Castle Kingside

Snowflakes glided from gray, sunless skies along icy winds and crashed into Malten’s scarce passerby. Not many civilians wandered the streets. They had little to gain from staying in the cold. The few who braved winter’s frost did it out of necessity.

Watching them rush by were refugees sat alongside building and alley walls. Some displayed healing purple skin under rumpled clothes. Others, the weathered countenances of a recent escape from a crumbling kingdom or the countryside.

Although the homeless maintained their usual downtrodden gazes, there seemed to be something else. Something unusual. Something cheerful.

Eyes that gleamed a moment longer than yesterday. The occasional hushed laugh tittering from a dark crevice. Smiles. Like flickering candles struggling to illuminate an insurmountable pitch-black nothingness, the weary gripped hope tightly.

Dimitry examined the refugees as he strode by. Did their hesitant joy result from a free meal? In a time of starvation, it was possible. This morning marked the second day of his soup kitchen’s operation, where the needy could receive a meager breakfast despite famine. Nothing brought relaxation like a full stomach. Or did he take too much credit? Perhaps his alms were yet another gear churning humanity’s ability to extract jollity from the bleakest times.

A man huddling under a shop’s folding counter met his gaze. He pulled back his cloak’s hood and nodded. “Jade Surgeon.”

Dimitry flashed a reciprocative smile at the former patient. “Good afternoon.”

“Celeste guide you,” an unseen woman’s voice mumbled from somewhere nearby.

Although her otherworldly religious pleasantry was well-meaning, it brought Dimitry no comfort. It reminded him of who he was instead—a snaking opportunist who would soon regurgitate those same words to succeed the Church in shaping the people’s beliefs.

He didn’t care about Zera or Celeste’s guidance. All that mattered was that Malten was on the brink of collapse, and if warping sacrosanct babble was the fastest way to stabilize the city, then that was what Dimitry would do. Even if his manipulative ambitions elicited gnawing guilt.

But that wouldn’t happen right away. Like any messiah, Dimitry would have to perform miracles before he could convince the populace of his god-given authority. Curing the plague, distributing meager meals, and opening a hospital with tolerable survival rates wasn’t enough. He had to do more.

Developing sticky bombs capable of eliminating stone giants was a start. However, concepts alone were useless. The hardest aspect remained: manufacturing.

Despite Clewin and his three apprentices operating the chemistry lab for most of every day, they struggled to produce enough granulated black powder. The issue wasn’t lacking manpower, nor was it the mass quantities of distilled water and alcohol granulation required.

It was equipment.

Pestles and mortars couldn’t pulverize hundreds of kilograms of potassium nitrate, charcoal, and sulfur into a fine powder before the night of repentance. They were too inefficient.

Dimitry considered using a watermill instead, but grinding potentially toxic chemicals in a building that also handled flour posed a citywide health hazard. The stamp mills he saw in the Amphurt mines weren’t suitable either. Aside from losing large portions of powdered reagent with each impact and drifting gale, he would also risk revealing black powder’s composition. It was a dangerous technology in the wrong hands. Not to mention that many people considered sulfur to be ‘holy sand’. Its use in weaponry was blasphemous and could attract the Church’s unwanted attention.

That was why he designed something new.

Trailing behind him were two hospital porters. One man carried a modified metal barrel, while the other dragged a sack of iron pellets, two vertical stands, and a long crank. After assembly, the cement-mixer-like grinding tool would produce several gallons of pulverized product every few hours.

Dimitry’s inspiration was the rock tumbler he used to polish his mineral collection on Earth. It was a spinning tub that smoothed minerals and semiprecious gemstones by continuously mixing them with artificial sand. Billions of microscopic collisions weathered rocks’ sharp edges, leaving rounded curvatures in their place.

The portable mill he invented operated on a similar principle. However, instead of using sand or electricity, a chemist would manually turn the barrel by cranking a long rod, forcing the heavy pellets within to roll over and crush chemicals hundreds of thousands of times every hour. Countless collisions would produce more explosive than ten pestles and mortars could in the same time.

But massively increased efficiency wasn’t the only benefit. The resulting product would also be finer, and finer black powder allowed for more thorough chemical chain reactions.

That meant more powerful explosives.

