Desperate Filigree
War tables aren’t what they used to be. Once, they were the heart of strategy—solid oak, reinforced with brass inlays, their edges carved with ancient battle hymns and the sigils of kings whose names are long forgotten. Back then, they bore the weight of empires and shaped the fate of nations.
Now? Now, it’s a wheezing, steam-belching monstrosity, barely held together with riveted plates and arcane filigree. It breathes like a dying forge, gears clanking and groaning beneath its surface, protesting every task demanded of it. Puffs of enchanted steam escape through misaligned seams, where wood and metal refuse to cooperate.
Scattered across its once-proud bulk are half-eaten rations, smudged parchments, and wooden unit markers worn smooth by too many desperate hands. The engraved schematics, once a master’s work, lie buried beneath frantic diagrams, last-ditch plans, and ink stains deep enough to drown a scribe. Some glyphs along the edges still flicker with residual mana, their light dim and sputtering, as if the table itself is too exhausted to keep up with the chaos.
Garik stands over it, his shadow bending with the uneven glow of dying glyphs. He exhales slowly, rubbing a calloused thumb over the worn battle map. The old thing’s seen better days. So has he. Deep lines crease his face, memories etched into weathered skin. His tools feel heavier than they used to, his shoulders weighed down not just by wood and metal but by decisions—too many, too fast, and none of them good.
Above the table, the Bailey’s Defense Interface flickers to life, casting a cold, ethereal light across the room. The keep’s blueprint unfurls like a spectral scroll, magic tracing the walls, turrets, and fortifications. Red fractures creep along the northern perimeter, ominous as bloodstains. Defensive turrets blink “Critical Failure” one by one, their proud firepower reduced to memories and bad investments. Garik’s jaw tightens. Another breach. Another failure.
Across the table, Selene leans in, silver eyes narrowed, ears twitching with barely contained frustration. Her clawed finger jabs at the crumbling barricades, tapping the map hard enough to leave marks.
“Garik... why do we even have walls? And why are they held together with welded optimism and splinters?”
Her voice is sharp, biting, laced with sleepless nights and too many close calls. Her tail flicks behind her, a restless rhythm betraying her composure.
Garik grunts, his eyes fixed on the failing northern perimeter. “Because splinters are all we’ve got left.”
From a sagging chair in the corner, Lyra watches, idly stroking the smoldering mane of her purple-flamed fell hound. The beast gnaws lazily on a supply crate, ember eyes half-lidded. Lyra’s gaze drifts to Garik, her voice dry and weary.
“Garik, in what world does ‘defensive strategy’ involve throwing automaton butlers at siege beasts?”
A polished porcelain figure stiffens nearby. Crispin, one of the Automaton Butlers—an aging relic from a time when luxury mattered more than war—straightens his cuffs and tilts his head at an unnatural angle. His voice is crisp, precise.
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
Lyra smirks. “Not you, Crispin. Just wondering when exactly you became our best line of defense.”
From the far side of the room, Genevieve, the ever-dutiful Automaton Maid, glides past with a silver tray. She moves gracefully, setting down tea and crackers with practiced ease, as if they were discussing trade agreements instead of impending doom.
Selene snorts, crossing her arms. “I swear, if one more mechanical servant offers me herbal tea while I’m dodging acid spit, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Crispin’s porcelain face remains neutral, but his voice carries a hint of indignation. “It is peppermint, madam. Quite calming.”
Selene’s tail bristles, a low growl escaping. “Calming, he says...”
Garik’s lips twitch—almost a smile. Almost. But the Bailey’s Defense Interface flickers again, its ghostly lines shivering as another section of the northern wall flashes red. His stomach twists, a cold knot tightening with every pulse. Time’s running out.
His fingers curl around the edge of the war table, nails scraping the worn wood. “Enough. We’ve held them off for three days. They’ll hit the north wall before dawn.”
Selene’s ears perk, her posture shifting, tension coiling in her muscles. “What’s left to hold with?”
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Garik’s shoulders sag, just for a moment. “What’s always left.” His eyes flick to Crispin and Genevieve, their porcelain faces reflecting the dim light. “Whatever we can find. Whatever’s still standing.”
Silence settles, heavy and bitter, the air thick with resignation and resolve. Even the old war table seems to groan under the weight of it all.
Lyra rises from her chair, her fell hound growling low, flames dancing along its spine. “Then let’s give them hell with splinters and optimism.”
Garik meets her gaze, a flicker of fire lighting his tired eyes. Aye, maybe splinters and optimism are all they’ve got. But they’ll make it count.
Burning mana clung to the air, thick and suffocating, like a curse that refused to lift. It stung Garik’s nose, sharp and acrid, whispering of desperation and decay. He pressed forward, his boots echoing off the stone walls. The weight of the keep’s fate bore down on his shoulders. One malfunction—that’s all it would take for everything to come crashing down.
