The road east from Honeyburrow was not a single path, but a succession of choices.
It wound through marshland first—long stretches of reed and standing water where the sky seemed too wide and the earth too soft. Sir. Wilkinson's wheeled machine hissed and clicked as it rolled, its hidden pistons assisting when the ground grew stubborn. Roald walked beside it at times, rode upon it at others, watching his village shrink not just in distance, but in certainty.
For the first two days, he spoke little.
He carried with him a small bundle: spare shirt, carving knife, a sliver of oak from his father's yard, and a scrap of cloth Seren had pressed into his palm before he left. It smelled faintly of lavender and hearth smoke. At night, when Sir. Wilkinson banked the burner and the world went quiet save for frogs and wind, Roald would take the cloth from his satchel and hold it as though it were a compass.
Sir. Wilkinson noticed.
He noticed the way Roald's eyes lingered westward at dusk. The way his fingers traced idle shapes in the dirt—small hulls, narrow chimneys—only to erase them absently. The way excitement and ache wrestled visibly in him.
On the third evening, as they camped beneath a twisted alder tree, Sir. Wilkinson broke the silence.
"You are measuring the distance," he said, adjusting a valve on the travel engine.
Roald looked up. "Yes."
"In miles?"
"In… everything."
Sir. Wilkinson studied him for a moment. The firelight caught in the brass buttons of his coat.
"When I first left Dillaclor," he said, "I believed myself immune to homesickness."
Roald blinked. "You left?"
Sir. Wilkinson gave a small, dry laugh. "Even renowned boat makers begin as sons."
He leaned back against the cart wheel.
"I was apprenticed at twelve to a master machinist in the southern quarter of . I thought the city grand and merciless. I missed the narrow street where I had grown. The baker who slipped me crusts. The river's evening bells."
"You went back?" Roald asked.
"No," Sir. Wilkinson said. "But I outgrew the ache."
He reached into a compartment of his cart and withdrew a small metal object wrapped in cloth. He handed it to Roald.
It was a compass—but unlike any Roald had seen. Its casing was etched with intricate patterns, and instead of a simple needle, it held a delicate arrangement of balanced rings, all turning subtly within one another.
"This," Sir. Wilkinson said, "was given to me by a navigator of the eastern fleets. It does not merely point north. It adjusts for iron in the earth, for storms brewing beyond sight. It anticipates drift."
Roald turned it carefully in his hands. The rings shimmered in the firelight.
"In Dillaclor," Sir. Wilkinson continued, "there are workshops that span entire courtyards. Libraries filled not with sermons, but with schematics. Engineers who argue until sunrise about the optimal curvature of a hull."
Roald's gaze lifted slowly.
"There are vaults," Sir. Wilkinson went on, his tone softening just enough to invite wonder, "where prototypes are kept—engines that failed gloriously. Machines that nearly flew. Submersible crafts that sank only once before being improved. You will see metals that do not rust. Lenses ground so finely they can read the surface of the moon."
"The moon?" Roald breathed.
Sir. Wilkinson nodded.
"The ruler funds expeditions upriver, downriver, and across the sea. There are rumors of islands whose shores glitter with minerals unknown to our forges. And treasures—not merely gold, though there is plenty of that—but knowledge. Designs guarded for generations."
The fire crackled between them.
"You will not be fetching coal," Sir. Wilkinson said quietly. "You will be shaping fleets. You will test vessels that have never touched water before your hand steadies them. And when the capital gathers along the great river to witness a new craft cut through the current without sail or smoke…" He paused. "You will know your mind helped build it."
The ache in Roald's chest shifted.
It did not vanish—but it loosened.
"And the treasures?" Roald asked, a flicker of boyish curiosity returning.
Sir. Wilkinson's eyes glinted.
"There are markets in Dillaclor where merchants trade in relics from distant kingdoms—clockwork birds that sing when wound, astrolabes studded with sapphire, chests filled with gears so finely cut they seem grown rather than forged. Apprentices of the crown are granted stipends."
"Stipends?"
"Enough to acquire tools beyond imagining," Sir. Wilkinson said. "Enough to send letters westward with couriers who do not lose them."