It was part of Dimitry’s two-fold plan: assembling destructive weapons capable of penetrating any heathens’ stone carapace and impressing anyone who saw them do so.

A messenger from the castle confirmed that the queen’s summit was in two days—the perfect opportunity to show off his creations. By framing sticky bombs and improved voltech rifles as holy inventions, Dimitry hoped to convince the attending nobles of his own divine status.

His strategy was risky, but he had no choice.

It was the only way he could normalize accelall’s rainbow enchantment and justify his inheritance of the Church’s activities. Without approval from the wealthiest and most influential, his ambitions would only get him killed. They wouldn’t let a nobody amass power right under their noses otherwise.

The plan had many payoffs, but it also risked everything he built so far.

Dimitry inhaled several deep and slow breaths to ease the anxiety budding within. He neared the chemistry lab’s entrance. Displaying doubt to his employees would lower morale—an unfavorable way to greet the upcoming night of repentance.

Two men stood outside the former church’s entrance. A lanky man brandished a crossbow, while his heftier coworker caressed a bludgeon. They were two of Dimitry’s four guards. He reassigned them here after someone threw a rock through the lab’s window.

“’ello,” the larger man said.

“Afternoon,” Dimitry said. “Did anything happen while I was gone?”

The lanky guard shrugged. “Aside from some kid scribbling the walls with chalk, we didn’t see nothing.”

“Chalk isn’t an issue. Keep up the fine work.”

“You got it, boss.”

Dimitry passed under Celeste’s statue and into the domed passageway. He opened the granite door for the porters following him. “Leave the milling parts in the corner, then you’re free to take a break.”

A gray-haired man’s head shot up from a countertop and turned towards the commotion. Clewin approached with hesitant steps. “What’s all this?”

“It’s a tool,” Dimitry said. “It’ll help you pulverize chemicals faster and with decreased risk of repetitive stress injury.”

“I-I see. How does it work?” Although Clewin asked the question, his distracted eyes didn’t seem interested in its answer.

“I’ll show you after we assemble it. For now, just know this one is only for potassium nitrate. There will be another for charcoal and sulfur arriving this evening.”

“To avoid all three chemicals mixing together and exploding?”

“That’s right.”

“…right.” Clewin looked at the device with a troubled expression—the kind a guilty child might have after breaking something expensive.

“Is something wrong?”

The head chemist massaged the deep scar at the base of his neck. “Well…”

“Well?” Dimitry braced himself. Whatever troubled Clewin, it probably wasn’t good.

“It’s kind of related to not crushing saltpeter, charcoal, and holy sands at the same time. Because they’ll explode. I think I know what you mean now.”

Those were the words Dimitry least wanted to hear. His eyes darted to scan the room.

Two apprentices spoke in hushed tones. A woman continued to churn a white dust-like mixture, and the man beside her weighed samples on a balance scale. Nothing stood out of the ordinary.

The inconspicuousness of it all worried Dimitry further. “Go on.”

Clewin glanced back at his apprentices. “Promise you won’t get mad.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

He took a deep breath. “Anne, could you come here for a moment?”

A woman standing over a table dropped the tools she held and slowly approached.

“Show Dimitry your hand.”

She hesitatingly pulled her fist out of her pocket.

Blood engorged three of her battered fingers. Each digit was red and darkened with blast tattoos atop water-filled blisters protruding from their ends. The damage pierced the skin’s surface layer and scorched the dermis underneath. Signs of a fresh second-degree burn. Although not an immediately life-threatening injury, if the blisters burst, they could lead to infection. A death sentence in a society lacking proper hygiene.

Her injury resulted from tactless handling of black powder and a complete disregard for Dimitry’s warning not to grind all of the components at once. The mixture exploded near her hand.

Dimitry sidelined his rising fury. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Anne said.

“Real bad?”

She nodded.

“At least the nerve-endings are still intact,” Dimitry mumbled to himself. “Listen carefully. Go to the cathedral. Tell Lili to soak your hand in cold water, and then wrap it in a fabric compress. You will hold it against a preservia blanket afterward. Is that understood?”

Anne’s petrified eyes mustered the will to meet his gaze. “We were just trying to—”

“I’ll hear you out later. It’s more important that you get it treated right now. Go.”

She rushed out of the building.

