Chapter Eleven

  Lost Child of the Mountain

  A Butler Automaton strides forward, arms steady beneath towering crates. His servos hum with precision, echoing softly across the battlefield. Polished brass and steel gleam under flickering mana-light, brief glimmers dancing over charred ground. Beside him, a Maid Automaton moves in perfect sync, tomes held securely against her porcelain-white frame. Her sapphire eyes glow softly, scanning the chaos with unblinking focus as embers swirl in the storm-choked air.

  The Butler lowers the crates with practiced ease, joints whirring as he unseals the first. Pipes and planks clatter onto the scorched earth, lacquered surfaces gleaming under mana-light. With mechanical precision, he arranges them, swiftly assembling a sturdy workstation. From the second crate, he retrieves tools, gears, and alchemical components, each placed with calculated intent. Mana-infused mist rises as metal meets metal, the battlefield’s chaos fading into the background of his methodical task.

  The Maid Automaton sets two tomes on the makeshift table, her fingers gliding over their worn covers. Ancient fabric, bound with elegant bows, shimmers with shifting arcane script. Glyphs twist like living ink. The cloth resists her touch, pulsing faintly—a seal of secrecy woven into its threads. A whisper of magic stirs the air, guarded knowledge waiting for the rightful touch to break its silent vow.

  Through the smoke, a third Maid Automaton moves with silent purpose, sapphire eyes flickering as she scans the battlefield. Her gaze locks on a Dwarf hunched over a battered shield, fingers deftly jury-rigging broken metal with scavenged scraps. With a grunt of satisfaction, he presses the reforged shield into the waiting hands of a towering Bovinian warrior. The Bovinian’s cracked horn gleams under the mana-light as his grip tightens around the makeshift defense.

  The Maid Automaton halts beside the Dwarf, tilting her head with mechanical grace. "Master Dwarf?"

  The Dwarf squints up, brow furrowing. "By the Great Anvil... What in the blazes are you?"

  He stands, dust drifting from his patched leather pants. Broad and solid, he’s built like the mountains that bore him, every muscle shaped by generations of hard labor. His vest is worn thin, stretched over a chest forged by digging through stone and rubble. A frayed blacksmith’s apron hangs low, its pockets stuffed with tools that clink as he moves.

  His face is rough and weathered, lines carved deep by wind and sun. A long, tangled goatee, streaked with auburn and grey, juts from his chin, matching the wild hair spilling over his shoulders. His pale grey eyes are sharp, flicking over details with a practiced archaeologist’s precision. They miss nothing, calculating and shrewd beneath heavy, furrowed brows.

  Dust clings to his skin, the scent of earth and stone surrounding him. He stands firm, unyielding, as if he belongs here among the ruins and chaos. A heavy tool belt hangs at his waist, sagging under the weight of chisels, hammers, and brushes worn smooth by use.

  He looks at her, his gaze steady and unblinking. There’s no pretense, no softness. Just raw practicality and a gruff, no-nonsense demeanor. He belongs here, among stone and wind, far from the petty squabbles of polite society. Here, where history waits to be unearthed, his heart beats steady and strong.

  "Greetings, Master Dwarf. I am Cindy, a maid of the Lady."

  "A what? The who?" He wipes sweat from his brow with a soot-stained sleeve. "And for the love of the hammer, call me Garik."

  "Understood, Master Garik. Please follow me." Cindy pivots sharply, striding off without another word.

  Garik blinks. "Uh... sure. But drop the ‘Master,’ or I’ll start calling you Lass."

  Cindy’s head whirls a full one-eighty. Her sapphire eyes fix on him, unblinking. Garik’s heart skips a beat. He stumbles back.

  "Of course, Garik."

  

  Cindy leads him toward the impromptu craftsman’s station.

  Garik’s jaw drops as the scene unfolds. Rows of pristine tools gleam under the mana-light, their edges razor-sharp. Components lie meticulously arranged, alongside raw materials so rare they seem almost mythical. His fingers twitch, itching to touch.

  "By the Great Forge..." he whispers, stepping closer. Awe washes over him, heart thumping. A craftsman’s paradise amidst the chaos of battle.

