Felix pressed his back to the massive door and slid down until he hit the cold stone floor. His chest heaved, every breath burning as though his lungs were lined with sandpaper. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, but he didn't bother wiping it away.
"That… was too close," he muttered hoarsely, his voice breaking in the silence.
For a moment, he just sat there, listening. Beyond the door came the muffled scrape of metal on stone—the shambling drag of the puppets. The sound clawed at the edges of his nerves, making his muscles twitch with phantom urgency. But as the minutes dragged on, the noise grew fainter, fractured into scattered echoes, until it finally thinned into silence.
Felix let out a long, trembling sigh. Relief came slow, hesitant, as if he didn't fully trust it. He pressed a hand to his knee and pushed himself upright, swaying slightly before finding his balance.
"Well… since I'm alive," he muttered, voice dry, "might as well see where the hell I ended up."
He finally turned his eyes to the chamber around him. At first glance, it looked like a workshop—or something close to one. Tables lined the walls, covered in rusted tools and half-rotted scraps of parchment. Strange contraptions, all wire and wood and half-finished mechanisms, sat frozen in mid-construction, their purpose lost to time. The air smelled of dust and old oil, sharp enough to sting his nose.
But then the realization struck him, hard and sudden.
This wasn't just any place.
He had seen it before.
Felix's brow furrowed as he tried to place it. A tug pulled at the edge of his memory, faint but insistent. He remembered shadows, whispers, the sensation of not being himself. That dream—the one that hadn't felt like a dream at all.
His hands curled into fists as he strained, chasing the fragments. A flash of blue light. A figure at a workbench. Threads weaving through the air. The pieces surfaced and slipped away again, leaving only a hollow frustration in their wake.
"Damn it…" Felix whispered, shaking his head. No matter how hard he pushed, the memory refused to fully return.
And yet the familiarity lingered, clinging to him like a half-forgotten song.
Shaking off the gnawing discontent that lingered at the edge of his thoughts, Felix began pacing slowly around the room. His boots scuffed across the stone, stirring faint motes of dust into the pale-blue glow that hung heavy in the air.
A desk caught his attention—its surface cluttered with scattered papers, brittle with age, their ink faded to near nothing. Among the mess sat something draped beneath a sheet, its outline strange enough to stand out from the rest.
Felix narrowed his eyes.
"…What's this?"
He reached forward, fingers brushing the rough cloth. With a sharp tug, he pulled it free. Dust exploded upward in a choking cloud, forcing him to hack and cough, his hand swatting the air in front of his face.
"Ugh—damn. When was the last time this place was cleaned?" he rasped, before giving himself a half-bitter chuckle. "Right. Dumb question."
Clearing his throat, he turned his gaze back to the thing beneath the sheet—only for his breath to catch in his chest.
Resting on the desk was a bird. At first glance it looked like a falcon, feathers sculpted with an unnatural precision, wings tucked neatly to its sides. But where its chest should have been smooth, there were seams—tiny cogs, gears, and rivets interlocked in impossible detail.
Felix stiffened, taking an instinctive step back.
"…It's a puppet."
The words slipped out low, tight. His grip on the scavenged blade tightened as unease curled in his gut. Memories of splintering jaws and broken armor came flooding back in an instant. His shoulders tensed, every muscle braced for the falcon's head to snap up, for the glass eyes to burn to life.
Nothing happened.
The bird sat motionless, nothing more than an intricate relic. But Felix didn't
move closer—not yet. Not after everything else this cursed tower had thrown at him.
"Yeah, not creepy at all…" he muttered under his breath, still eyeing it warily.
…But he couldn't lie. There was something about it—an aura that tugged at him, quiet and magnetic. The longer he stared, the more the unease gave way to curiosity.
"…Well, if you squint, you could almost call it… neat?" he muttered, lips quirking despite himself.
Against every shred of better judgment, Felix leaned in. His hands hovered for a beat, then closed around the falcon with a surprising care. The metal was cool under his fingers, yet the contours were uncanny—feathers sculpted so finely they almost yielded to his touch.
"For something made of steel and screws… it's weirdly soft," he murmured, brushing a finger along the wing's edge. He extended it gently, joints clicking faintly as the feathers unfurled with unnerving realism.
A thought nudged at him, half-formed. How the hell do you even turn this thing on?
He pulled out the chair tucked under the desk and dropped into it, the legs groaning faintly against the stone. Resting the puppet-bird carefully on the desk, he leaned closer, squinting into the tangle of exposed gears in its chest. Something inside caught the light—a shimmer, subtle, half-hidden behind layers of brass cogs.
"Well, well… what do we have here?"
He reached for a small tool lying among the scattered papers, weighing it clumsily in his hand. Felix wasn't a craftsman, not by any stretch—but as the tip of the tool pressed into the mechanism, something in him stirred. His hands moved with surprising steadiness, almost instinctive. Not knowledge exactly… but muscle memory.
Piece by piece, he loosened the intricate innards. Tiny gears came free, their teeth glinting in the pale glow as he set them carefully aside. He wasn't even sure why he was being so careful—but it felt right, as though some unseen hand guided his motions.
