the wheel of debate turned, satisfied. Across the tent, Mayaran glowered at her. Sara stared back.

To her continued frustration, Sara hadn’t yet determined the exact origin of Mayaran’s animosity. She seemed equally eager to rail against Sara herself, the Tulian Republic, or firearms as a whole. All aspects of what Sara brought to the Empire were the elven woman’s targets. Sara’s Blessings told her that Mayaran was not a traitor to her Empire; she was loyal and invested in the True Adjutant’s success, a rare attribute for the otherwise aloof elves of the Empire. She was no cultist, either, as Sara’s Blessings would have been screaming such from their very first meeting.

At the end of the day, all her Blessings could determine was that the woman was deeply invested in opposing Sara. Mayaran clearly disliked her on a personal level, but that wasn’t exceptional. Sara and her wives were far too crass to win friends among the Imperial elite. Mayaran also clearly hated the advent of gunpowder weapons, yet she’d not tried to oppose their adoption in the slightest. She recognized the value of firearms, yet seemingly wished they didn’t exist at all.

As best Sara could tell, at the end of the day, Mayaran disliked Sara for the most primitive of reasons: pettiness. Sara was a Chosen, a woman from another world who was revolutionizing everything about Mayaran’s home. She was an elf who had lived for seventy years in an unchanging land, preparing herself to excel in the same environment that her predecessors had known for thousands of years. Sara had not just jeopardized that, she had ruined it. Mayaran’s life would never be the same, and all her plans had become null and void. She hated Sara for that.

But there’s something more, isn’t there? Sara thought, imagining herself projecting the words into Mayaran’s head as they locked eyes. There’s something driving you that even you don’t understand. What is it?

Evie had her own theories, of course. First and foremost was that, knowing of Sara’s near-flawless ability to read the motivations of others, Mayaran had used spells to intentionally lock away knowledge of her ire’s origin, leaving only enough traces to motivate her to behave as she would otherwise. Chopping out pieces of one’s memories was a tactic Evie’s mother had forced upon her family’s spies in order to keep their work secure. Sara doubted Mayaran would willingly undergo something so terribly invasive, however. So it remained a mystery.

To her great relief, Sara’s pocket began to buzz. It was the crystal which was directly connected to her dad, not the general Tulian communication network. That meant it was an important enough message that she could be excused for leaving the agonizing meeting.

Murmuring all the right apologies, Sara excused herself. It took some time to extract herself with the appropriate level of grace, so when she finally stepped outside and managed to move far enough away that she wouldn’t be overheard, it had been several minutes since the first buzz had caught her attention. Curiously, her dad hadn’t stopped talking the entire time. Sara suspected she knew what was going on.

She took the crystal out of her pocket and put it to her ear just as she caught sight of Mui walking his way up the army’s column. He had a concerned look on his face, and opened his mouth to speak, but Sara held a finger up, asking for him to wait. After listening for a moment to confirm that the message was what she assumed it to be, she loosened her hand a bit so he could hear too.

“...reports indicate no less than three fires were started simultaneously, in three separate storage areas. As you can imagine, the odds of this occurring by chance are incredibly slim. Though fire-fighting efforts began immediately, they were hampered by the total failure of the water piping system, despite multiple attempts across the Mill to activate the sprinklers.”

Sara put the crystal aside, whispering an explanation to Mui. “It’s my dad’s report on the powder mill explosion. He’s talking to Tulian’s Parliament right now.”

Mui gave her an odd look. One that almost seemed dazed, like someone who’d suffered a blow to the head. Sara hoped Evie hadn’t gone too far in their training.

“...despite this, no survivors reported unfamiliar faces. The security of Sauvin’s Powder Mill was exceptional, and though there were too many workers for all to be deeply familiar with one another, an unknown face would have been recognized. If this is the case, after consultation with Archmage Garen, two possibilities remain: that of a long-implanted spy amongst the mill’s workers, or infiltration by a mage skilled enough to replicate not just appearances, but physical textures, successfully fooling the facility’s guards.”

Mui’s dazed expression grew more alert as he listened. Sara had told him about the powder mill incident, but she hadn’t gone into depth. It seemed the full implication of it was beginning to hit him.

“Is Tulian going to war?” He asked, keeping his voice lowered.

“Maybe,” Sara whispered back. “But it’s not like we’ve been at peace since Sporatos left. They never recognized our government, they never dropped their claims on their territory. I didn’t expect their first attack to be this bad, but I knew it was going to happen eventually.”