Dimitry prepared to lecture Clewin on basic safety and not being an idiot but held his words. Admonishing the chemist in front of his apprentices would only tarnish Clewin’s credibility and self-respect.

He needed to clear the room first. Dimitry glanced at the remaining apprentice, who looked on blankly. “Can you check up on Anne and make sure she’s okay?”

Without a word, the man dashed after her through the domed passageway.

Clewin glanced around the vast room, now devoid of onlookers as his feet squirmed restlessly against the floor. “Anne didn’t say anything about it hurting that bad. She just—”

“That’s because she didn’t want to worry you, you dolt,” Dimitry said. “As a leader, communicating with and keeping your team safe are your most important jobs. What would you have done if she burnt her hands to a crisp? Lost her fingers? We’re lucky that the explosion didn’t ignite the black powder granules a table over. Why did you crush all three chemicals in the same mortar? I told you specifically not to do that.”

He fidgeted. “We were just trying to get it all done for the night of repentance.”

“If your mistake set off a chain explosion, we’d have nothing at all. You would have died. Claricia would’ve been a widow.”

Clewin dropped into a kneel. “I’m sorry!” He stared at his feet with repentant eyes.

Seeing the defeated man, Dimitry tapered his anger. Although he didn’t enjoy lashing out at his employees, sometimes it had to be done. “Tell me. Why did you keep Anne here instead of sending her to the hospital? You knew she was injured.”

“Everyone was excited by what we found, so…” his voice trailed off.

“What could you have possibly found that made you so careless?”

“I wanted to say something, but I was afraid. Nothing really happens around here. I wanted to let them enjoy it.”

Dimitry’s brows furrowed. “Enjoy what?”

“D-do you want to see?”

“This better be good.”

Clewin jumped to his feet and dashed across the room. His destination was a table, where he fiddled with a crate of black powder granules. He piled a handful onto an isolated granite chair. “Remember how you said that faster burning powder made stronger bombs?”

“Yes.”

“This is what we found.” The gray-haired chemist struck flint against a steel rod.

Sparks scattered in every direction. When one contacted the dark-gray pellets below, the entire stack instantaneously combusted into a white cloud of smoke. Only a faint gray stain remained.

The fastest and cleanest burning batch yet.

Stunned, Dimitry thrust a hand into a crate full of black powder granules. He held a pellet between two fingers. “How did you make these?”

“By grinding all the chemicals in the same mortar at once. We did it to save time, but we got excited when we thought we discovered a better way to kill heathens. We’ve been doing it since morning. I thought it was safe until Anne got hurt.” Clewin sighed. “When I told them to stop, it was already too late. It’s my fault.”

Why did simultaneous pulverization of potassium nitrate, sulfur, and charcoal produce a more powerful explosive? Did highly integrated mixing make them burn faster? Or did the molecules interact in some other way?

Dimitry wasn’t sure, but he would be a fool not to take advantage of the development. Sticky bombs were useless unless they detonated while contacting the target. Even then, the damage was lacking. Could additional firepower change that?

However, before testing could begin, Dimitry had another task. Admonishing Clewin without building him back up would only destroy his frail confidence. Unlike Dimitry, who guided surgical teams, he was a decade younger and lacked leadership experience. One grew by making mistakes.

He placed a hand on Clewin’s shoulder. “As someone responsible for others’ safety, your priority is to stay calm and collected, even when you feel pressured. Never take risks without preventative measures.”

“I got carried away.” Clewin’s back slumped. “I just wanted to help kill heathens. We all did.”

“And you did a fine job. Your discovery will make a big difference.”

Clewin looked up. “Really?”

Dimitry nodded. “Going forward, I encourage you to experiment with chemistry, but only if you do it safely and consult with me first. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Dimitry flashed a reassuring smile, then turned away to examine a mortar with a charred interior. The aftermath of an unplanned ignition. Was there a way to keep his employees safe while they prepared this highly efficient, yet dangerous, variation of black powder by hand?

He thought of the green aura covering Malten’s walls. The same enchantment that coated knights’ armor and the gambeson Saphiria lent him when they traveled to Amphurt. It belonged to protectia—a spell that weakened oncoming forces. Perhaps it would prevent injury from explosions, too.

