No sun.
No sky.
just cables like snakes.
mud that remembers.
wolves walk in boots.
ghosts behind curtains.
eyes in the walls.
fear knows her name.
fire walks beside her.
her breath, a promise of ash.
her burden, small and sleeping.
Another watches.
not with eyes.
with purpose.
he listens like stone does.
underground, the empire decays.
resistance roots in rot.
a throne once burned.
a name once whispered—Witch.
they meet the Good Friend.
not good.
not friend.
just truth wrapped in violet eyes.
tea, poured like time.
questions, sharp as flint.
a deal.
no blood wasted. secrets traded.
a demon sleeps.
not in crowns,
but deeper.
beneath steel. beneath stone. beneath humanity.
a sister wakes.
a fire moves.
a golden gaze follows.
quiet as faith.
The laboratory never sleeps.
It breathes.
It whispers.
It bleeds.
Not blood, of course.
But thick, black oil.
Impure sparks.
Torn metal.
Circuits that whisper like inhuman children, feverish in the dark.
Geppetto is there.
As always.
As he has been for decades.
In the throbbing heart of his cathedral of metal and madness.
His skin is worn parchment stretched over living bone.
Hair: thin, a mix of ash and copper filaments.
His hands—both a miracle of technology and a horror of torn nerves stitched together with bolts and implants.
No human hand—at nearly eighty—could possess the strength or precision needed to craft the fruit of the greatest mind the world has ever known.
The air reeks of ammonia, synthetic flesh, nightmares.
All around him… eyeless heads, arms that twitch on their own, mechanical hearts that beat without love.
An entire army that doesn't sleep, doesn't cry, doesn't ask.
But Geppetto isn't satisfied.
Never.
He served Emperors who thought they could understand him.
Idiots in crowns.
Even Henry.
Especially Henry.
"Don't go beyond what you're told. My army needs weapons, not thinking things," the Emperor used to say. "I don't need creatures with souls. Remember that, old man."
Geppetto obeyed.
With his hands.
Never with his heart.
Until the day Henry burned.
Burned like rotting parchment.
Like all the dreams of men too afraid of the future.
That day, Geppetto was reborn.
No more orders.
No more masters.
Only his voice.
Only his design.
And so he created it.
Pinocchio.
The Son.
The perfect artifact.
The pinnacle of technology.
The beating heart of a new era.
But something went wrong.
Not in the design.
In the soul.
Because Pinocchio looked at the world.
Geppetto had given him a brain to surpass the greatest human mind… and a soul.
And Pinocchio wanted to feel that heart.
He wanted to understand it.
He wanted to… live.
And a few weeks ago, he escaped.
Geppetto doesn't scream.
Doesn't cry.
But every night, in the lab, a thousand voices crowd his post-human mind, whispering his name.
And the Chief Engineer smiles.
A smile without lips.
Only teeth.
"You'll return to me soon, my son."
The clang of metal stops.
A loud crash.
Then silence.
Even the shadows in the abyss of the laboratory stop moving.
Geppetto slowly lifts his head from his latest creation—something that pulses.
And moans.
And shouldn't.
A figure approaches.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Crystal heels.
Feminine.
Determined.
Cinderella.
The Empress.
Descending into the palace's bowels like Orpheus… but with no music, no hope, and no Eurydice to save.
Geppetto turns.
Smiles.
A smile that should be outlawed.
A grin made of skin too tight over bones too alive.
"Oh… Your Majesty. For the first time since you set foot in this miserable palace, you descend into my little crypt. To what do I owe the honor?"
Cinderella stops.
Not from fear.
From control.
Even here, in the middle of horror, she cannot show cracks.
"I have questions, Chief Engineer. And I demand answers."
Geppetto bows.
A theatrical gesture.
Grotesque.
"Then sit, my Empress. And listen to the song of the machines."
"Lord Blackwell spoke to me about the automatons. He says you promised new ones. Superior. And yet… four years, no projects. No prototypes. Since Hen—since the Emperor died… nothing."
Geppetto laughs.
A dry, hollow sound.
"Ah… Henry. He kept me in chains, you know? 'No soul,' he said. 'Only obedience.'"
He walks among his mutilated creations.
Strokes a faceless head.
Brushes a twitching arm, reaching for something to hold—without knowing what.
"But now the chains are broken. And I can create again."
Cinderella clenches her jaw.
"Then why aren't you creating?"
"Oh, but I am creating.
It's just that the world… isn't ready for what I'm building.
Not even you, Empress."
The tone drops.
Almost intimate.
"You want to know what I have in mind?"
His shadow stretches across the metal walls.
Cinderella feels the impulse to draw her arms close—but resists.
"Victor Blackwell wants soldiers. I create gods."
A shiver runs through her.
She doesn't show it. Again.
"The Emperor's death did not nullify his decree. I never gave you freedom to create monstrosities. I never lifted the chains you speak of."
Geppetto turns.
His gaze is two bottomless wells.