At that, Roald's fingers tightened slightly around the cloth from his satchel.
"I could write?" he asked.
"You could write," Sir. Wilkinson confirmed. "And perhaps one day, when your engines are strong enough to command the river itself, you might send more than words back to Honeyburrow."
Roald pictured it—one of his cleaner-burning vessels arriving at the humble bend of his village river, steam rising white and proud instead of black. His father standing rigid on the bank. His mother shading her eyes. His brothers speechless.
The image did not erase his longing.
But it gave it direction.
Sir. Wilkinson rose and stoked the fire once more.
"The journey is long," he said. "But so is the river in Dillaclor. And it awaits us."
Roald looked eastward, where the stars gathered in unfamiliar constellations.
For the first time since leaving Honeyburrow, his somber expression softened into something brighter—not naïve, not careless—but lit from within by possibility.
The road ahead no longer felt like exile.
It felt like approach.
—------------------------------------------------------
The fire had burned low.
Across the small clearing, Roald slept beneath his cloak, one hand curled loosely around the strap of his satchel as though even in dreams he feared losing what he carried from home. His breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of youth spent honestly.
Sir. Wilkinson remained awake.
He sat on an overturned crate, elbows resting on his knees, watching the embers pulse and collapse inward. Sparks rose now and then, brief and defiant, before vanishing into the night.
The glow of the coals reflected faintly in the polished fittings of his left sleeve.
He flexed his hand—wooden fingers responding with a soft, articulate click.
And the years peeled backward.
He was twelve again.
The capital of Dillaclor roared around him—river traffic colliding with shouted bargains, anvils ringing from open workshops, gulls shrieking over the docks. Smoke hung thick and permanent above the southern quarter, as much a feature of the skyline as the palace spires.
He had stood then in a courtyard workshop that seemed less a place of labor and more a cathedral of iron.
It belonged to Sir. Mallious Of Icamac
The name alone commanded space.
Sir. Mallious was a legend in Dillaclor—not merely for his inventions, but for his temperament. He was tall and reed-thin, with hair like white wire and eyes that missed nothing. His workshop overflowed with half-finished marvels: segmented armor that flexed like skin, crossbows with triple-latched triggers, experimental steam pistons bolted beside racks of swords.
He believed in precision the way priests believed in scripture.
"You will hammer it again," Sir. Mallious had said that day, his voice sharp as a file.
The spearhead lay on the anvil—gleaming, symmetrical, deadly.
To Wilkinson's young eyes, it had been perfect hours ago.
But not to Mallious.
"The edge must taper as though it were drawn, not forced," the master had insisted. "A weapon must not merely pierce—it must intend to."
So Wilkinson had hammered.
All day.
The rhythm had numbed his palms. His shoulders had burned. Sweat had fallen onto hot steel and vanished in faint hisses. Each time he presented the spearhead, Mallious had turned it beneath the light, studying the reflection along its curve.
"Again."
By dusk, Wilkinson's arms had trembled so violently he feared he would drop the hammer.
He had wanted to shout. To demand why a weapon that could already split leather and bone must be shaped further.
But he had not.
He had hammered until the metal seemed less forged and more coaxed.
And at last, as twilight bled into the courtyard, Mallious had grunted.
"It now understands its purpose."
Wilkinson had never forgotten that phrasing.
Another memory surfaced—darker.
The testing yard beyond the workshop walls. A newly balanced sword clutched in his hand, its hilt bound tightly with leather he himself had wrapped. The blade had been experimental—lightened along the fuller, reinforced near the tip.
Mallious had watched from a distance, arms folded.
"Strike the post," he had commanded.
Wilkinson had swung.
The blade met oak with a ringing crack.
For a breath, there was triumph.
Then—failure.
The tang, imperfectly seated within the hilt, sheared free.
The blade twisted mid-rebound.
He remembered the impossible brightness of it—the way steel flashed as it spun loose.
He did not remember the pain at first.
Only the shock.
Then the red.
His left arm—below the elbow—gone in a heartbeat.
He remembered collapsing to the dirt. Remembered Mallious shouting—not in anger, but in something far rarer.