  Cindy approaches three other Automata—another Maid and two Butlers. She nods. "Crispin, Genevieve, Bob. I’ve brought the Mast—" she catches herself. "I mean, Garik."

  Garik glances over, realizing he had completely ignored them. He clears his throat. "Ah... well, this is awkward."

  One of the Butlers steps forward, movements precise. "Greetings, Garik. I am the architect, Bob. But you may call me Bob the Builder."

  Garik huffs a laugh, spitting on his hands before wiping them on his apron. He extends one toward Bob. The Butler hesitates, head tilting before clasping Garik’s hand in a firm grip.

  "A pleasure, Bob the Builder. I assume we’re about to build something with all this?" He gestures to the pristine materials.

  The second Maid Automaton steps forward, movements graceful. "Greetings—"

  Garik throws up a hand. "Stones in my beard! Enough with the pleasantries." He jabs a finger at the first. "Cindy." Another jab. "Bob." He turns to the third.

  The Butler straightens, tapping his chest. "Crispin."

  Garik nods. "Right. Crispin." He gestures to the last Maid.

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  "Genevieve," she supplies smoothly, her voice soft but clear.

  "Well, there you have it. I’m Garik. Well met." His eyes gleam as he clasps his hands together. "Now, can we get on with it?"

  Genevieve stepped forward, her gloved fingers brushing the two tomes with practiced ease. Their covers were a deep crimson, delicate yet sturdy, wrapped in velvet bows that pulsed with quiet, steady energy. The fabric shimmered in the light, hinting at the secrets woven into each thread.

  She lifted the first tome carefully, her voice soft and steady. “This one holds the Interlocking Stone Sequence motif.” Her fingers skimmed the cloth, and a ripple stirred the air. “And the second…” She hesitated, her fingertips lingering. “The Redirected Energy Flow Systems motif. Both are fragments of an ancient technique, lost to time.”

  The cloth patterns shifted, symbols twisting and shimmering, alive with hidden power. They seemed to breathe, flowing and reforming, whispering of forgotten knowledge waiting to be unlocked.

  Garik leaned in, his pale gray eyes narrowing as he studied the tomes. The air around them hummed, thick with anticipation. His throat was dry. “They… seem alive?”

  Genevieve’s sapphire eyes flicked to his, a knowing glint in them. “Not alive. But aware. They wait for the one who can read them.”

  Garik’s heart skipped. The weight of history pressed on him, ancient wisdom brushing against the edge of his mind. He fought the urge to reach out, his hands curling into fists. “Who could’ve crafted something like this?”

  Genevieve’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Someone who understood that knowledge is power… and power demands respect.”

  The symbols continued to twist, shadows dancing across Garik’s weathered face. For a moment, he thought he heard a whisper—a voice calling from the depths of the past, beckoning him closer.

  Garik’s soot-streaked face tightens as his gloved fingers trace the worn fabric. It feels rough, ancient, whispering of centuries long past. His dwarven instincts stir, the weight of craftsmanship and forgotten knowledge pressing at the edge of his mind. He takes a steady breath, the scent of old parchment and dust filling his lungs. Slowly, he tugs the velvet bow loose.

  The knot unravels, and a cold pulse of energy surges through him. His vision blurs. The world around him falls away, senses collapsing inward as a voice—deep and resolute—echoes in his skull.

  “Hear me, child of the mountains. I am Forgemaster Gill of the Black Hammer.”

  Garik’s heart pounds. The voice isn’t just in his head—it surrounds him, vibrating through the stone beneath his feet, wrapping him in its power. The air thickens, heat crackling around him. The world shifts. Like mist parting, a figure appears before him: a broad-shouldered dwarf with an iron-lined beard, eyes fierce and weary. He stands amidst the embers of a crumbling stronghold, shadows flickering like restless spirits.

  “We are at war with the Obsidian Dragon, Aks’stof. But the Black Hammer Tribe… our days are numbered.”

  Garik’s chest tightens. The past isn’t just speaking to him—it’s unfolding before his eyes. He sees the despair etched on the Forgemaster’s face, the way his shoulders sag beneath invisible burdens.