Mui nodded, accepting the statement at face value. In truth, when she’d heard the news, Sara had flung into a rage. She’d wanted to march the Powdered Lead straight back to the coast, board them on Tulian warships, and bombard the first Sporaton city the wind blew them towards. It had taken Evie hours to talk her down, describing the centuries-old practice of constant border skirmishes between rival Kingdoms and States that was the standard on the continent. Though Sara had still been furious, Evie had successfully convinced her that, if it truly was an act of Sporaton sabotage, they should respond proportionally. Reacting to what the Sporaton nobility viewed as a “simple raid” by shelling an entire city would give the Sporaton pro-war faction an overwhelming advantage. Meanwhile, the longer Tulian could forestall the coming war, the more powerful they’d be when it finally came.

As these thoughts went through her head, however, Sara found herself increasingly distracted by Mui’s expression. He looked deeply, deeply troubled. The temptation to flick on her Blessings teased at Sara, but she held back. Mui had become someone she cared for, and she respected his privacy enough to not pry.

Magically, at least.

“Is something the matter? What’s up?”

Mui blinked, looking at her. Then he glanced at the crystal. His tongue darted out of his muzzle, running over his whiskers.

“Ah…” He seemed to be struggling for words. “This is… yes, there is. But Sara, if you do not mind, I would ask that you do not pry. I would like to think things over before I speak of it.”

Her eyebrows raised. Sara had told Mui plenty about her modern ideas of how to have a respectful, communicative relationship, but for the most part, she’d had to forcibly squeeze any kind of direct statement from him. Mui was too wrapped up in his ideas of what was proper to outright state his intentions– until now, apparently.

Sara nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it. You can let me know whenever you feel comfortable.”

“Thank you.” His throat flexed as he swallowed. “Now please, I did not mean to distract you.”

Sara turned her attention back to the crystal, doing her best not to wonder what had happened in the brief few hours since she’d last seen Mui.

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Ignite Parables

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The meeting in the Waverake’s stately cabin had been called with so much urgency that he had first feared Captain Nora was preparing to abandon ship. Her crystalline voice had cracked across the ship, ordering the many officers of the vessel to drop all duties and attend her immediately. Ignite had been one of nearly forty other officers who had sprinted to the cabin, his heart pounding in his chest.

The true purpose of the meeting had been both a relief and a terror.

“...despite the presence of Sporaton Magecraft within Tulian territorial waters,” David Brown was saying, oblivious to the officers of the Waverake hanging onto his every word, “it is the opinion of Admirals B’Leary and O’Gallison that the timing of their arrival was, if not definitively coincidental, at least not directly associated with the explosion. Per their calculations, based on the two sightings of the Sporaton fleet and the known winds at this time of year, the Magecraft could have closed within a maximum of twenty-five miles of the Sauvin Powder Mill’s associated river mouth. Not close enough to drop off an agent in time for them to reach the sight and prepare an act of sabotage. Further, it is the opinion of the Admirals that the most likely cause of the Sporaton fleet’s presence was a mission of simple reconnaissance. It is not unusual for navies to test the borders of their rivals, and the behavior of the Sporaton Magecraft map near-exactly to such behavior.”

A furious rumble echoed in the cabin. The officers of the Waverake, though they hadn’t seen Tulian shores in months, considered themselves amongst the most loyal of the fledgling Republic’s citizenry. That the Sporaton naval forces had so brazenly violated Tulian sovereignty without so much as sighting a Tulian vessel of war was profoundly offensive. Listening to the whispers, it was clear that they thought such a failure would never have occurred if the Waverake had been in her home waters.

“It is also the opinion of Admirals B’Leary and O’Gallison that even if a Sporaton vessel was responsible for transporting the sabotage agent to Tulian, they would not have made use of a Magecraft to do so, much less a fleet. The naval border between the two nations is porous enough that any number of simple fishing vessels could have slipped through without issue, while attracting far less attention than the massing of what appears to be every single remaining Sporaton Magecraft.”

Nods made their way around the Waverake’s cabin. Ignite agreed with the assessment. Magecraft were ostentatious vessels of war. With the exception of Carrion piratebane ships, they were not sent on missions of stealth.

“In regards to the possibility of Sporaton infiltrators using the largely unguarded Tulian coastline to insert themselves amongst Tulian, the Governess herself assures that there are security measures in place which are capable of identifying interlopers…”

As the Professor’s lecture moved away from matters of the navy, the attention of the officers waned. Clouded expressions and furrowed brows traded dark remarks, a palpable sense of unease permeating the room.