"Dear Empress… I'd like to think—no, believe—that you are capable of seeing beyond your own nose. Unlike Blackwell and his flock of sheep."
Cinderella clutches her cloak tighter.
The lab's greenish light casts shadows across her face that don't belong to her.
"The Crown will not tolerate disobedience, Geppetto. You have one week. Then I will return for your plans. And if I find anything other than the conventional automatons you are permitted to build—"
"Oh, Your Majesty…"
The Engineer's voice interrupts her.
Slow.
Melodic.
Rotten.
"…do not raise your voice. You might wake them."
Cinderella's blood freezes.
A chill shoots down her spine.
Them.
In the depths of the laboratory, something pulses.
A dull thud.
Mechanical.
Deep.
As if the entire place had a heart.
A heart that should not exist.
Cinderella looks around.
The dismantled automatons, the scattered limbs, the eyeless heads… all of it pales before that sound.
"What… is that?"
She speaks quietly.
Almost involuntarily.
Geppetto doesn't answer.
He smiles.
"The perfect world, my Empress, is one beat away. One breath."
Then Cinderella plays her final card.
"Like your son? The prodigy you created. Who fled. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps regret."
For a moment, Geppetto's face cracks.
But no rage.
Only… satisfaction.
"Fled?"
He laughs.
A laugh that doesn't need a throat to echo.
"No, no… he's merely exploring. He's watching the world, learning to despise it.
When he understands how superior he is to the insects around him… he'll return."
Another heartbeat.
Louder.
"And together… we'll build the perfect utopia."
Cinderella feels her stomach twist.
A gag.
An instinct.
She turns.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Out of there.
"This place is a tomb," she mutters as she walks away.
"And you… you're its necromancer."
Geppetto doesn't answer.
He doesn't need to.
He laughs again.
And the laboratory breathes.
From the darkest corner of the lab, a whisper.
Not a creak.
Not a mechanism.
A whisper.
"…Father…?"
Geppetto turns.
The smile that blooms on his face is monstrously tender.
He walks slowly, each step clicking like claws on metal.
He approaches an isolated workbench, nearly hidden.
Under a dome of glass and copper—a face.
Perfect.
Lips painted in soft violet.
Skin smooth as porcelain, still flawless.
Black hair, precision-cut, brushing the shoulders.
Two eyes.
Liquid gold.
And alive.
Alive like the fear slowly slithering from every corner of the lab.
The rest of the body isn't there.
Not yet.
Only cables and artificial sinews, waiting.
But the heart beats.
A slow, full rhythm.
And the brain… is already thinking.
"Who was…"
The voice is thin, velvety, only metallic in its deepest resonance.
"…the son who… fled?"
Geppetto leans in.
A caress.
His fingers brush the cheek like a doting father, animated by a sick devotion.
"A god, my dear."
His whisper is sweet as poison.
"He who will walk ahead of us, and crush the ignorance of the world. And you…"
He strokes her hair.
Arranges it with obsessive care.
"You will follow in his path. And when the time is right… together, you will build the end of one era—and the beginning of the next."
The not-quite-complete head tilts.
Just slightly.
One millimeter.
"The… next one?"
Geppetto smiles.
The heartbeat.
Again.
Always.
The heart of the machine.
Or maybe not.
The heart of man.
Ravan walks in silence.
Behind Enya.
Always a few steps back—but never far.
His face is calm.
But inside—a storm.
Order and chaos twisting like exposed wires beneath the skin.
The corridor is dark.
Dim light.
Pipes whispering secrets.
A place made of shadows.
Like his mind.
Every step he takes, every breath he draws, is part of a map still being written.
Ravan is the journey.
A process.
A code in constant mutation.
And yet—now—he follows.
She walks fast.
Doesn't look back.
Her stride is restrained fire.
Every gesture speaks of urgency, fear, love.
In front of a door, the Resistance boy stops.
Eyes lowered.
Hands trembling.
Everything in him is discomfort.
Just standing near the Fire Witch devours him.
Then a nod.
One step back.
And he vanishes.
Vanishes as if proximity to Enya might leave him with invisible burns.
Ravan watches him fade.
Records.
Files away.
Then turns back to her.
Enya opens the door.
And there—in the damp half-light of a room forgotten by luxury—light.
Neve.
Propped up by lumpy cushions.
Pale, yes.
But alive.
Awake.
And her smile…
When she sees her sister.
Then him.
Ravan.
A small beacon.
Silent.
It cuts straight through his chest without warning.
A whisper in his mind full of numbers and schematics:
"This is life."
Enya enters without words.
Only a pounding heart.
Only broken breath.
Only Neve.
The little sister lifts her gaze.
Eyes a little tired.
But alive.
Leaning against the pillows like a fragile leaf still clinging to the branch.
"Neve… how are you?"
Enya's voice is a breath, a prayer.
She kneels beside the bed, takes her hand.
Small.
Light.
Warm.
Neve smiles.
