Anemoi 26 – Anemoi 30, Imperial Year 1645
The Port City of Luminara – The Forge
The forge was cold when Vlad arrived at dawn. He lit the fire, pumped the bellows, and watched the flames grow. The heat chased away the chill, but not the weight in his chest.
Two of the wounded had died in the night.
Joren had been a farmer's son, quiet, steady. He had taken a spawn's claw to the gut at the gate. A kind surgeon – one of the refugees, a woman whose name no one remembered – had sewn him up, but the wound festered. He died just before midnight, with Corvin holding his hand.
Liana had been a scout, fast and sharp. A brute had crushed her leg. No healer could save it. She died an hour after Joren, alone in her cot, her eyes open.
They were not famous. They were not heroes. They were Black Knights, and now they were gone.
Vlad had stood at their bedsides as they passed. He had said nothing. There were no words.
Now he worked.
The Forge – Morning
The revolvers were small – smaller than his previous pistols. He had designed them for concealment, for close quarters, for the moments when a blade was not enough. The barrels were three inches long, the cylinders held five rounds. The grips were walnut, checkered for a firm hold. The hammers were low‑profile, to avoid snagging on clothing.
He had no gunpowder. Not yet. But he had alchemical compounds from his stores – slow to ignite, but powerful. He would make do.
He worked the metal with care, folding the steel, shaping the cylinders, filing the trigger guards. The work was slow, methodical, meditative.
Corvin entered, carrying a mug of tea.
"You've been here since dawn."
"I needed to work."
Corvin set the mug on the workbench. "The others are asking about you."
"Tell them I'll be out soon."
Corvin didn't leave. He watched Vlad work.
"How many?" Corvin asked.
"Five revolvers. One for Sera, one for Gunnar, one for Kithri, one for Echo, one for Rook."
"And for me?"
Vlad gestured to a long bundle on the workbench. "For you, something else."
Corvin unwrapped it. A single‑barreled shotgun – short, brutal, with a wide bore. The stock was walnut, the trigger guard steel. It was not beautiful. It was functional.
"A shotgun," Corvin said.
"Twelve‑gauge. One shot. It will kill anything at close range."
"Why not a revolver?"
"Because when the cultists come, you will be at the front. You will need stopping power, not precision."
Corvin tested the weight. "It's heavy."
"It will save your life."
Vlad set down the revolver he was working on. "The others will get hidden blades and armor as well. But the revolvers are for the cultist bastards."
Corvin nodded. He tucked the shotgun under his arm.
"What else?"
"Armor for everyone. A weighted hook for Gunnar. A garrote for Kithri. A lockpick set for Echo. And a notebook case for Rook – steel‑lined, to stop a blade."
"You've been busy."
"I've been thinking." Vlad picked up a piece of leather and began cutting it into strips. "We are not safe here. The cultists are still out there. The demons are still coming. And we have no one to rely on but ourselves."
The Broken Anchor – Midday
The tavern was quiet. Sera sat at her corner table, her left hand wrapped around a cup of tea. Kithri was polishing glasses. Gunnar was in the kitchen, the smell of stew filling the air. Echo was at the bar, reviewing the accounts. Rook sat near the window, his notebook open.
Corvin entered and sat down.
"Vlad is making us weapons," he said.
Sera looked up. "What kind?"
"Revolvers. One for each of you. A shotgun for me."
Kithri's ears perked. "Revolvers? For all of us?"
"For all of you."
Gunnar came out of the kitchen, wiping his hook. "I don't need a gun."
"You need something," Corvin said. "Your hook is good for work, not for fighting."
Gunnar looked at his hook. "I can fight."
"You can. But you can do better."
Echo closed her ledger. "What about me?"
"A revolver, a lockpick set, and a steel‑lined notebook case."
Echo smiled – a rare expression. "He knows me."
Rook looked up from his notebook. "And me?"
"The same."
Rook nodded. "Good."
Sera set down her cup. "Why guns?"
Corvin met her eyes. "Vlad said revolvers are for the cultist bastards."
Sera nodded slowly. "Fair enough."
The Forge – Afternoon
Vlad worked through the afternoon. The five revolvers were nearly complete – he had only to fit the cylinders and test the actions. He set them aside and began work on the armor.
The armor was not plate or chain. It was leather – thin, flexible, but reinforced with steel thread. It could be worn under a shirt, hidden from view. It would stop a knife, slow an arrow, turn a blade.
He cut and stitched, his hands moving with practiced ease. The work was not difficult – just tedious. But he did not mind. Tedium kept the memories away.
Gunnar entered, his hook glinting.
"Corvin said you were making me a revolver."
Vlad gestured to a weighted hook on the workbench, next to a small revolver. "The hook is for work. The revolver is for fighting."
Gunnar picked up the revolver. It was small, light.
"I've never used one."
"You point it and pull the trigger. The recoil will be manageable."
Gunnar tucked it into his belt. "And the hook?"
Vlad handed him the weighted hook. It was heavier than his current one, with a sharpened edge on the inner curve.
"It will cut," Vlad said. "And it will not break."
Gunnar attached it to his harness. It fit perfectly.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me. Stay alive."
The Broken Anchor – Evening
The evening crowd was thin. A few sailors, a couple of off‑duty guards. Rook sat at his table, listening. Sera watched the door.
Vlad entered through the back, carrying a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. He set it on the bar.
Corvin unwrapped the shotgun. It gleamed in the lamplight.
"One shot," Vlad said. "Make it count."
Corvin picked it up. The weight was familiar now.
Vlad handed out the revolvers – one to Sera, one to Gunnar, one to Kithri, one to Echo, one to Rook. Each was wrapped in a small leather pouch, with five rounds.
"Five rounds each," Vlad said. "Use them wisely."
"I will," Sera said.
"The armor and other tools will be ready tomorrow."
Vlad walked to the stairs. "I need to rest."
He disappeared upstairs.
Corvin looked at the shotgun, then at the others.
"We have a long road ahead," he said.
"We've had long roads before," Sera replied.
"This one is different."
"They're all different."
Corvin nodded. He tucked the shotgun under his coat.
"For Joren and Liana," he said.
"For Joren and Liana," the others echoed.
The Rooftop – Night
Vlad stood on the roof, looking out at the city. The same roof, the same view, the same thoughts.
Corvin climbed up beside him.
"The shotgun is good," Corvin said.
"It should be."
"You should sleep."
"I should think."
"Same thing."
Vlad didn't answer.
"Joren and Liana," Corvin said. "It wasn't your fault."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Vlad turned to him. "I led them to that gate. I ordered them to hold the line. I could not save them."
"You saved the rest of us."
"That's not enough."
Corvin put a hand on his shoulder. "It has to be."
They stood in silence, watching the stars.
End of Chapter Eighty‑Four