Location: Fenwick District — The Aetherium Foundry — The Forging Chamber — Night Shift
The forging chamber was different at night.
The Loom still hummed, its pale blue glow casting long shadows across the polished floor. But the workers were gone. The supervisors were gone. The only sound was the soft hum of machinery and the distant echo of footsteps somewhere in the corridors beyond. The air was colder now, carrying the faint metallic tang that always lingered in places where power was forged.
Elijah stood in the shadows near the entrance.
His face was Leo's—sharp, forgettable, the face of someone who had learned to be invisible. His hands were clasped behind his back. His eyes moved across the chamber, cataloging every detail, every shadow, every potential obstacle.
The janitor, he thought.
The one man who has access to this place when no one else is watching.
The one man who has been here for thirty years—longer than the Loom itself.
The one man who knows every corner, every crevice, every secret of this place.
His internal thoughts churned as he recalled the conversation from earlier that evening. The way Caspian's tongue had loosened with each drink, the way his bitterness had spilled out like poison from a wound.
Three weeks of careful work, Elijah thought. Three weeks of playing the role of the grateful younger brother. Three weeks of listening to Caspian complain about Jericho, about the family, about the unfairness of it all.
And finally, tonight, it paid off.
---
The joint was called The Rusty Nail.
A dive bar at the edge of the Foundry's residential district, its walls lined with old photographs and its air thick with the smell of stale beer and cigarettes. The lighting was dim, the kind of dim that made everyone look older and sadder than they actually were. A jukebox in the corner played something slow and sad that no one was listening to.
Elijah sat in a booth near the back.
His face was Leo's. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy. His hands were wrapped around a glass of something amber—something that he hadn't touched since it was placed in front of him.
Across from him, Caspian was drunk.
Not stumbling drunk—not yet. But close. His words were slightly slurred, his gestures slightly too wide, his eyes slightly too bright. The mask of cold superiority that he wore in public had slipped, revealing something beneath—something raw, something wounded.
"You know," Caspian said.
His voice was loud, carrying across the dim room.
"You're not so bad, Leo."
"Thank you."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"You're not like Jericho."
"I know."
"Jericho is—"
Caspian paused, searching for the right word.
"—Jericho is Jericho."
"Yeah."
Caspian took a long drink, draining half his glass in one swallow.
"Jericho is Jericho."
He set the glass down with a thud.
"He gets everything."
"Everything?"
"Everything. The suit upgrades. The training. The opportunities. The attention."
His voice was bitter.
"And me? I get nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"That's—"
"Just the name. Just the family name. And I had to earn everything from scratch."
"From scratch?"
"From scratch."
Caspian leaned forward, his eyes intense.
"Jericho was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I was born with nothing but the expectation that I would be like him."
"That's rough."
"It is."
"But you made it."
"I made it."
Caspian's voice softened.
"And you—"
He pointed at Elijah.
"—you're different."
"I am?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're not trying to be like him."
"Like who?"
"Like Jericho."
"I'm not."
"I know."
Caspian smiled—a genuine smile, the first Elijah had seen from him.
"That's why I like you."
His voice was soft, almost slurred.
"That's why I prefer you."
---
Elijah smiled back.
"I appreciate that, brother."
"You should."
Caspian took another drink.
"You really should."
"And I do."
"Good."
Caspian set the glass down.
"Because I've been thinking—"
"About what?"
"About you."
"About me?"
"About us."
Caspian's eyes were distant.
"About how things could be different."
"Different how?"
"If you were the one in charge."
"Me?"
"Yes."
Caspian leaned forward.
"You're not like Jericho. You're not like the rest of them. You're—"
He paused.
"—you're something else."
"Something else?"
"Something better."
Elijah's expression didn't change.
But behind his eyes, something shifted.
"That's kind of you to say."
"It's the truth."
Caspian's voice was earnest.
"You deserve more than what you've been given."
"I—"
"You do."
"Thank you."
Caspian waved his hand.
"Don't thank me. Just—"
He paused.
"—don't forget me when you make it."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Caspian smiled.
"Good."
---
He told me everything, he thought. The janitor. The schedule. The access.
The janitor—an old man named Emilio. He's been working at the Foundry for thirty years. He started before the Loom was even built. He knows every corner, every crevice, every secret of this place.
He works the night shift. 8:20 PM to 9:50 PM. Every night. Without fail.
And during his shift, he's the only one allowed in the forging chamber.
He brings his truck—a beat-up old thing that he uses to transport meat for the military officers and the Jerkins family. The meat is packed in the same area where the Aetherium Loom is kept.
He's the only one who has access.
The only one.
And now I know.
His eyes moved across the chamber again.
The Loom hummed. The shadows stretched. The air was cold, still, waiting.
All that left me with the opportunity to lay in store for the next phase of the plan, he thought. But the right time was needed.
The tournament—the one Seraphina mentioned—is scheduled for just days from now.
The participants from the other Foundry will be arriving.
The ones from the Torrent family's facility.
I don't know what surprises they'll have for me.
He clenched his fists.
But I'll be ready.
---
The gate of the Torrent family's facility rose before the Rolls-Royce like a monument to authority.
It was not a gate in the way that gates existed in the world outside. It was a barrier—a wall of dark steel and pale light, its surface marked with symbols that seemed to shift and move when the eye wasn't focused on them. The guard towers flanking it were manned by figures in dark uniforms, their faces hidden behind helmets, their hands resting on weapons that hummed with pale blue light.
The Rolls-Royce stopped.
Its engine was silent, a purr that was barely audible. The car was white, immaculate, its surface gleaming under the harsh floodlights that illuminated the gate.
The window rolled down.
A face appeared.
She was beautiful—not in the way of mortals, in the way of something that had been crafted to be beautiful. Her hair was dark, falling in waves across her shoulders. Her skin was pale, almost luminous. Her eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, but the curve of her lips suggested a smile.
"Chloe Halvern," the guard said.
His voice was flat.
"You're expected."
"I know."
Her voice was soft.
"Open the gate."
The guard bowed.
The gate opened.
The Rolls-Royce rolled through.
---