Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee

The first thing I notice is a voice.

"Uncle..."

It comes from far off, drowned in something thick.

I try to move, but my body carries too much weight. My chest feels full of wet sand. My arms are pinned under me, numb, without strength. There’s no ceiling, no floor, no wall. Only darkness and an absence pressing from the inside.

"Uncle..."

A hand passes in front of my eyes.

Small. Cold. Gripping the sleeve of my clothes as if it were the last solid thing in the world. Then hair stuck to a face, a pale cheek, the white hood pulled tight against narrow shoulders.

’Lola?’

The image vanishes before I can reach it.

My throat closes.

"Uncle!"

I wake in a sharp jolt.

My hands close on two thin arms, and I’m rising before my eyes finish opening. The chair scrapes the floor. Someone lets out a short, startled sound. I pull the body up and away from the table like a man saving a vase the instant before it falls and breaks.

Then the factory returns.

Amber light. Metal tables. Clean vials. The smell of cooked Lunaria, alchemical cleaning alcohol, damp stone, and OXI burning off some old machine.

Zoe is suspended in my hands, feet off the ground, her one visible eye wide.

I let go at once.

She comes down with a small stumble. I catch her elbow on reflex, wait for her feet to steady, and release her again.

"Sorry," I say.

My voice comes out rough.

Zoe hugs her own arms. "It’s fine. I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you..."

"You didn’t do anything wrong."

She looks at me as if she wants to believe it but is still checking whether she’s allowed to.

I run a hand over my face and breathe deep. The chair left a hard line across my ribs, and one side of my neck feels dead. I must have blacked out after sitting down. My body is collecting on every debt at once, and the bill isn’t small.

"Sorry," I repeat, lower.

This time I reach out and ruffle her hair with care, avoiding the strap of the eye patch. "It was just a bad dream."

Zoe blinks. The tension in her shoulders gives a little.

"Oh."

That’s all.

Somehow, it makes me feel worse.

Zoe pulled a trigger I didn’t know was even there. Maybe the guilt I carry grows heavier by the day, or maybe it’s just the anxiety of never having done anything about it.

A few tables ahead, Richard stands near the dosing machines, pretending he didn’t see too much. One hand rests on the edge of a runic gauge, the other hidden behind his back. His color is better. The Ocean’s Law mark is gone, and Zhang Xi’s healing took the worst of the wounds, but he still moves like a body that remembers pain before pride can correct it.

He studies the factory the way you’d study a locked pantry after going hungry.

’Curiosity is good. A sign there’s interest.’

A dry click cuts the silence.

The runic lock on the front door releases, followed by a low flow of energy through the frame. The lines of the old warehouse light in sequence, checking marks, pressure, and entry permission.

The door opens.

Oliver’s voice comes in before he does.

"Time to work, people."

He appears carrying a crate under one arm and a stack of folded cloth masks under the other. Behind him, the Drowneds file in loosely, morning damp still on their clothes. Some look at me first. Others look at Richard. Most look at the production line, because work always pulls fear into a more practical shape.

Oliver spots me by the table and lifts his chin. "Morning, boss."

"Morning."

His eyes pass over Zoe for half a second and come back to me. He caught enough. He doesn’t comment. Maybe my face still gives away the fright. Smart man.

He drops the crate near the stock shelves and turns to Richard. "Already on your feet. Good. Saves time."

Richard returns a dry look. "That’s a curious way to greet someone you dumped in a factory past midnight."

"You were breathing when I left. To me, the delivery was clean."

Oliver lets out a healthy laugh at his own joke.

Richard doesn’t look impressed. But I am. Oliver is starting to sound too much like me. Terrible influence.

Oliver recovers his breath and points at the line. "Come on. If you’re going to manage this place, you need to know who keeps it alive."

That catches Richard’s attention.

I stand slower than I’d like and follow at a short distance. Zoe runs to her father at first, then pulls back to the side when the workers take their posts.

