A Shield of Faith (BOOK 4)

Chapter 48

NEVEN

He remembered nothing.

Nothing about the high curved ramparts in the corridors. Nothing about the myriad of pictures of people he never met. Only thing he recognized was the family. Two glaives, wrapped with golden ribbons criss-crossed against a pale field. Stout windows along the wall were bolted closed to prevent the flurries from slipping past. Lamps hung on hooks and swung with the wind coursing through the air. The lights from the town shone through the white fog, but he pushed himself over the thick carpet over the grayish blue stones. Fingers in his belt, he rounded the entire estate to return to the foyer, following the split staircases into the second landing, but he drew himself to the metal trapdoor between them.

He tugged on the handles and braced himself when a roar of ice cold mist blasted into his face with a stale touch. Onto the metal ladder, he slid himself down to the sublevels, lost in the silence as he checked in the boiler rooms, then deeper still — until he found what he sought. He ran his fingers down the locks of a pair of doors, listening once more to the click of the locking mechanism until it slid open. Circuits frayed from lack of use, he came closer to the runic generator.

Ice caked the dials when he tried to move one, putting all his arm strength into breaking it past the carapace. Neven went around to investigate the entry point for magick, the pipe which funneled the snow and ice which sought to bury them from the dunes to create it into power. Neven curled his fingers until an icy mist raised out of them, and he put his hand in the core, rustling around to find the object in question to check it. It curled around his fingers, and he pushed energy into it until the runic generator let out a clank and groan. It burned at his fingertips, and he drew his arm out as he tugged down levers, closing up the vents as the runes glowed white with snow. The firelight died for the runes to take the energy from the small circuits, and he went to the other side and repeated the process.

In front of it, he turned the dials one by one. Heat. Water purification. Neven waited for confirmation as the runic generator transformed magick into power. It churned, but the runes persisted, carved with expert accuracy for efficiency. Just need to give it time. Neven turned away to shut the runic generator doors, locking them again before ascending onto the main level. Lights flickered on as the power spread further through the estate, with some of the porchbulbs fluttering in their icicle cages. For thousands of Turns... we've endured. We've adapted, but at what point do our adaptations end? He smoothed out the sleeves of his armor, flicking off dust as he stood in the foyer, breathing deep when the warmth spread through the stones. Now... let's find Father's seal and write that request for a supply route... it'll help them... and us.

Dutybound on two fronts, he went upstairs and into the Lord's study. Books lined in numerical order on the stacks, revealing the organizational tendency of the last person who sat upon the thick, velvet seat next to a fireplace. His gaze drew to the ceremonial glaive on the mantle, but he switched his attention to the desk before sorting through the drawers. Inkwells sat in small sections, with a multitude of quills within small divots. Over to the next, he tugged out a seal stamp before rifling through the cabinet for the wax. Once he had put both on the corner, he rifled through the bundles of paper for a non-torn, or yellowing one.

He found a white sheet and flattened it against the desk, looking at the inkwells for any not frozen or not empty. He found a corked, unused one at the back, tucked behind a myriad of unusable ones. As for the quills, he sharpened one with an icy glyph, dipping it in as he stared at the fireplace. It felt wrong. His leg bounced as he chewed on his tongue, pushing his fangs over his lips as he huffed and tried instead to imagine the table underneath the treehouse in Asairai. This is no different to my capacity as a Warden-Captain. These people are running out of supplies. I'm doing my duty. This is no different from me delegating in Asairai, making sure the Storm Wardens are well-stocked for... longer patrols. His fangs pricked his lips when he clenched his jaw. Pressure cracked against his skull as Kayal's last words rocked through his head, his grief and despair, trapped in a horrific existence as Fenrer all but screamed with his fatal torment.