The underground range stretched ahead—long and narrow, cut clean like a tunnel carved by exacting hands, black slate underfoot. To the right, eight shooting lanes ran side by side, each ending in a recessed target mount.
The farthest lane ran at least two hundred and fifty meters, maybe more. The back wall was packed with hardened clay or compressed soil, scarred by countless strikes. A faint haze lingered in the air, metallic on the tongue. Soft ticking echoed—the pull of ropes, the spin of pulleys, targets sliding forward and back along their tracks.
Sina stood alone in the third lane, sleeves rolled to her elbows, leather bracers strapped at her wrists, goggles fitted flush against her brow. The igniser hung loose across her chest, her finger idly tracing the crystal scope mounted above the action.
It was a long, bolt-action weapon, nearly three-quarters her height—its 1.2-meter length spanning from her sternum past her hip, a weight made deliberate, scaled to the measure of a human frame. The stock, black-stained walnut, lay warm and slick beneath her palm, while the matte steel barrel pressed cold and solid against her skin. The bolt gleamed faintly, its spiral fluting catching the thin light.
The day could not have felt worse. First, Killian Denelle pressed her to fall into line—work in pairs, answer to protocol. Then, Soren turned up among the trainees; glad as she was to see him, the fact he knew more than he should know felt like a threat now that he would be bound to the Corps. And, as if fate enjoyed irony, Vellien Tressine had to appear at the exact wrong moment—when, on impulse, she'd put her hands to Soren's face.
The thoughts braided together, hardening her expression. A few rounds were exactly what she needed to fling the tension off her shoulders.
She cycled the bolt once without firing. Smooth pull. Sharp click. Clean push forward. Chamber ready. The tunnel lay silent but for the pulley's creak and the faint grind of metal settling into place.
I wonder what sort of man Soren has become.
She shouldered the weapon in one practiced motion. Her front knee bent, weight lowered, left hand cradling the forestock.
Is he still the boy whose warmth outshone the Viremont sun?
Her head dipped, her finger found the trigger.
Or has time carved him into someone else?
The first shot broke. Not the sharp crack she knew, but a subdued snap—closer to a hand clap than a whip, quickly smothered by the range's thick walls. The muzzle jolted only slightly in her grip. She cycled the bolt without pause—back, casing spinning free, forward again.
Second shot.
Exhale. Realign.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Her rhythm held—fire, bolt, breathe, steady again. Each sharp click marked her unbroken tempo. She stopped after the sixth. The igniser hung loose on its sling, goggles pushed up, the strap tight against her platinum braid. The tension eased from her shoulders. For a moment, she looked almost at peace.
Then her eyes shifted to the blue-haired woman watching from behind, a monocular held in her hand.
"So? How was it?" Saria Florette asked, letting the monocular drop from her eye. The excitement hadn't waned from her youthful, expectant features.
Sina turned the knob slowly, venting the shroud. "The integrated suppressor's excellent. My ears are grateful. This one really reaches a kilometer?"
"Or more, if you're lucky and the conditions are right. But that's just my calculation, anyway—you'll have to prove it yourself." Saria stepped closer, taking the weapon from her. "Any issues with it?"
"Precision's sharp, same as the Florette," Sina said.
The pop-up targets at the far end told the story—six clean punctures, each ringed in black, lined in perfect symmetry across the row of wooden boards. The edges of the inner rings were scorched, thin wisps of smoke still curling upward.
"I like that it's longer, slimmer," Sina went on. "Only one shot at a time, and having to bolt each round feels like going back in time. But it's fine—I only need one shot to count."
"You want it quiet and reaching further, there's always a trade-off," Saria said with a shrug. "No room for the feed-box now, but I'll probably figure that out in the future."
They walked back together to the workshop, a hall away. Two sets of doors opened for them: the first by guards, the second with the key Saria wore hidden on a chain beneath her collar.
"What about the crystal scope?" Saria asked, laying the igniser on her cluttered oak worktable.
Sina considered, then pulled up a chair. "The scope magnifies nicely, but it feels unnatural compared to iron sights. I'll need some time to adjust."
Unnatural—and yet you nailed all six! Saria thought, staring at Sina like she'd glimpsed a monster.