Ignite did not join the conversations, but he did pay close attention. It was clear that there was considerable discontent amongst the crew regarding their being some thousand miles away from Tulian at such a crucial moment. Ignite had once warned Captain Nora that the crew would not suffer abandoning their new nation forever. It seemed the time was running out.

Captain Nora was not ignorant of this. From her position at the head of a long table, she swept the speaking crystal into a pocket, silencing it. The crew’s conversations rapidly dissolved, all eyes turning toward their captain.

Nora O’Gallison stood, pressing both hands down on the table. Her metal leg let out a small creak as she rose, terribly loud in the thick silence. She slid her gaze across the room, left to right, meeting as many eyes as she was able.

“We,” she announced, imbuing the word with a grandiose aura, “are going to accelerate our plans. The Locks of the Sea must shatter. Daylagon himself has given me this task.” Her cerulean eyes seemed to glow in the dim cabin. “I am eager to serve his will. But I am more eager to earn the reward of a god–” White teeth flashed a predator’s grin. “–so that we might unleash that gift upon the Sporaton Navy.” She waved, a dismissive gesture. “My patience has run its course. To your stations. Navigator, plot a course for the Locks.”

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Tinvel

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The sounds of Professor Brown’s speech were muffled by the engine bay that Tinvel had his head stuffed into. He and Chona were working on a plane that wasn’t the Sunrise, listening with half an ear to the report that was captivating an entire Republic. They’d helped write it, after all. Hardly interesting.

What concerned Tinvel more was the modification of this engine’s design. Despite Chona’s misgivings, Voth had managed at least one thing since he’d been appointed General of the Skies: gaining Parliamentary approval for the transfer of artificers into the Air Force.

There were eight planes currently being worked on in the aerodrome, and a half-dozen more were lined up on the far wall wingtip to wingtip, waiting their turn. The Tulian Air Force was beginning to become more than a dream.

But we won’t go anywhere if we need artificers and mages to fly, Tinvel thought, grunting as he twisted his wrench.

That was what he was working on. What he’d been ordered to work on, actually. General Voth had given Tinvel and Chona two commands.

The first was to design an engine which was reliable enough to be operated by someone who lacked Talavan’s Gift. As it was, midair troubleshooting was so commonly necessary that no one would have dared to send a non-artificer into the sky. But Tulian only had somewhere around two hundred artificers across the entire Republic, and the bulk of them were working in the Artificer’s Union, their efforts stretched across countless projects both military and civilian. If they wanted enough pilots to fight in a real war, callous though it was, they needed people who weren’t as irreplaceable. If Tinvel could create an engine that was as simple to use as tapping a few crystals, the Air Force’s only limit would be the number of engine-sized geodes they could acquire.

The second command Voth had given them was to make a new, more specialized plane. The old General had finally finished catching up with all the notes on aerial combat history that Professor Brown had provided them, and he’d decided that the pace of development was falling behind their Earthly equivalents. Nevermind the fact that, if Professor Brown was to be believed, the first warplanes had been developed by empires populated by tens of millions of individuals. As far as Voth was concerned, if they weren’t matching the possible development of technology, they were failing.

Thus, the plane Tinvel and Chona were working on. Unlike the Halfeyes, which were planes that Tinvel and the other University students had built with the sole goal of getting off the ground at all, this model was built to improve upon what already worked. Though he’d been too busy to put the pieces together himself, Tinvel had sketched out a highly simplified engine design for the smithies to create. If it worked as intended, it would provide the same power as the Halfeye’s engines, but would occupy a fraction of the space.

The trick had been abandoning a direct copy of the engine designs Professor Brown was familiar with. Though beautifully constructed, they’d been designed around constraints that artifice engines lacked. Fuel pipes, flow rates, air compression, exhaust, none of those concerned Tinvel in the slightest. He had a driveshaft, emerald crystals, and the geode which powered them. He didn’t need the complex arrangements of pumping pistons powered by a warren of twisting pipes.

The second Artifice Engine– a name he’d physically etched onto its side, to hopefully stop the growing adoption of the name Tinvel Engine– was powered by crystals striking a stepped disk. Rather than arranging the crystals in a long row, mimicking the “V12” engines of Earth, they encircled a steel plate, one which was shaped like a compressed spiral staircase. Each crystal’s energetic pillar would strike its assigned steel step as it flew past, allowing the same amount of power to be generated within a much smaller space.

For now, it was only a weight and space-saving measure. He hadn’t yet figured out how to increase the number of emeralds which could draw power from a geode. Even the twelve he’d used were, testing had since proven, past the point of severely diminishing returns. The new Artifice Engine used ten emeralds, yet had only suffered a single-digit percentage performance loss.

