NELNIFA CORLEDIA IS SUPPOSED TO BE WEAK. During a brazen attack against her people, she is left with no choice but to take the lead. With knowledge coming from dubious places, a territory in shambles, and a people too scattered to fight back, she ha...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
2412 Qintax 25, Briss
Nelnifa closed one eye as she peered deep into a rifle's barrel. The metal's condition was pristine, so she didn't need to clean it with such attention. Most of the dirt that made it past the floorboards were sand shaken from the cooks' sandals. She never left the command tent since they returned to the mountains from the Oraytan fortress, spending her waking hours sharpening their figurative swords in preparation for the next stage of their plan.
Eyes pinned at her movements, and she was aware of that. The Marshals watched her yank open the bolt to gain access to the chamber where the original bullets still sat. She turned over the rifle and shook it, letting the metal-cast ammunition clatter to the table. Even her father, who usually strayed from the sight of weapons, leaned his elbows on the opposite side of the table.
If Nelnifa from years ago were in the same position, she would have curled into herself and botched her job at the prospect of having an audience. It's not like she could afford to make mistakes. Especially not now, when lives could be put at stake with every decision. Not now, when she held a volatile weapon which could kill a grown fairy if she so much aimed at them. These rifles and flintlocks needed conditioning, after all. Who knew what time did to their calibration?
She snapped the bolt back to place and propped the rifle up. A distinct clacking sound echoed in the entire tent when she cranked the stock to load the next bullet and clicked the safety off. Then, she pulled the trigger.
The exploding sound made the Marshals flinch—Laie certainly ducked underneath the table—which poked a strip of delight into Nelnifa's gut. All her life, she looked up to them for all the things she had to learn, and they couldn't resist pulling a prank or two over the years. Now, it's her turn, albeit an unplanned one.
The familiar smell of burnt grass wafted across the tent, carried by the smoke curling from the hole the bullet made on the chopped salvia trunk propped on a stool. A soft sigh flitted off her lips. She still had the aim. Here she thought she had lost it after months of not handling a rifle. But the calibration needed tweaking, that's for certain.
"Pass me the driver, please," she said aloud before it registered they probably had no idea what a driver was. Ilphas was the one who answered by giving her the correct tool. She cocked her eyebrows. How did he figure it out? "Thanks," she said, ducking back to her work to avoid the triumphant shade of his smile. Such a know-it-all.
She stuck the driver's tip into the inner workings of the chamber and adjusted the strings and other mechanisms that replaced the bullets loaded in the barrel. She had to reduce that annoying lag between clicking the trigger and spurring the bullet out of the muzzle and into the target. Such differences in timing could mean life or death on the battlefield.
Save for the clicking noises Nelnifa made from maintenance work on the weapons, the Marshals were strangely quiet. Ever since they made it back from the Oraytan fortress, she waited for one of them to grill her with questions about everything, but none of them did. Not even her father, who must be feeling as if he had missed out on his eldest daughter's life...or lives, for that matter.