"You'd better, if you want to shoot that far," Saria said, leaning forward with both hands flat on the table. "But why even need that range? Dense jungles, misty cliffs—Dravina's conditions don't suit long shots. It's obstructed, unpredictable."
Sina only smiled. "Not all tigers live in jungles. Some roam open plains with wide horizons."
Saria frowned, puzzled. Which tigers did Sina mean? But Saria was the weapon maker; Sina faced the real enemy on the front lines. Perhaps Sina knew better. Saria nodded slowly, conceding the point, her mind shifting to a more pressing question.
"Do me a favor, Sina. Name it." Her amber eyes gleamed with delight.
A flicker of surprise crossed Sina's face. "Isn't it your child?"
"And I'm letting you name my child. I can't just call it Florette, Second Edition. Too clunky. Come on."
Sina smirked, eyes drifting upward as if scanning the ceiling for names. At last she murmured softly, testing the sound aloud.
"Varre."
"Varre? Where's that from?" Saria straightened, her arms folded, her gaze sharp, her interrogative mode on.
"A friend's name," Sina said simply.
"Ha. And here I thought I was your only friend in this place." Saria gave a theatrical sigh. "Varre Pattern it is, then."
Sina's laughter broke through as she rose, shrugging into her long coat unhurriedly.
"Wait," Saria called, her voice carrying after Sina. "There's one more thing I wanted to ask."
Sina slowed, still gathering her gear. "What is it?"
"There'll be a ceremony at the palace by the end of this week. Would you like to come? My family was invited."
For a heartbeat, Sina's hand stilled in the act of buckling a strap. Then she set the gear back down. "A ceremony? They're celebrating something?"
Saria's voice dimmed, the brightness slipping away. "Just the opposite. More like... mourning, actually. You remember that incident eight years ago?"
"The assassination, you mean?" Sina asked, her face still turned from Saria.
"Exactly, that one." Saria went on. "Good thing my father was ill then, or my parents would've been there that day and met that grim fate. The King still holds a ceremony every year to mourn the late King and Queen, and all those who perished in that terrible poisoning. But he only invites the Prime Houses, so I suppose you wouldn't have heard of it."
Sina kept moving, busying herself with belts and clasps. Her voice, though, was quieter. "Sounds like a gloomy ceremony to me."
Saria pressed, unwilling to let it die. "I know, I know. I've grown dead bored of sitting there every year through the whole thing myself. But the Ivara Palace is absolutely stunning, Sina. I'll give you a tour. You must see the gardens—breathtaking!"
At that, Sina finally turned, smirk tugging at her lips. "Ha. So you want me to keep you entertained?"
"Of course! Who else could do that better than you, my Lady?" Saria threw her hands up in mock despair, her voice theatrical.
Sina only shrugged and started for the door. "Thanks, Saria, but I've got other plans." Her hand was already on the latch. "Maybe next year."
"As if you're ever around at the right time for me to ask," Saria pouted after her. "You're not staying for dinner?"
"Nah." Sina glanced over her shoulder, her expression already half-gone in the shadows. "I've gotta go see someone. You go." With that, she slipped behind the iron door.
Left alone, Saria let out a disappointed sigh, her cheeriness falling away. She had long known Sina was a recluse, shunning any event, big or small. Still, she had held onto the hope that Sina might, just once, step outside the Ignis Compound with her—somewhere she might feel more at ease, away from the watchful eyes of their peers. But the hope had proved futile.
She eased back into her chair. The tea in her cup had gone cold, abandoned when she followed Sina to the testing range. She finished it in a slow sip, her gaze lingering on her latest creation.
The Ignis Corps had wielded the weapon her great-grandfather designed, honed by each smith since, until it bore their name: the Florette Pattern igniser. Every Ignisant knew its weight, its care, the thunder it loosed.
If not for Sina's demand, Saria wouldn't have pursued this new design. Now, standing on the edge of perfecting it, she wasn't sure whether to feel proud... or uneasy.
"The more refined you become," she murmured to the cold weapon, fingers brushing the polished stock, "the more they'll hunger for you—and your secrets."
She placed the igniser carefully into its vault and sealed it shut. The Ignium lamps hissed out, one by one. The heavy iron door closed behind her with a final, ringing thud.
Her stomach growled. Whatever the future held, she'd face it better on a full meal.