Tinvel huffed with effort as he finished bolting the last part of the engine into place, squirming his way out of the engine cowling. It took several painful scrapes and bumps before he saw daylight proper, breathing hard. In his rush to get the new prototype ready, he’d neglected to include a way to lift the engine’s covering entirely off. That was a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat.

Blinking at the blinding light, he reached for a rag to clean his face off. The prototype was held off the ground by dangling chains, its landing gear removed to allow easier access to its underbelly. The thing clearly wasn’t ready for flight, its canvas skin not yet applied, exposing wooden ribs to the open air, but it was already the most unique plane in the building.

Because Chona was at the rear of the plane’s fuselage, just behind the second seat, her own head buried in an engine cowling.

The prototype was Tulian’s first twin-engined plane.

Still lacking a way to transfer commands remotely to the engines, yet being heavily pressured by Voth to create a new, longer-ranged vehicle, this is what Tinvel and Professor Brown had come up with. The arrangement was called a Pusher/Puller configuration, as that was what each of its engines did. The forward engine pulled, the rear engine pushed. The pilot could control the puller, while the second seater could give commands to the pusher. Professor Brown warned Tinvel that the arrangement wasn’t going to perfectly double the power of the vehicle, owing to strange aerodynamic laws even he couldn’t recall, but it would certainly be more powerful. How much so remained to be seen.

“Fucking… there!” Chona’s muffled curse sounded, alongside an authoritative clank. With another series of curses, the vanara girl dragged herself out of the engine space.

Her black fur was slick with engine grease, visible only in the way it matted and clung to the skin beneath. On days where she knew she’d be working with Tinvel on mechanical tools, she usually chose her most tattered, darkest chest wrap, in this case a simple black piece that made it hard to tell just how dirty it really was.

It also made it hard to tell at a glance if she was wearing anything at all.

“Alright, I’ve got it locked down. We can reattach the landing gear whenever you’re ready.”

“Good,” Tinvel said, not letting any of his thoughts show on his face. “You been listening to what Professor Brown has been saying?”

“Little bit. I’m kinda surprised how reluctant he’s being to place the blame on Sporatos, though.”

“No evidence for it. Whoever did it got away clean.”

“That or the bastard got flung through the clouds,” Chona smirked. She grabbed a rag for herself and wet it, dabbing at her fur as she walked over to Tinvel.

She stopped next to him, her shoulder and hip touching his. That closeness still made his heart beat faster. They’d kissed again two days ago. Almost like they’d tried to pretend it was nothing. They’d both been going to their dorms, there was no one around, and after a moment of awkward staring, it had just happened. A quick kiss goodbye, brief and chaste, something Tinvel had seen his parents do a million times.

It shouldn’t have had him shaking like it did, but it wasn’t like he could force his body to obey him.

“So,” Chona said, leaning a bit more of her weight onto him as they stared at the half-finished plane. “You thought of a name for it yet?”

“Yes. But it’s kind of dumb.”

“I’m shocked. What is it?”

“Fulleye.”

He couldn’t see her face, but Tinvel could practically feel the way Chona’s eyes roll.

“As opposed to Halfeye?”

“Yep. Because-”

“Because it’s got two engines, yeah. Figured that one out for myself, thanks.” They stood for a moment longer, looking up at their work. Slowly, carefully, almost as if Chona was as hesitant as Tinvel felt, her right arm came up, wrapping around his side. “Well,” she said, pretending nothing was happening at all, “at least the name makes sense. Halfeye, then Fulleye. Don’t know what you’re going to name the next one, though. Doubleyes?”

“They don’t all have to be eye themed. We just called the Halfeyes that because they were half-finished scout planes.” Tinvel fought to keep his breathing even. They were close enough now that Chona could feel his chest moving, if she wanted to.

“So what’s a half-finished warplane going to be called?” She joked. “Halfsword, fullsword?”

“Huh. That’s not a bad idea, actually. Maybe we could name the first one shortsword, then the next one broadsword–”

Chona snickered. “Not sure how many guys you’re going to find who want to pilot the shortsword, Tin. Maybe start with, like, the dagger or something.”

“If they’re that concerned about it, maybe I should call it the shortsword. Don’t think we want pilots that are thinking about their junk while they’re flying.”

“I’ve heard it’s all guys think about. But I guess if you already have a short sword, you’re not as worried abooooouuuut…”

Chona’s sentence trailed off into an uncomfortable silence as she realized what she was doing. Namely, making dick jokes with her… boyfriend? No, Tinvel’s brain rejected that word outright. But she was making short dick jokes about the guy she’d gone on a date with and kissed twice. Whatever that made them.