Oliver starts with the washing tables. "Vials come in here. Heated water, alcohol rinse, drying on the rack. No shortcut. A dirty vial ruins a clean batch and turns the whole process into wasted time and money."

Two Drowneds nod without stopping their work.

Further on, Maela holds the wooden clipboard against her chest. Forty-two years old, dark hair tied low, reagent stains on her nails. She has the posture of years spent answering for other people’s mistakes, having learned to survive by making records hard to dispute, back when she was still on Earth.

"Maela," Oliver says. "Batch control."

She straightens. "Sir."

Richard’s eyes go straight to the clipboard.

I watch as he reads the markings from a distance: batch, time, ratio, loss, responsible party, and storage crate. His brow tightens a little.

"I showed her the first template," Oliver says. "She made it better."

Richard accepts the clipboard when Maela offers it and turns through two pages. "This is good."

Maela seems surprised. "Thank you."

"More than good. If a batch fails, you can find the point without accusing the whole line."

Her hand shifts at the corner of the clipboard. Small. Important.

Oliver moves on. At the sealing table, Jori nearly drops a cap when he sees two adults and a walking problem—me—stop near him. Sixteen or seventeen years old, thin enough that hunger still shapes his body. His fingers are fast despite the nerves.

"Jori," Oliver says. "Sealing and cap check."

Jori swallows dry. "Morning, sir."

Richard takes a finished vial, turns it against the light, and examines the cork cap, then the thin ring of wax. "Steady hands," he says.

Jori lifts his head.

"But you’re pressing harder on the left side. It’ll hold, but the cork can slip if it tilts."

The boy looks at the vial and nods fast. "Yes, sir."

We move down the line. The bone powder is measured in a controlled small portions by the Drowneds. The Lunaria base passes marks etched into the glass—that part is automatic. The stabilizing extract—plain water—is filtered twice before it touches the main mix. At the back, many alchemical kits work inside a protected circle, letting the final alchemy fall in drops after a long stabilization and a heat purification. The amber liquid comes out in large pots before the machine splits it into containers and, further along, into vials.

Richard says nothing.

That says plenty. A sign he understood a great deal without a single doubt.

Oliver stops near the stock and rests a hand on the shelf. "Pay is eight Shards a month per worker. Clean water and one meal per shift. Mask, glove, and replacement tools are on us."

Richard goes still. "Eight Shards?"

Oliver nods.

"That’s twenty-three percent above a high government wage," Richard says. "Ninety-six Shards a year per worker. Nearly a Plate." His eyes go to me. "What are you thinking?"

I lean over the nearest table and check the color of the Lunaria suspension with bone powder. The blue glow of the runic plate is steady. Good ratio. Controlled acidity.

Oliver sees what I’m doing, catches that I’m pretending not to pay attention to them, and looks at Richard calmly. "Easy. I’ll explain."

Richard presses his mouth shut.

"Each potion sells for twenty-seven Scales," Oliver says. "Fixed price. Patent clause. A merchant can’t raise it for resale."

’I didn’t know Oliver remade this clause. Thank you big guy.’

Richard’s attention sharpens. "Seller’s cut?"

"Two Scales per unit."

Richard looks from Oliver to the line. "Production cost?"

Oliver starts to laugh.

It’s a good laugh, full, the kind that makes the workers around us laugh along, and the warier ones glance over before deciding it probably isn’t a disaster. He wipes his mouth, catches his breath, and faces Richard again.

I hold mine back too. I know Oliver’s answer will land on Richard like a bomb.

"Between seven and ten Scales. Depends on the material quality."

The color drains from Richard’s face.

His eyes go from Oliver to Maela’s clipboard, then to the sealed crates, to Jori’s table, and finally to me.

First the duct cleaning. Now the LDP.

Richard is starting to process things that seem impossible for just a single person to pull off.

I hold my hand over the runic plate and watch the blue light stay steady but, honestly, I’m fighting my own mouth to keep from smiling.

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