His hand reached into his pouch for four gold marks and dropped them into Clewin’s open palm. “Continue processing black powder the same way. But before that, buy two pairs of the thickest gloves you can find and have them weaved with protectia at Vogel’s Enchantments. Wear them while working with dangerous blends. I want you to tell me if they help.”

Clewin stared at the gold coins. After snapping out of his trance, he pointed at the metal barrel of an unassembled mill in the corner. “How about that thing?”

“You’ll be using it to pre-grind reagents to save time before integrating them by hand. Let’s build it now. I’ll show you how it works.”

Icy as always, wind whistled into Precious’s office on the cathedral’s third floor. But she didn’t care. Here, in the hood of her human’s cloak, she only felt warmth as her head nestled in the fluff of some dead animal’s fur. Who didn’t enjoy the sound of pages rustling as fuzzy comfort trickled from their legs to their wings?

Absolute luxury.

The suffering of patients below only made it better. Precious never thought she would enjoy living in a hospital, but she had come to love it. It was nice.

One guy in particular filled her with overwhelming joy. He probably wasn’t going to make it. His emotions flickered between despair and sadness and fleeting salvation. Every one of his unanswered prayers, every surge of his pain sent primal chills down Precious’s spine. No faerie could have asked for more.

And yet, something else loomed within her, dark and lurking.

But it wasn’t pity. Why should Precious care if the guy lived? If he had the chance, he would crush her between his hands or stomp her out like any other pest without a second thought. And he would do so happily. People were jerks that way.

No. She knew that irksome feeling well. She knew why every pleasurable rush from others’ pain evoked a tinge of regret like eating mushy, overripe fent. She had known for over a century.

It was estrangement.

Although her instincts impelled her to cause malice, she yearned for company. Human comforts and socialization taught her that life entailed more than wordlessly competing against other faeries for still-warm corpses.

However, like some deformed leper cast out of their village, her unsightly origins doomed her to never belong. Each desperate attempt to converse with people garnered only violence. No one wanted to be seen with a corrupted creature. The uncontrollable laughter that rose within whenever man suffered only isolated her further.

There would never be a place for Precious.

The first human to give her a home abandoned her, and it wouldn’t be long before the second did, too. Luckily, this one was slow on the uptake. It would take her at least another century until she found another. She had to enjoy his company while it lasted.

Precious popped out of her curled position, scrambled up a shoulder, and thrust her head past dirty blond hair. After swatting away meddlesome strands, her gaze traveled downward.

A man’s hands flipped through the weathered pages of the Gospel of Awakening. Doubtless full of Zeran stupidity.

Or so Precious thought. Not that she knew for sure: she couldn’t read Rostlen.

“Hey, Dumitry. Still reading that dumb book?”

“Yep.” He turned the page. “Did you know that Celeste was born from an acorn?”

“That’s possible?”

“Apparently.” He reached to grab a quill resting in an inkwell and scribbled something silly on a nearby piece of parchment. Although the formatting resembled letters, it was unlike any sane language. Straight and loopy lines comprised every picture.

“What are you drawing?”

“Your portrait,” Dumitry said. “The black ink really brings out your eyes.”

Precious didn’t need to parse his emotions to know he was being sarcastic. She tugged on his earlobe. “Tell me!”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Mustering all her might, she pulled as if to rip his gigantic ear clean off.

Dumitry chuckled. “Ow. Stop. That hurts.”

“Fine.” She let go. “Don’t tell me. I don’t care anymore.”

“It’s English.”

Precious’s head titled. “What’s that?”

“The language people use where I come from. Some of them, anyway.”

Squint as she might, his alleged language didn’t jog her memory. And he wasn’t lying. English must have been the dialect of some tiny village if Precious didn’t recognize it despite centuries of wandering. What a waste of time learning something only a handful of people could read. Or maybe he was trying to keep his thoughts hidden. “Are you writing secrets?”

His brows furrowed. “What are you on about?”

“You know. Because no one else knows English.”

“Interesting, but no. I need to take notes, and it’s the only language I know how to write.”

Was that why he always had that crybaby Claricia jot stuff down for him? Precious leaned forward. “Why are you taking notes?”

“I won’t remember everything in this book without a reference.” He leaned back in his chair. “There’s just too much to go through.”

Remember everything?

Was his curiosity more than a passing interest?

