Page 10 of The Princesses of Ruin
I set the pile of vests down next to her and wander into the stacks. Used grenades sit in a box near the back, most of them in reparable condition. I sort through them and create two piles, one that I will fix and refill, and the other to return to the forge for recrafting.
The wall behind the worktable holds all the tools I need, and I bring a selection over on a wheeled cart. I take it down to the alchemy lab, and Adrik gives me an acknowledging grunt as I collectthe different powders and liquids necessary. He looks weary…giving too much of himself. It makes me wonder if the less we’re getting is transferred into his work. What a catastrophe that could be.
Cecillia is already weaving golden light between her fingers when I get back, fixing the rips and broken straps. I sit next to her and set my mind to solving the problem in front of me.
With my magic we’ve been able to reduce the amount of black powder in each shell, relying instead on pressurized air to help disperse the chemicals. I fill each section appropriately, then condense a cubic inch of air down to the size of my pinky nail before capping the shell. The striker is bent, so I remove it and use a small magus torch to get it back in shape.
While it cools, I move on to the next grenade. The spring is snapped and there’s debris in the primer. I use the coiled wire to create a new one, then power blast the debris with air, earning me a very ruffled look from Cecillia.
The work flows as such. Each problem is a little different, just enough to keep my thoughts from wandering to the bed upstairs.
At leasttoomuch.
Cecillia groans as she gets up from her stool, and suddenly I realize I’m down to my last grenade.
“We need some cushions for these torture traps,” she says as she pushes her hands into her lower back and stretches. I check my timepiece and sigh. Despite how much we both accomplished, it’s only been two hours.
I promised Alyse I would wake her, and the urge to go up and see her, hold her, press my lips against her warm skin and entangle myself with her, is great. But I know Cecillia is right. She needs to rest to be able to give any more of herself.
I help Cecillia carry the fixed vests back to the armory, depositing my creations in their appropriate buckets, too. We collect more ingredients on the way back and dive into the work again.
Each completed grenade is one step closer to ending the queen’s reign. Each weapon I help craft or improve is a Spider’s life saved, maybe even my dragon’s life. I am doing important work. Necessary work.
The Spider Lord’s appreciation rings in my mind, feeling a little less foreign, a little less uncomfortable.
There’s a loudclackon the doorframe and my attention snaps to the nomaj, Jenson, who somehow managed to sneak up on me. I stand as he rambles on about what he was able to get, shuffling through the books in his arms. I take the top of the pile and lead him to another workstation.
“Ya can’t just leave thesevolatilesubstances next to me,” Cecillia calls, pointing to the very inert components on the table.
“I’ve got it, sir,” Jenson says, depositing the rest of the books with me.
The nomaj quickly and efficiently cleans the grenade workstation as I shift through the titles before me, laying them out in neat stacks by date. At Zane’s direction, Mason has been importing dark magic texts from wherever he can find them, so the resources have grown significantly. And there’s promise in what he’s collected.
There’s hope.
I just have to find it.
The nomaj picks up the last box and heads for the door.
“Jenson,” I call, stopping him.
The boy looks at me with exhaustion, but respect. “Sir?”
“Thank you.”
A smile pushes back his fatigue, and he nods. “You’re welcome, my lord.”
I return to my workstation and set out a clean book with a pen, then find my seat. When Jenson is halfway down the hall, Cecillia humphs loudly.
“What now?” I ask.
“Nothin’,my lord.” She draws out the words playfully.
“Don’t you start,old lady.”
The neck of my shirt pulls uncomfortably tight, and a pathetic, choked sound escapes my mouth. She laughs behind closed lips, a high, musical noise.
I pull on the magic threads and they come undone, easily releasing me. I ponder my revenge as I watch her work. Perhaps I will send a gust of wind into her bread bowl, covering her in flour. Or ruffle her hair every time she sees Gareth to fluster her.