Fear.
Darkness had followed swiftly.
When he woke, he had expected pity.
Mallious did not deal in pity.
Instead, the master had stood beside his cot, holding a carved wooden forearm bristling with brass hinges and leather straps.
"You erred," Mallious had said evenly. "So did I."
Wilkinson had stared at the prosthetic, hollow with grief.
"My arm—"
"Was a tool," Mallious had interrupted. "Tools break. We build better ones."
For weeks thereafter, Wilkinson had endured a new apprenticeship—not of steel, but of self. Mallious adjusted the prosthetic daily, refining its joints, tightening its springs, shaping wooden fingers to grip hammer and chisel. He forced Wilkinson to relearn balance, to compensate, to innovate around absence.
"Loss," Mallious had declared while fitting a brass pivot at the wrist, "is merely design imposed upon you. Improve it."
The first time Wilkinson lifted a hammer again with the mechanical arm, the workshop had gone silent.
Mallious had watched.
And nodded once.
The present returned in the gentle collapse of a log within the campfire.
Sir. Wilkinson flexed his wooden fingers again. The mechanisms responded smoothly, polished by years of refinement. What had once been crude oak and hinge had evolved into something elegant—part wood, part brass, part defiance.
Across the fire, Roald shifted in his sleep, murmuring faintly—perhaps dreaming of rivers or smoke that burned clean.
Wilkinson allowed himself a small, private smile.
He had once been that boy—thin with longing, fierce with hunger, uncertain of how much of himself the path would demand.
Sir. Mallious of Icamac had taken more than Wilkinson had thought survivable.
And given more than he had believed possible.
The fire burned lower still.
"Loss is design," Wilkinson murmured softly into the dark.
Roald did not stir.
Sir. Wilkinson leaned back, watching the embers glow like distant forges, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the presence of his old master—not as a shadow, but as a steadying hand guiding steel toward purpose.
Then the night deepened.
And the road to Dillaclor waited for dawn.
—------------------------------------------------------
It was not long after — though it felt so — that the sound came.
Low at first.
Almost indistinguishable from wind across grass.
Then clearer.
A rising, fractured note that did not belong to earth or water.
A howl.
Sir Wilkinson's eyes opened instantly.
He did not move.
He listened.
Another answered.
Closer.
Not one wolf.
Several.
The sound traveled over the fields in slow arcs, testing distance, measuring presence.
The boatwright sat upright without haste. His human hand reached toward the fire, coaxing the embers gently with a stick. Sparks stirred faintly.
The mechanical arm tightened once, a soft click of internal gears locking into readiness.
Roald still slept.
The howls rose again — no longer wandering, but directional.
Sir Wilkinson turned his head toward the dark beyond the reach of flame.
His expression did not change.
But the warmth had left it.
"Of course," he murmured softly to the night.
The wolves were not strangers to him.
And the night, it seemed, had remembered him as well.
The third howl did not echo.
It overlapped.
Sir Wilkinson froze.
Not from fear — from calculation.
He did not turn his head immediately. He let the night speak first. The wind moved east to west. The grass shifted in low waves. The fire gave a faint inward collapse of ash.
Then—
A rustle behind.
Another to the left.
And somewhere farther off, a low chuffing breath.
Not one direction.
Not a single voice.
A ring.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Carefully — slowly — he reached inside his coat and drew free a narrow dagger. It was not ornate, nor long. Its edge was well-kept, its balance precise. A craftsman's blade, not a soldier's.
The only defensive steel between them and the dark.
The mechanical arm shifted with a faint, controlled click as he adjusted his posture. He did not rise yet. Rising too soon might signal alarm.
He listened again.
A soft padding sound. Grass parting under weight.
Measured.
Testing.
Sir Wilkinson's eyes moved at last — not toward the sound behind him, but toward Roald.
The boy lay on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the faint glow of embers painting his features in restless orange.
Too still.
Too unaware.
Then he saw them.
Beyond the dying reach of firelight, perhaps twenty paces out—
Pairs of eyes.
Low to the ground.
Unblinking.
Reflecting ember-glow like molten coin.
One pair.
Then another.