At last, the shimmer revealed itself. Nestled deep within the puppet's chest was a gem. Not just any gem—an ether gem. Or what was left of one. It was fractured, its once-bright glow now dim and weak, spiderweb cracks lacing across its surface.
Felix whistled low. "So that's your heart, huh? Guess that explains why you're not moving."
With delicate fingers, he eased it free, the dead light flickering weakly before winking out. Reaching into his coat, he rummaged until his hand brushed something cool and sharp. He pulled free a small ether gem, one of the few he'd salvaged from the Mist Stalkers.
"Glad I didn't burn through all of these," he muttered, rolling it across his fingers before slotting it carefully into the socket.
Click.
The gem fit neatly, its faint glow pulsing once before settling into the mechanism. Felix leaned back, exhaling, and began reassembling the gears with the same strange, automatic precision. Bit by bit, the falcon's chest closed again, until the faint pulse of light flickered behind the mesh of cogs.
He sat back in his chair and waited.
Nothing happened.
Felix tilted his head, frowning. "That's it? I swap out your heart and you just… nap on me? Is there something else I'm missing?"
Crossing his arms, he tapped his finger against his elbow, eyes narrowing as he thought. Then, like a spark in dry tinder, the idea came.
"…What if I use my strings on it?" he muttered. His lips twisted into a grin—half-nervous, half-defiant. "I mean… if that demon can do it, then so can I, right?"
Hesitantly, Felix outstretched his hand, fingers trembling as faint wisps of phantasmal thread unspooled from his fingertips. They glimmered faintly in the pale blue light, ghostly strands shifting like smoke yet pulling taut like silk. Slowly, deliberately, he guided them toward the puppet. The threads seeped between the cracks of its chest, weaving into the gears and sockets, curling around the ether gem like roots taking hold of soil.
The falcon remained still.
Felix narrowed his eyes, leaning in. Seconds stretched uncomfortably long. The only sound was the faint hum of the threads brushing metal.
"…Seriously?" he muttered, brow furrowing. "Come on—wakey, wakey—"
The words hadn't even finished leaving his mouth before the falcon jerked violently. Its wings snapped open with a metallic clang, feathers rattling as it let out a piercing, mechanical caw that echoed through the chamber like steel tearing apart.
"Fuck!?" Felix yelped, the sudden shriek shattering his nerves. He flailed, chair legs catching against the stone as he toppled backward. The world spun for a moment before his back slammed against the floor, the wooden chair clattering beside him in a heap.
He lay there wide-eyed, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts, as the bird's twin eyes glowed faintly like lanterns in the dark. From its perch atop the desk, the mechanical falcon tilted its head, scanning the room with precise, jerky motions before locking its gaze on him.
For a long, tense moment, Felix froze. Every muscle in his body screamed run, yet he didn't move.
"…You're not gonna attack me, are you?" he muttered under his breath.
The bird didn't move. It just stared. The look it gave him wasn't hostile—just judgmental? Like it was silently disappointed in his life choices.
"The hell are you staring at?" Felix shot back.
As if in direct response, the falcon cawed sharply, the sound metallic and shrill. It spread its wings in irritation, feathers clinking together like a thousand tiny blades.
Felix flinched, then sighed, brushing dust off his coat as he stood. He lifted the fallen chair, setting it back upright. "Right. So, just to be clear," he said, voice dripping with wary sarcasm, "we're good now? You're not gonna peck my eyes out or explode or anything?"
The bird tucked its wings to its sides, turned away, and gave a dismissive flick of its head. It puffed out its chest, eyes closed—looking, somehow, offended.
Felix couldn't help it; a laugh slipped out.
"You're quite the prideful little bastard, aren't you?" he said, crossing his arms and smirking. "Don't get your feathers ruffled now."
In response, the bird turned its head back toward him, lifted one wing, and dragged it slowly down the front of its face.
Felix blinked. "…Did you just facepalm?"
A quiet snort of amusement escaped him.
"You're a funny bird, you know that? Name's Felix Fischer. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." He extended his hand toward the desk in mock formality.
The bird gave him one long, considering look, then—against all logic—sighed. It raised its wing, meeting his hand in what could only be described as a handshake.
The moment their touch connected, the air changed.
A pulse of phantasmal light burst from Felix's body, threads spilling from his skin like streams of moonlight. They writhed and surged toward the falcon, sinking into its metallic frame. His breath hitched—his body locking up as the world began to blur at the edges.
Every ounce of strength drained from him, like his very soul was being tugged through those threads. His knees buckled, and his vision flickered to black.
Too much…
He then succumbed to unconsciousness.
Time slipped away like sand through trembling fingers. When Felix finally stirred, his first breath was heavy — thick with dust and the faint metallic scent of age. His eyes blinked open sluggishly, the light spilling from the cracked balcony door forcing him to squint.
His body felt like lead. Every muscle ached, his chest burned faintly with each inhale. It wasn't the simple fatigue of a restless night — it was deeper, hollower. Like something had been pulled from him and left the shell behind.