"I'm better now. They gave me the usual medicine," she murmurs.
Enya nods, lips trembling.
She doesn't like crying.
She never does.
But now—
Now it doesn't matter.
A long hug.
Silent.
A hug that is home.
That is promise.
Ravan stands still.
Near the door.
But something in his gaze has changed.
Neve notices.
As always.
Her gift—the one no one understands.
She reads souls like music.
"Ravan, you're sad," she says, simply.
Like stating the weather.
Ravan doesn't answer.
He stiffens.
Enya turns.
Watches him closely.
That sentence comes back to her.
That whisper.
The demon in the Spire's gut.
"What were you referring to earlier?" she asks.
"That demon in the palace… is it real?"
A pause.
"What is it?"
Ravan stays silent.
Then, slowly, he closes the door behind him.
A click.
A seal.
He turns to the two sisters.
And in his voice—there's no longer just calm.
There's something else.
"It's time someone knew the truth."
His voice is low.
Funereal.
Like a bell tower announcing the end of an age.
Ravan sits.
Not on a chair.
On the floor.
As if he needs to anchor himself, to feel something beneath him that isn't steel or lies.
Enya stares.
Neve tilts her head.
Then he speaks.
"I… am not human."
Silence.
Slow.
Absolute.
"I was built. In the metallic belly of the Empire. By Geppetto's hands."
A shiver ripples through the room.
Neve looks at him with wonder.
Enya—with suspicion.
"I am his masterpiece. His dream. His instrument. Created to be a weapon. Precise. Infallible. Born to kill. To destroy."
A dark shadow passes across his face.
"But I chose. To escape. To reject that destiny. To learn. To live. And maybe, one day… to be like you."
Neve smiles.
A small smile.
But full of light.
"You're more human than you think."
Enya exhales—half scoff, half breath.
But this time, without bitterness.
A crooked smile brushes her lips.
"Definitely more human than most of the people I've dealt with."
Ravan bows his head.
"As long as Geppetto continues his work… as long as he can forge new monsters… the Empire, the Resistance, the whole world… will never be safe."
A pause.
A glance that ignites.
With conviction.
With pain.
"If they want justice… they have to destroy him. Not the Crown."
Enya inhales.
Then sighs.
"Go explain that to them. They're rabid dogs. They only want blood."
She turns.
Caresses Neve.
The little sister closes her eyes for a moment.
"But at least… this time they'll keep her safe. For real."
A knock.
Sharp. Just once.
Then the door opens.
Masie.
No theatrics.
No sharp quips.
Just a serious face, marked by something even she can't fully hide.
Her eyes go straight to Enya.
"I've decided."
Her voice is low.
Steady.
"The Fire Witch's first mission for the Resistance is ready."
Masie's gaze shifts.
Slides to Neve.
The girl is still resting against the cushions.
Pale, but alert.
And when she meets the Crimson Wolf's eyes…
she smiles.
A small smile, fragile as the first flower after a blizzard.
Masie stands still.
For a moment.
Just one moment.
Something flickers in her eyes.
Something that isn't strategy.
Isn't command.
It's… human.
Then she pulls herself back together.
But not entirely.
Ravan rises in silence.
Masie preempts him with a vague flick of her hand.
"Obviously… the golden-eyed prince is coming with you."
A pause.
A half-smile.
"Wouldn't dream of anything else."
Enya leans down beside Neve.
One hand clutching the other.
A light caress.
A kiss brushed across her forehead, warm.
"I'll be back soon," she murmurs.
Neve nods.
But her eyes—too large for that fragile face—are shadows of fear.
Not for herself.
For her.
"Be careful," she whispers.
Then Enya turns.
And, with Ravan at her side, follows Masie out of the room.
The corridor is cold, damp.
The lights creak.
The silence weighs.
Masie speaks without looking back.
"I spoke with Miranda. Apparently she agrees with our golden prince: no unnecessary bloodbaths. For this first mission… we'll keep it clean. We hit the Lead Square. The biggest weapons depot in the Capital."
One step after another.
The sound of boots on metal.
"They store weapons, ammo, war automatons. It's the beating heart of the military machine. According to our spies, part of that arsenal is being shipped out of the Empire…"
She stops.
"…probably to the Enchanted Dominion."
Enya cuts in.
Sharp.
Sure.
"No. Not to the Dominion. To the Sacred City."
Masie turns, eyebrows slightly raised.
"You're sure?"
"The Inquisitors who ambushed us yesterday… had firearms. The Empire is the only nation in the world that can make them."
Silence.
Then Masie smiles.
A cruel smile.
A real one.
"Even better. Let's teach His Holiness that the Resistance isn't to be trifled with."
Ravan clenches his jaw.
"Weren't you the one who said we can't fight both the Empire and the Church?"
Masie turns slightly, eyes glinting with untamed fire.
"And who said we have to fight them? We'll take away their toys. Those charlatans can't forge a blade on their own. We'll leave them… dry-mouthed."