Then — further right — two more.
His heart did not race.
It stopped.
Only for a breath.
The wolves were not pacing.
They were watching.
He shifted his weight slowly, positioning himself so that his body lay between the eyes and Roald. The dagger angled downward, discreet but ready. His mechanical hand curled inward, metal joints tightening with muted precision.
Another shape moved.
Closer now.
He could make out the outline of shoulders — lean, ribbed, powerful. A head lowered slightly, gauging the distance to flame.
They were not starving.
Starving wolves rush.
These were patient.
Which made them worse.
Sir Wilkinson's thoughts sharpened to narrow edges.
The fire was too low.
The cart sat just beyond him — iron-ribbed, heavy, its mechanisms silent. No time to wind tension. No time for noise.
He glanced once more at Roald.
The boy shifted faintly in sleep, murmuring something indistinct — perhaps a fragment of river-dream.
The nearest wolf took one deliberate step forward.
Grass whispered beneath its paw.
Sir Wilkinson inhaled slowly through his nose.
If he lunged too soon, they would scatter and circle wider.
If he waited too long—
Another pair of eyes appeared behind the first.
His grip on the dagger tightened until his knuckles blanched.
For the first time since the howls began, a flicker of true worry crossed his face.
Not for himself.
For the sleeping apprentice.
He had seen wolves take livestock in seconds. He had seen what coordinated hunger could do.
He could fend off one.
Perhaps two.
But five?
Six?
The mechanical arm whirred softly as he adjusted his stance, careful not to let the sound carry.
The wolves' formation shifted again.
Testing.
Measuring firelight.
Measuring distance.
Measuring him.
Sir Wilkinson understood then — this was not chance wandering.
They had followed.
The river's edge.
The scent of oil and iron.
Strangers crossing territory.
The nearest wolf lowered its head further.
A breath.
Another inch forward.
Sir Wilkinson's voice, when it came, was low and steady.
"Roald," he whispered.
No response.
The eyes did not blink.
The circle tightened.
And for the first time that night, the boatwright felt the unmistakable weight of vulnerability — not of steel or limb — but of responsibility.
He could not afford to misjudge.
Not now.
Not with the boy's future sleeping only an arm's reach behind him.
The wolf on the left shifted its hindquarters.
Preparing.
Sir Wilkinson rose.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The dagger caught what little light remained.
The wolves did not retreat.
They leaned forward.
And the fire, at last, gave a weak, collapsing sigh.
—------------------------------------------------------
The wolf on the left shifted again.
That was enough.
Sir Wilkinson did not hesitate.
In a single, fluid motion, he bent, sheathed the dagger back into his coat for the briefest second, and gathered Roald up from the ground. The boy's weight struck his chest awkwardly — all limbs and startled breath.
The wolves lunged forward—
But Sir Wilkinson was already moving.
He did not wait to see if they followed.
He ran.
Not toward the road.
Not toward the cart.
Away.
Away from the ring of eyes, toward the darkest stretch of field he could judge to be opposite their formation.
Grass tore beneath his boots. The mechanical arm clamped firm around Roald's back, locking him securely against his shoulder. His natural hand steadied the boy's legs.
Behind them—
A snarl.
Then the unmistakable pounding of paws.
They had chosen pursuit.
Roald stirred violently now, half-dreaming.
"Sir—?" he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "What—?"
No answer.
Sir Wilkinson's breath came measured but forceful. He did not waste air on speech.
The night blurred into shadow and uneven ground. He adjusted course instinctively, seeking lower terrain, any break in scent trail, any advantage.
Another howl — closer.
They were gaining.
Roald's eyes fluttered open fully now. He twisted slightly in Sir Wilkinson's hold.
"What's happening?" he demanded, more awake now, fear edging into his voice.
Still no reply.
Sir Wilkinson's jaw clenched. Speaking would cost rhythm.
The wolves fanned behind them — he could hear the pattern shifting. One veering right. Another cutting wide left.
They were not chasing blindly.
They were herding.
A sharp rise in terrain forced Sir Wilkinson to slow for half a heartbeat. His boots slipped on loose soil. His mechanical arm whirred softly with strain.
