The twilight sky over Oakhaven was a canvas of deep indigo and burnt orange by the time Axiel and George made their way down the winding dirt path of the settlement. Unlike the claustrophobic, towering tenement blocks of the Lower Ward, Oakhaven was a sprawling, loose collection of modest homesteads. It was a place where the air tasted of soil and woodsmoke rather than sulfur and smog.
As they walked, the community's residents—mostly the elderly who had retired from the punishing labor of the inner-city factories—sat on their rickety front porches.
"Evening, George! Axiel!" called out Mrs. Gable, a frail woman wrapped in a thick wool shawl. "How was the city, boy? Did you manage to find the apothecary?"
"I did, Mrs. Gable, thank you!" Axiel called back, managing a tired but genuine smile.
Further down, Old Man Vance leaned over his wooden fence, his milky eyes squinting in the dim light. "How's little Nadia holding up, George? My wife brewed some ginger-root tea if her chest is still rattling."
"Much obliged, Vance, but I think we've got what we need tonight," George replied, patting his pocket where the amber vial rested safely. "Keep her in your prayers."
"Always do, neighbor. Always do."
The greetings continued until they reached the edge of the settlement, where their own cabin stood against a backdrop of towering pine trees. Inside, the house was a testament to Axiel's growing ingenuity. The space was lit by a string of salvaged lumen-bulbs, emitting a soft, warm glow. In the corner, a repurposed heating coil—powered by a fractured, low-grade Red aether-core Axiel had scavenged and rewired himself—hummed quietly, keeping the evening chill at bay. Most of the appliances in the house were discarded junk from the Mid-Tier that Axiel had painstakingly reworked, breathing second life into what the wealthy considered garbage.
They hurried past the small kitchenette and pushed open the door to the back bedroom.
"Papa? Axiel?" a small, raspy voice called out.
Nadia was sitting up in her cot, surrounded by a fortress of patchwork quilts. She was ten years old, though her prolonged illness made her look much smaller. Her skin was terribly pale, with dark, bruised circles under her eyes, but the moment she saw her brother and father, her face lit up with absolute joy. Being bedridden had left her isolated and agonizingly bored throughout the day, and their return was the highlight of her world.
"We're back, little bird," George said softly, kneeling beside her bed.
Axiel stepped forward, pulling the vial of Lung-Balsam from his pocket. "And we brought you something from Starforge. Straight from the best apothecary in the city."
Nadia's eyes widened at the glowing amber liquid. "Is it magic?"
"The best kind," Axiel smiled.
George carefully measured three drops of the heavy, luminous syrup into a tin cup of warm water. He helped Nadia sit up and supported her back as she drank it down. The effect of the Mid-Tier alchemy was almost instantaneous. The violent, rattling wheeze in her chest began to smooth out into a steady, rhythmic breathing. The alarming, sickly gray pallor of her cheeks receded, replaced by a faint but healthy flush of pink. Within minutes, the tension left her small body. She gave Axiel a sleepy, grateful smile before her eyes fluttered shut, pulling her into the first deep, painless rest she had experienced in a week.
Axiel and George watched her chest rise and fall steadily for a long moment before silently stepping out and closing the door.
In the kitchen, the two of them worked in quiet tandem to whip up a humble dinner. Axiel coaxed the Red-tier aether-stove to life, the rusted coils glowing a dull crimson, while George chopped a few root vegetables and threw them into a pot with some salted broth. As they sat at the small wooden table and ate, the atmosphere wasn't somber. Instead, there was a profound, unspoken lightness in the room. The oppressive weight of Nadia's illness had finally been lifted.
Between bites of stew, George listened intently as Axiel recounted the rest of his day in Starforge City—the terrifying power of the Azurewing, the destruction of the pharmacy, and the overwhelming presence of Captain Dante. George shook his head in quiet awe, proud of his son's bravery.
"Tomorrow," George said, scraping the last of his stew, "we need to clear the southern patch. The soil's finally thawed enough to turn. Think you have the energy for it?"
"I'll be ready," Axiel nodded. "But after we finish the main rows, I was hoping to head out to the Rust-Plains. I need to scavenge some more discarded aethertech. The water purifier is acting up again, and I need a new regulating valve."
George gave him a knowing look, well aware of Axiel's mechanical talents. "Alright. But don't stay out past sunset. The scavengers out there aren't always friendly."
After washing the tin bowls, Axiel bid his father goodnight and climbed the wooden ladder to his small lofted room under the roof. He lit a single, dim lumen-bulb and knelt beside his bed, reaching underneath the floorboards to pull out a heavy, leather-bound journal.
It was an old, weathered thing, its pages filled with elegant, meticulous handwriting and detailed anatomical diagrams. It belonged to his mother.