“I’m not,” Tinvel said. A blush rose up from his collar. “Concerned about. Um. Because I-”

“Yeah,” Chona blustered. “Yeah, I know. It’s cool.”

“It’s just, you said–”

“Yeah, yeah. My bad. My bad.” She coughed lightly.

Yet, to Tinvel’s incredulous amazement, they didn’t separate. Chona still had her arm around his side, and he still leaned into her. He supposed that was good? That they could be awkward about things but not immediately run away?”

“It’s gonna take a while for the crafters to get the rest of the plane together before we can test-fly it,” Chona noted. “It’ll probably be dark by then. We don’t have anything else to do today.”

“I’m sure we could find something-”

Chona’s fingers dug into his ribs. Tinvel’s eyes widened in realization.

“-t-t-to do. Together. I’m, uh, kinda hungry?”

Chona turned her head and looked at the work table, where he’d hurriedly scarfed down a meal no more than an hour ago. She raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“No. But. We could go buy food?”

“We did that last time.”

“Isn’t that, like… aren’t we supposed to do the things that we already know work, when we, uh, date?”

“Maybe?” Chona used her free hand to scratch at the fur over her stomach. “But I think, like, you’re supposed to mix it up at first. Because you’ve got to find things you both like to do. Together.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure we can’t get into the armory again.”

“I mean, I bought a pistol a while back, if you want to go shooting.”

“Do you want to go shooting?”

“Not… really.”

“Oh.”

In the dead air that followed, the sound of approaching footsteps went largely ignored. There were plenty of people going this way and that in the aerodrome, and it wasn’t remarkable for someone to pass by their station.

Until a palm thumped into the center of Tinvel’s back, shoving him forward alongside Chona.

“You two need to get the fuck out of here before I start puking,” Affe’s voice demanded. “Go. Go outside. For fuck’s sake, I’d rather you two just fucked on the floor than do whatever the the hells you’re trying to do right now.”

Tinvel tried to turn around as he was shoved onward, anger rising, but to his surprise, Chona laughed. She tugged Tinvel forward, guiding him toward the door.

“Fine, fine!” She called over her shoulder. “We’re out of here. But if General Voth asks where we are, you’re the one that’s gonna be in trouble for kicking us out!”

“Worth it!” Affe snapped back. “For the gods’ sake, go to Amarat’s Church and get some lessons on dating or something. You’re awful at it!”

As they exited the aerodrome, the guards carefully opening the doors for them, Tinvel cocked his head.

“I mean. It might not be a bad idea-”

“Absolutely not,” Chona said. “Do you have any idea what kind of dating advice a Priest of Amarat would give someone? Here? In this city?”

Tinvel’s brow creased. “No. What kind?”

Chona blew out a tired breath. “Look… just. No. We’re about to go to war, Tinvel. Let’s just… go to the docks or something and watch the ships. That might be fun. Gods know how long it’ll be before we can relax again.”

And so they did. Tinvel and Chona walked their way through the city street, Chona’s arm still circling him, until they reached the wharfs where the ever-increasing commerce of Tulian plied its trade. With news of oncoming war spreading, far more ships than usual were making their way out of harbor, doubtlessly seeking safer waters.

He and Chona didn’t talk about that, though. They compared the different types of ships, taking note of their sails and ropes, the shapes of their hulls, and compared them to what Professor Brown had taught them of aerodynamics. They bought a news broadsheet from a passing papergirl and found the biggest blank spot they could, turning it into a sketchbook. They compared the shapes of the various ships to the newest Tulian-constructed ships, which were far more efficient than their tenuous grasp of advanced mathematics could easily explain, and then they moved on to sketching out their memories of the Magecraft they’d seen, trying to guess at the enchantments which made them so light and swift.

They didn’t talk about the war. They didn’t talk about their work. They didn’t even talk about their conversation in the aerodrome. They just chatted about whatever happened to float into their heads, and they didn’t do anything else. For hours.

And Chona’s arm never left Tinvel’s side.

But it will, a voice whispered in Tinvel’s head. The war starts tomorrow. It starts tomorrow, and you’re not ready. Your pilots aren’t ready. They’re going to die because of you.

As best he could, Tinvel ignored the voice. When it got too loud, he’d lean a little bit harder into Chona, smushing their weight together.

Sometimes he even got to feel the side of her breasts.

That did a good job of shutting the voice up.

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