And then—
A small, persistent thumping against his midsection.
He frowned.
Another step. Another jolt.
There it was again.
Something pressed between them with each stride.
His mind split between terrain, wind direction, pursuit—
And recognition.
Roald's pouch.
The lavender cloth.
Seren's scent.
Strong. Clean. Unmistakable.
Even now, with sweat and night air mixing, he could smell it faintly where it pressed between them.
His thoughts snapped into alignment.
Wolves tracked by scent.
Rivers masked it.
Wind fractured it.
Foreign smells confused it.
Lavender was not of these fields.
It did not belong to marsh or moor.
He adjusted his grip mid-stride.
"Hold tight," he muttered at last — the first words since they fled.
Roald clutched instinctively at his coat.
Sir Wilkinson angled sharply left, toward a patch of taller reed-grass ahead, half-hidden in the dark.
Behind them, the wolves' rhythm shifted again — closer now. He could hear breath. Wet. Intent.
He did not try to outrun them.
He would not win that way.
Instead, he drove straight through the thickest cluster of reeds, letting them whip and tear at his coat. At the center, he dropped to one knee abruptly.
Roald gasped as they jolted to a stop.
"Sir—?"
"Hush."
Quickly — faster than fatigue liked — Sir Wilkinson reached for the pouch at Roald's side. He pulled it free and withdrew the lavender cloth.
Even in the dark, it glimmered pale.
He tore it cleanly in two with a sharp motion of the dagger.
Roald stared, stunned.
"Sir, that was my—"
"Trust me."
He thrust one half into Roald's hand.
"Run that way," he whispered urgently, pointing back toward where they had just come — but at a diagonal, toward a shallow dip in the land. "Hard. Ten paces. Then circle right and drop."
Roald's eyes widened. "What?"
"Now."
There was no room for explanation.
The wolves' shapes were visible now at the edge of reed-shadow.
Roald ran.
Sir Wilkinson flung the second half of the cloth as far as his strength allowed in the opposite direction — high, wide, catching briefly on a thorn bush before falling beyond it.
Then he seized Roald's discarded half, crushed it into the soil near their original path, and dragged it sharply through the reeds in a false line before doubling back.
His mechanical arm tore a deliberate furrow in the earth to carry scent.
He moved fast. Precise. Controlled.
Then he extinguished their trail entirely by plunging into the shallow dip Roald had been sent toward — a narrow wash where damp earth muted scent.
He pulled Roald down beside him just as the first wolf burst through the reeds.
They lay flat.
Breathing shallow.
The wolves split instantly.
One followed the cloth thrown wide.
Two veered toward the dragged scent.
Another paused, confused, circling the crushed lavender.
A low, frustrated growl vibrated across the grass.
Sir Wilkinson did not move.
Did not blink.
Did not breathe deeper than necessity.
The wolves paced.
One howled — uncertain now.
The pack fanned outward, scent fractured into competing trails.
Minutes stretched.
Then—
Gradually—
The sounds shifted.
Not closer.
Wider.
Searching elsewhere.
A final distant bark.
And then only wind again.
Sir Wilkinson remained still long after the last sound faded.
Only when the night reclaimed its ordinary silence did he allow himself to exhale fully.
Roald's whisper came trembling.
"They're gone?"
"For now," Sir Wilkinson answered quietly.
The boy's hands shook.
The boatwright closed his eyes briefly — exhaustion pressing hard now.
He had left the cart.
Left their provisions.
Left the road.
But Roald was breathing.
Alive.
That was the only calculation that mattered.
Above them, the stars burned indifferent and distant.
And in the damp hollow of unfamiliar land, master and apprentice lay hidden — the scent of lavender fading slowly into the night.
—------------------------------------------------------
Dawn came slowly.
Mist clung low to the earth, pale and ghostlike across the fields. The chill had deepened in the hours before sunrise, settling into bone and breath alike.
Sir Wilkinson rose first.
He scanned the horizon before speaking, listening for any remnant of the night's predators. Hearing none, he motioned for Roald to follow.
They retraced their path cautiously.