Precious knew how enticing that stupid book was. The entire world worshiped it. What if the gospel brainwashed him into a devout Zeran idiot just like it did everyone else? “Are you actually taking it seriously?”

“I don’t have a choice. It’s important for both of us.”

Did she notice too late?

Precious gripped Dumitry’s shoulder tighter. “You should get rid of it.”

“Can’t. If I’m going to lead ‘Celeste’s flock’, I need to know what that means.“

“I’ll throw it away for you.”

“It’s too heavy for you to lift, and you know that’s not what I meant. My goal is to convert this cathedral into a safe haven for Zerans. I have to pretend to be one of them to change their beliefs about corrupted creatures like you.”

His truthful words did nothing to soothe Precious’s unease. She risked everything if that stupid book changed him. “Do it some other way, Dumitry. You’re a smart dumb guy. You’ll figure it out.”

“I thought about it.” Dumitry set down his quill. “The advantage of this method is that it takes power away from the real Church, makes people less likely to target me for defacing holy property, and gives me an excuse to operate shrines like we did on Waira and in Amphurt. If you can think of a better way to do all that, I’d like to hear it.”

Precious darted out of the cozy haven his hair provided. She braved the icy chill to sit on the gospel, blocking its terrible words from sight. “You own the entire cathedral! Can’t you get rid of the Zera stuff entirely? No one would notice if the god that abandoned them just… disappeared.”

Dumitry shook his head. “Although Malten’s populace dislikes the Church, most continue to worship Zera. Prayer is important. Religion gives people hope, more so in these difficult times. It’s hard to imagine a situation worse than famine, war, and disease. They need the gospel more than ever.”

“But no one will even believe you! What kind of cathedral has a man in charge?”

“A valid point. Did you ever hear about the apostle?”

Who hadn’t overheard priestesses and deacons yapping about that? “You mean the lady that’ll appear to lead people in the cataclysmic battles of the end times or something like that?”

“Close.” He flipped through the weathered book. “I read the gospel twice. Not once did it mention the apostle’s gender or what they look like. From what I understand, they’re the kind of person that’d found a generous hospital, convince demons to stop attacking a dying city, return a princess to her castle, improve harvests, develop heathen-killing weap—”

“I get it already.” She pouted. “You think highly of yourself.”

Dumitry smiled. “All I’m saying is that I’m a qualified candidate. But don’t worry, I don’t really think I’m the apostle, and I won’t be doing it forever. Only for now.”

Precious prepared to shoot another complaint, but fear stole her will to speak. She looked down at her torn gown and trembling fingers instead.

Why was she so afraid?

Even if Dumitry started to hate her, even if he got caught impersonating a religious icon, she could easily escape. Her life wasn’t in danger. And yet, that did nothing to console her. Perhaps she longed for a home more than she thought.

Her gaze traveled up to meet his pale green eyes. “Just… don’t get carried away. Because I need someone to buy me food. And stuff.”

“Of course. That’s what all this preparation is for. Tomorrow, I intend to get the queen on my side. With her help, it’ll be a lot easier to convince the nobles. Everyone else will eventually fall in line once the biggest obstacles are out of the way.”

Dumitry’s gaze and words were confident. His emotions weren’t.

Precious couldn’t shirk her unease. “Are you sure it’ll work?”

“No, but it’s better than doing nothing while the kingdom collapses from a lack of timely change. I don’t want to go back to living in a city controlled by the Church. Do you?”

“N-not really. They suck.”

Laughing, Dimitry folded his parchment and set it aside. “Then it seems we’re in agreement. If all goes well, there’ll come a time you can show yourself in public. Just like I promised.”

“Do you really think so?”

“You know I’m not lying.”

Without her permission, imagery of Precious frolicking through the market invaded her mind. Her heart sang as she sampled all the fruit her heart desired: mouthwateringly sweet delicacies from Amalthea, Sundock, and even The Holy Kingdom. But no one attacked her or swatted her away. No one’s face so much as curled in disgust.

Everyone greeted her with smiles as the merchant jollily conversed with her, sharing gossip of the latest shinies imported from around Remora. Gold, silver, and crafted iron trinkets. So beautiful. So precious. Cozy warmth, without the irksome aftertaste of suffering patients’ emotions, enveloped her body.

What a dumb fantasy.

Dumb and wonderful.

Could it come true?