  “I have ordered the elders, the women, and the children to flee to the Beast-Lord’s domain. There, at least, our people may endure.”

  Heat stings Garik’s eyes. His fingers dig into the tome’s cover, fabric bunching beneath his grip. They were fleeing. Running from a beast that even dwarven steel could not break.

  “With them, I send our greatest marvels. But the schematics are scattered, broken into motifs. Only one born of the Ebony Mountain can unlock them.”

  A chill runs down Garik’s spine. Born of the Ebony Mountain. His mind races, piecing it together. It can’t be… Could it?

  “That means you.” The words strike him like a hammer blow. His throat tightens, a cold weight settling in his chest. The tome in his hands feels heavier, pulsing with the echo of ancient knowledge.

  “Use this knowledge wisely. By the grace of the Beast-Lord and by the love of our three deities—The Hammer, The Anvil, and The Forge—may the stone grant its blessings upon you, lost child of the mountain.”

  The vision dims, embers fading to ash as shadows swallow the Forgemaster’s form. Silence descends, heavy and cold. Garik sways, the room spinning around him. He is alone again, standing in the dusty chamber, the tome cradled in his trembling hands.

  A weight presses on his soul, ancient and unyielding. Lost child of the mountain. The words echo through him, carving into his heart. His pulse races, thoughts churning, questions forming and dying before he can speak them. Who was he—really? And why did the stone choose him?

  His knees threaten to buckle, but he locks them tight, forcing himself to stand tall. With a quick, angry swipe, he wipes his eyes, smearing soot across his cheek. There’s no time for weakness. Not now.

  The tome lies still, its velvet cover dull in the dim light, but its presence thrums against his skin, warm and alive. He swallows hard, pushing down the fear, the uncertainty. Whatever this legacy means—whatever it demands—he must carry it.

  For the Black Hammer Tribe. For the lost children of the mountain. For himself.

  Garik’s hands shake as he pries open the first motif, his breath unsteady. The weight of the moment presses on his chest, heavy and suffocating. He swallows, the air dry and stale, tasting of dust and ancient parchment.

  “Curious?” Bob’s voice is a low rumble. His mechanical eyes whir as they adjust, gears clicking softly as he leans over Garik’s shoulder.

  “There’s nothing there,” Crispin mutters, arms crossed and brow furrowed. His eyes narrow at the blank pages, skepticism clear in his voice.

  Genevieve and Cindy exchange glances, faces unreadable, shadows flickering across their features.

  Garik exhales, sharp and bitter. “I thought so…” His words are brittle, cracking under the weight of his disappointment. A dry, hollow chuckle escapes, but it crumbles into quiet, shuddering sobs. His shoulders shake, the weight of centuries bearing down on him. All the hopes he’d placed on this book, the dreams of uncovering his heritage—they crumble like dust.

  Bob shifts awkwardly, gears clicking. “Is… everything all right?” His usual monotone falters, uncertainty slipping through.

  Garik drags his sleeve across his face, forcing a steady breath. “Yes.” His voice is cold, sharp, but his hands remain clenched around the tome, knuckles white. He sees it—every diagram, every delicate line of text, every ancient secret lost to time—etched into the pages, glowing faintly. And yet, only he can read them.

  His heart thunders in his chest. Why him? Why now? The questions whirl, but he shoves them aside. It doesn’t matter. Not now.

  With renewed urgency, he flips open the second motif. His breath catches. Symbols twist and dance before his eyes, rearranging into blueprints and formulas, flowing like water across the page. A grin spreads across his soot-streaked face, wide and bright. “No…” His voice trembles, but now with exhilaration, hope flaring in his chest.

  Cindy steps closer, her eyes narrowing. “Garik?”

  He snaps the tome shut, the sound echoing in the chamber. He turns to her, his gaze fierce. “Cindy, I need you to find two of my colleagues.” His voice is steady, no hint of the earlier despair.

  She straightens, alert. “Of course. Who am I looking for?”

  “The only two who can help me piece this together.” His grip tightens on the tome, its ancient power thrumming beneath his fingers. “We’re going to remodify the turrets.”