Axiel had found it years ago while rummaging through a sealed trunk of her belongings. It was a comprehensive manual on the absolute basics of handling aethertech, cultivating physical strength, and preparing the body's Aether-Veins for channeling. It was a topic he and his father never discussed. George was a pragmatic, hardworking man, but the mention of his late wife's past—and her unfulfilled ambitions regarding the Aetherdrives—was a deeply sore topic that inevitably brought a pained silence to the house.
But for Axiel, the journal was a sacred text. He opened it to a dog-eared page detailing the physical conditioning required to safely harbor a low-tier drive. He read the passages he had already memorized a hundred times over, his mind flashing back to Captain Dante's effortless, overwhelming power, and Garrett's lecture on comprehension. If Axiel was ever going to bridge the gap, if he was ever going to fill those six glyph slots, it would start with the foundation laid out in these very pages. He read for an hour, the words fueling the quiet fire in his chest, before exhaustion finally dragged him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Axiel was gently pulled from his slumber by a sound he hadn't heard in weeks: the light, quick patter of footsteps on the floorboards below.
He scrambled down the ladder to find Nadia standing in the kitchen, bathed in the golden morning sunlight streaming through the window. She was dressed in her overalls, looking miraculously energized.
"You're up!" Axiel grinned, pulling her into a hug.
"I feel like I could run a marathon," Nadia beamed, hugging him back tightly. "Papa said you saw a real Aether-Enforcer yesterday! Tell me everything!"
As Axiel went to the basin to wash the sleep from his face, he animatedly recounted the tale of Dante's hard-light barrier and the localized gravity field, tailoring the story to sound more like a grand adventure than a terrifying brush with death. They moved to the table, joining George for a breakfast of toasted bread and scrambled eggs, the conversation flowing easily. The oppressive silence that had ruled the house for the past week was gone, replaced by laughter and the clatter of silverware.
Stepping out of the cabin an hour later, the weather mirrored their mood. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless azure, and the crisp morning air smelled of damp pine and fresh earth. As Axiel and George grabbed their tools and headed toward the fields, Nadia stood on the front step, waving enthusiastically.
"Don't work too hard!" she yelled.
As they walked down the path, the neighbors took notice. Old Man Vance tipped his hat, shouting, "Good to see the little bird out of her nest, George! Looks like the city magic did the trick!"
"That it did, Vance!" George called back, a rare, booming laugh escaping his chest.
They reached the southern patch, a wide expanse of stubborn, clay-heavy soil. Here, manual labor alone wouldn't cut it. George walked over to the heavy iron rotary-plow resting at the edge of the field. Affixed to the engine block was a dull, copper-cased Aetherdrive.
The universal rule of aethertech was strict: a person could not interface with tech of a higher color grade than their own soul's capacity, or the feedback would fry their nervous system. The only exception was Red-tier technology—the lowest, most unrefined grade—which was universally accessible to anyone, serving as the foundational tool for the working class. Axiel's repaired stove and heater were Red-tier.
But George was a cut above the absolute bottom. He stepped up to the plow, placing his calloused hands on the dual conduction-grips. He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing. A moment later, a warm, vibrant Orangeaura flared to life around his forearms.
The Orange-tier aether flowed from George's hands into the drive. The plow shuddered violently, the engine roaring to life with a deep, mechanical growl. Orange aether was the backbone of agricultural and heavy industrial labor—a step above the ambient heat of Red, offering genuine kinetic force. With a grunt of exertion, George pushed forward, and the aether-enhanced blades bit deep into the earth, churning the hardened clay as easily as if it were loose sand.
Axiel worked alongside him, using a Red-tier kinetic spade to break up the larger clods of dirt left in the plow's wake. The work was grueling, but the rhythm of it was therapeutic. For hours, they moved in sync, the vibrant orange glow of George's aether contrasting against the rich, dark soil under the bright midday sun.
By the time the sun crossed its zenith, marking just after noon, the southern patch was perfectly tilled and ready for seeding. Axiel wiped a thick layer of sweat from his forehead and leaned on his spade, his muscles burning with the familiar ache of hard labor.
"Papa," Axiel panted, looking out toward the eastern horizon, where the jagged silhouettes of mountains met the sky. "We finished the rows. Can I head out now?"
George powered down the plow, the orange glow receding from his arms as he let out a long exhale. He wiped his face with a rag, looking at the sun's position. "Alright. You did good work today, son. Go on. Just keep your eyes peeled for scavengers, and make sure you're back before the evening fog rolls in."
"I will," Axiel promised, dropping his spade near the shed.
He grabbed his satchel, his leather gloves, and a heavy iron wrench, turning his back on the safety of Oakhaven. With the knowledge from his mother's journal fresh in his mind and the memory of Captain Dante fueling his steps, Axiel set off toward the Rust-Plains—the vast, sprawling graveyard of discarded Mid-Tier technology—ready to hunt for the pieces of his future.