The Arcane Turret loomed ahead, a rust-choked wreck of tarnished bronze and soot-blackened vents. Once a proud defender, now a sagging relic clinging to duty by frayed threads. Hasty repair sigils crawled across its surface, lines shaky and uneven—drawn by hands that had been running out of time. The mana channels flickered, pulsing weakly before sputtering out like a dying breath. It shuddered, groaning under its own weight, exhausted and broken.
Behind him, Bob and Crispin—ever-loyal Automaton Butlers—hauled cargo crates as if carrying the world itself. Brass frames creaked, gears ground, and their arcane cores hummed with strain. Bob grumbled, his voice a blend of sarcasm and indignation. “Servos were made for pouring tea, not back-breaking labor.” Crispin only sighed, adjusting his grip with the dignity of a butler serving high tea, not lugging supplies to a battlefield.
Further back, Genevieve and Cindy, Automaton Maids crafted for elegance but cursed with ruthless efficiency, carried Lyra and Selene as if they were noblewomen instead of exhausted warriors.
Selene’s ears flicked in irritation, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “I can walk, you know.”
Cindy’s voice was calm, polite, and utterly unyielding. “Apologies, Miss Selene. But efficiency is paramount, and your current exhaustion levels indicate a twenty-three percent decrease in combat effectiveness.”
Selene groaned, eyes rolling skyward. “Swear to every moon spirit, if one more walking tea tray comments on my stamina—”
Lyra, draped over Genevieve’s shoulder with the languid grace of a bored aristocrat, sighed. Her eyes flitted to Garik, annoyance barely concealed beneath exhaustion. “Garik, remind me again why our last line of defense is being run by repurposed household staff?”
Garik’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have a good answer. None she’d like, anyway. But she wasn’t wrong. When the keep fell and the guards were slaughtered, this was all they had left—relics meant for dusting shelves and serving tea, now pressed into service as warriors.
Before he could muster a half-hearted explanation, a low growl rumbled through the air. Lyra’s fell hounds—one wreathed in purple flame, the other in crimson inferno—flanked a scuttling Spider Cargo-Bot. The eight-legged contraption clicked over uneven ground, burdened with equipment and spare parts. Its legs trembled under the weight, but it kept pace, unyielding and determined.
Garik glanced back at his ragtag crew—the weary, the overburdened, the barely functional. No gilded knights, no battle-hardened veterans. Just a stubborn dwarf, a fox-eared scout, a tree-touched mystic, and a handful of glorified broomsticks carrying the fate of this keep on their backs.
Yet, they pressed on.
This place was built by his ancestors, and by the three great dwarven deities, he would defend it.
Garik knelt before the turret, prying open the maintenance hatch with a grunt. His heart sank. Conduits charred and brittle, mana regulators melted into slag. It looked less like a defense mechanism and more like an apprentice blacksmith’s first and final lesson in fire rune safety.
“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing a soot-streaked thumb over his beard. “I thought as much.”
Selene was already digging through her satchel, eyes gleaming with reckless excitement. She pulled out a high-grade mana stone, its raw power shimmering in her palm. “Quick fix?”
Garik squinted at the glowing chunk of energy. “Quick death if you overload it.” He yanked out a bundle of fried conduits, his movements careful and precise, like a medic amputating a gangrenous limb.
Selene grinned, fangs flashing. “So we match the reckless energy input with an equal amount of sheer willpower, yeah?”
Lyra crouched beside the spell-caster array, delicate fingers inscribing glyphs onto elemental stones. Each symbol flared molten silver before sinking into the crystalline surface. Her whispered incantations merged with the static hum of unstable magic. The turret trembled, groaning under the weight of neglect and desperation.
Genevieve watched with the poise of a maid at court, polished silver eyes reflecting the chaotic scene. The embroidery on her apron—“Live, Laugh, Smite”—felt particularly mocking. She tilted her head. “Sir, shall I prepare additional reinforcement? Perhaps in the form of decorative enchantments?”
Garik blinked, his brain stalling for a heartbeat. Then he snorted, exhaustion and grim humor mixing into a short laugh. “You know what? Sure. If we survive this, I’ll personally let you decorate the next turret however you want.”
Genevieve’s eyes flickered a delighted pink. “A most gracious commander, indeed.”
Selene snickered as she pressed the mana stone to the exposed arcane core. The turret rattled, its frame trembling beneath her touch. The air thickened with the scent of burning mana and ozone.
Garik exhaled, bracing for impact. His eyes traced the fragile network of conduits, the flickering glyphs, the desperate hope binding this contraption together.
“We’re all gonna die.”