Chapter 18

Dandy and the Graveins proceeded down the stairs, the heat picking up the further they went.

Before them stood another of the castle’s many dark oak doors—this one banded in rose-stylized metals, pale and silvered like bone-polished steel.

Liza was the first to knock, then open it.

The wood was warm to the touch.

The office was a wound in the mountain.

Walls of obsidian, chalkboards fused straight into the stone.

A single central table—scarred, scorched, piled high with diagrams scratched onto slightly darkened vellum.

And on the far wall, taking up nearly all of it—

a window.

Through it: endless black heat. Chains hanging like judgment.

And in the middle of it all, a crucible the size of a mausoleum—already glowing.

One of the castle’s residents was already at the table, leaning over a stack of designs.

Fire poured from his mane, flowing down his back in steady waves, yet somehow left his crimson shirt and black waistcoat untouched.

A tail swung slowly behind him, pendulum-smooth, as he rubbed his snout with both hands—careful not to scratch himself on the claws.

"Sir Embermane!" Dantalion called out, already strolling to his side.

"I have got another project—"

She leaned in, eyes gleaming.

"—and I assure you, you will simply love this one."

Embermane let out a low snarl and bolted upright, staring her down.

"What," he growled, "could possibly be better than the Tiefenburg anchors, right here?"

He jabbed a claw into the chalkboard—hard enough to leave a groove—right on top of a sprawling diagram etched with circles, cutaways, and terrifying math.

Dantalion simply tilted her head toward the girls.

He turned—and it dawned on him.

"O-Oh... Lady Dantalion. It is one of those kinds of projects, is it?"

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Dantalion didn’t answer.

She just smiled.

A slow, elegant curve of the lips.

Her eyes brightened—softly, steadily—like distant beacons seen through fog.

The beastman turned back to his patron, studied her face a moment longer...

His first nod was polite.

The second was thoughtful.

With the third came with a sharp inhale, like he’d just spotted the solution inside the problem.

He kept nodding as he turned back to the board, already pushing something else aside.

With a breath, he started.

"Graveins, with an idea, I’m sure. Come on over."

He reached for a stick of chalk, already clearing space on the table.

"I hope your thoughts aren’t as scattered as Derrick’s."

For a long time there were many nods—and just as many head shakes.

A scribble here.

Weary paws rubbing the same spot out again there.

"And your pilebunker, was it?" Embermane grunted. "What did it weigh?"

Liza lifted her right arm, flexing it up and down like the weapon was still there.

"I'd wager... four kilolein."

The engineer froze mid-mark. Looked up at her.

"Kilolein? That block of Fossan you keep at the Guild? You measure it that way?"

Dantalion let out a sharp guffaw.

Liza cleared her throat.

"Y-yeah. You know. Real world terms. How do you guys do it?"

There was muttering between Embermane and Dandy now—low, fast, not in a tongue the Graveins had ever heard. Some of the words sounded like ram or slam, but none of it was kind.

Then one phrase came out clear enough to carry, even if they didn’t know the words—

sharp, furious, and universally engineer-core.

"Why don’t they just call it the normal fucking unit!?"

The chalkboard rattled.

Embermane smacked both hands to his snout, groaned like the laws of mass had personally offended him, and looked to Dandy for backup.

She just gestured for him to keep going.

"Demons ablaze, girl... You couldn’t just pick normal, could you?"

He growled without looking up.

Liza couldn't help her curiosity.

"Mister. . . Embermane.... What's 'fucking'?"

That did it.

Embermane had lost it, he leaned back and spewed fire at the ceiling, his telltale mane flaring up.

Dantalion lost all composure. She simply openly laughed. Eyes streaming with tears, smacking her knee.

It took a while after that to get poor Embermane back on track.

More sketches followed. More heated debates.

Scraps of burnt vellum drifted from the ceiling like the aftermath of a bird that exploded mid-flight.

Eventually, they were ready for the material.

Everyone gathered around the window and watched.

There was Gravemarch—climbing into the crucible like he was preparing for a bath.

Plenty of room in there for him.

Mabel’s voice broke the silence.

“Dandy… what is he doing?”

Dantalion looked out the glass with an approving smile.

“Like I said, Ms. Gravein. Gravemarch is good company. And he really liked your story.”

They watched as he slowly sank into the crucible.

At first it stopped at his waist.

Then his shoulders.

Lastly his head.

The soft ripple of liquid metal swallowing him whole—like it had been waiting.

The forge glowed a little brighter.