The reeds parted where they had torn through them. Their abandoned trail lay written plainly in bent grass and disturbed soil.
When they crested the final rise—
The campfire's ashes still smoldered faintly.
The earth bore the marks of their earlier struggle.
But the mechanical cart was gone.
Sir Wilkinson did not speak.
He stepped forward once, twice, eyes moving across the ground in widening arcs.
The space where the cart had stood was empty save for deep wheel ruts pressed into damp soil.
Fresh.
Roald's stomach dropped.
"Sir…"
Still no reply.
Sir Wilkinson knelt slowly, studying the impressions. He ran his mechanical fingers through one of the grooves, feeling depth, weight distribution.
Not wolves.
Not accident.
The tracks were deliberate. Straight. Controlled.
One conclusion presented itself.
"Woodland thieves," he said quietly.
The words were calm.
His posture was not.
The boatwright rose to his full height. His jaw tightened. A muscle along his temple pulsed once. His natural hand curled and uncurled at his side, as though resisting the urge to strike something that no longer stood before him.
Roald watched carefully.
He had never seen Sir Wilkinson so visibly strained.
The cart was not merely transport.
It was invention. Precision. Years of refinement.
It was memory.
The boatwright turned slowly, scanning the tree line where the field gave way to thicker woodland.
For a moment — only a moment — anger flashed clean across his features.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
But sharp.
Roald held his breath.
He sensed something fragile in the air — like a stretched wire that must not be snapped.
Sir Wilkinson inhaled deeply.
Once.
Twice.
When he spoke again, his voice was level.
"We are in unfamiliar ground," he said. "They will have known it better than we."
He turned slightly away, gaze fixed on the narrowing wheel tracks leading toward the woods.
"I can continue forward," he said, almost to himself. "Abandon it. Reach Dillaclor on foot."
The word abandon lingered.
Or—
He did not finish the thought.
Roald stepped forward.
"We shouldn't leave it," he said.
Sir Wilkinson looked at him.
There was no challenge in Roald's expression — only resolve.
"I've been here before," Roald continued. "These woods."
The boatwright's brow furrowed slightly.
"My father used to bring us to gather timber," Roald said. "When the river ran low."
He pointed toward a slight depression between two stands of birch.
"There's a dry ridge beyond that line. And farther in, an old limestone hollow. Men use it when they don't wish to be seen."
Sir Wilkinson's gaze sharpened.
"And how would you know that?"
Roald swallowed once.
"Lomor taught us tracking here," he said. "Me and Tiev."
A flicker of memory passed across his face — the scent of bark, the snap of twigs under careful feet, the low voice of his eldest brother instructing without praise.
"He said prints tell you what a man doesn't," Roald continued. "Weight. Direction. Whether he's burdened. Whether he's afraid."
Sir Wilkinson studied him differently now.
Not as cargo.
Not as apprentice.
As resource.
"The thieves moved the cart," Roald said quietly. "It's heavy. They won't have taken it far without cover."
He crouched and examined the wheel ruts himself.
"See here," he added, pointing. "The left rut is deeper."
Sir Wilkinson knelt beside him.
"They struggled to steer it," Roald finished. "They don't understand the balance."
The boatwright's frustration cooled further, replaced by something more focused.
"Yes," he murmured.
Roald looked up.
"If we follow carefully," he said, "we might find them before they understand what they've taken."
Silence held for several heartbeats.
Sir Wilkinson stood slowly.
The choice lay clear.
Abandon invention — and protect only the future.
Or pursue — and teach the boy what reclaiming one's work requires.
He looked at Roald again.
"You are certain you know these woods?"
Roald nodded.
"Yes, sir."
The faintest trace of approval touched Sir Wilkinson's expression.
"Then we retrieve it," he said.
No anger now.
Only purpose.
He adjusted his coat, secured the dagger once more at his side, and gestured toward the tree line.
"Lead."
Roald hesitated only a fraction of a second — then stepped forward into the woods he had once entered as a boy beside his brothers.
But this time, he did not follow.
He guided.
And behind him, the boatwright moved in silence — no longer alone in responsibility, but sharing the weight of what lay ahead.
The forest swallowed them.