SERAVEL ROVODIA, the son of the tyrant Fire Potentate, is a model citizen of all sorts. Obedient, punctual, and most of all, silent. When his friend and long-time confidante gets arrested for alleged sacrilege against the administration, Seravel sta...
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2407 Rab 4, Kindreth
The door to the shop hit a small bell. Tinkling sounds filled the space, albeit brief and shrill. Sera ducked his head as he slipped inside. Rows upon rows of shelves lined the small, cubical room, a counter leading to a back door blocking Sera's view of the display shelf slotted against the northern wall. Opposite the counter, rising from the floor and curving to a ledge by the ceiling, was a set of wooden stairs.
Light bounced against the glass panes guarding every rung in each shelf, stinging Sera's eyes whenever he tried to squint to get a hint of what objects lay behind. The smell of a newly-opened can of oil trumped the faint wisp of burning coal, molten metal, and the musk of sweat wafting in the air.
His footsteps scratched against the pristine wooden floorboards, wincing at the particles of sand his sandals brought inside. It's going to be hell to sweep later on. Maybe Darmer wouldn't let him drop by if he kept on doing this.
In speaking of Darmer, where was he? If Sera's memory was to be trusted, the blacksmith-turned-mechanic was somewhere in the second floor of his shop, doing things nobody should know about. During the times he was by, an explosion or two wasn't scarce. Who knew what would happen today?
Sera raised his eyes to the ceiling. The glare of the light rods imported from Alkara made his vision pulse with spots of black. Artificial illumination and him did not mix well. He kept his eyes on the landing, hoping his friend would come faster. Had Darmer even heard the bell? Wasn't that why he had it installed in the first place, to inform him whenever someone enters?
Even the bell wasn't doing its job now, Sera concluded.
To pass the time it took for Sera to hesitate calling out like a messenger, he ducked to the nearest shelf and examined the trinkets behind the glass. With his gaze level to it, the light didn't hurt his eyes as much. It took a while but he realized it was demian glass—one of the finest glass in the island, made from the colored sands in Gligan. Seeing as how clear it was, it wasn't some upstart type either. Getting rid of the sheen required a longer process. Damn, what was Darmer up to these days to afford these?
Inside the niche, a set of gears and metallic cranks sat unbothered inside their wooden trays, each arranged according to size and shape. The other stuff in the nearby niches and rungs were in a similar state. These must be machine parts Darmer used to make his inventions.
He moved to the next shelf. Inside one of the niches sat a key he recognized. It was the old masterkey to the Palace's rooms. A small smile played on Sera's lips. So, the old geezer kept it all this time.
It was another one of his hidden escapades when he was a child. Darmer was a former blacksmith on the Palace's roster tasked to craft weapons the soldiers would use. That's how Sera came across him in his late-night wanderings through the dark corridors after the torches had been extinguished.
Sera couldn't recall how exactly he made it to the forges but Darmer found him there and accompanied him by a warm but calming fire. The nalda wrap Darmer had given him back then was still one of the best naldais Sera ever had. He still had to ask his friend what he did to get the filling to stay inside the roasted dough and not drip out even when he bit through it.