"...Ugh." He groaned, rolling onto his side and forcing himself upright. "Feels like I got kicked by a horse... twice."
He rubbed at his face, scraping away a thin layer of grit. His coat hung open, torn and dusty, the fabric clinging to him like old skin. His hands trembled faintly as he exhaled.
"Note to self," he muttered hoarsely, "don't stick your threads into strange puppets again. Ever."
The room was silent — the kind of silence that pressed at your ears until it became its own sound. The faint hum of ether pulsed through the lanterns, blue light flickering across the disarray of papers and half-finished constructs.
He glanced around. No sign of the bird.
"Figures," he muttered, dragging himself upright. "Bring something back from the dead, and it doesn't even have the decency to stick around for a thank-you."
Then came the faint rattle — metal on metal, soft but deliberate. Felix's head snapped toward the balcony.
There it was.
The bird puppet perched on the railing, framed by the dying sun. Its silhouette was regal, almost disdainful, wings folded with careful precision. The fading light washed over its form, but instead of reflecting, the feathers drank it in — matte black with a bluish sheen that rippled like oil when it moved.
Its talons were forged from dark silver Damascus, swirling patterns shifting like whirlpools beneath the metal surface. The feathers themselves were layered and sharp-edged, longer than before, elegant in their menace — some curling upward at the back of its head like a crown.
And its eyes…
They weren't simple lenses. They were intricate carvings of gold and silver, the swirling engravings drawing light into the iris until it shimmered with a deep, liquid blue. Looking into them felt like peering into the heart of a storm — beautiful, but cold.
Felix scratched the back of his neck, sighing. "You know," he said quietly, "for something made of cogs and gears, you've got a real sense of superiority."
The bird didn't move. Didn't even blink. Just sat there, tail feathers twitching faintly in the wind.
Felix leaned against the doorframe, half-smirking. "Not much of a talker, huh? That's fine. I've been getting good at one-sided conversations lately. Talking to myself's kind of my specialty these days."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and let his voice drift, half to himself, half to fill the silence. "You wouldn't believe how quiet the Cradle gets. No birds, no people — just wind, sand, and the sound of my own thoughts gnawing at my skull."
Still, the puppet did nothing.
He gave a short laugh. "And now I'm talking to a hunk of metal like it's my therapist. Perfect. Losing my mind one day at a tim—"
He was then interrupted, "You're not very good at it."
The words weren't spoken. They slid into his head — cold and sharp, like a whisper of steel across glass. Felix froze mid-sentence, his eyes going wide.
He looked around quickly, then back at the bird. "...Hello?"
"Yes, congratulations. You've discovered basic hearing."
He blinked. "Wait—" He pressed a palm to his forehead. "No. No, no, I'm just losing it. That's all. Sleep deprivation, ether exposure, maybe a concussion—"
"Or maybe you're simply not as sharp as you think you are." The voice carried a faint lilt of mockery, smooth and aristocratic — too composed for anything made of cogs and wires.
Felix gawked at the bird. "You're in my head."
"Where else would I be?"
"That's not… that's not normal!"
"Neither is dragging a relic of a bygone age back to life using your own essence," the voice replied, almost lazily. "And yet, here we are. You do strange things, I make strange company. We're both suffering the consequences."
Felix stared, trying to process it, then jabbed a finger at the bird. "You're mocking me."
"Only because you make it so effortless."
Felix scowled. "You've got some nerve for a clockwork chicken."
The bird finally turned its head, slow and deliberate, one luminous eye locking onto him. Its mental tone carried a faint hum of amusement. "And you've got quite the mouth for a walking supply of ether."
Felix opened his mouth, shut it again, then threw up his hands. "Fantastic. I save your shiny little life, and now I'm being insulted by my own handiwork. Just my luck."
The bird's gaze sharpened, the faint light in its eyes flaring brighter. "Don't mistake coincidence for creation, boy. You didn't make me. You merely woke me."
Felix frowned, unsettled despite himself. "Then what are you?"
The bird's wings flexed once, feathers glinting in the sun. "Something far older than your understanding." A pause. "And infinitely more patient."
Felix huffed a dry laugh. "Right. And modest, too."
"Humility is for the uncertain."
Felix gave a crooked grin. "You really are arrogant."
The bird's eyes gleamed, its mental voice rich with quiet satisfaction. "At least one of us has a reason to be."
Felix groaned, rubbing at his face again. "Great. Weeks without a single person to talk to, and the first thing that answers me is an over-designed, self-absorbed feather duster."
"You're welcome," came the smug reply.
Felix paused, lowering his hand to stare at it. Then, despite himself, he laughed — tired, rough, but genuine. "You know what? Fine. If I'm stuck here, I guess I could use the company… even if you're the worst kind."
The bird tilted its head ever so slightly, its mental tone softening — but only barely. "I'll try not to take offense."
"Don't bother," Felix said, exhaling. "Pretty sure you enjoy it."
"See? You're learning already."
Felix rolled his eyes and leaned on the balcony railing beside it, the wind tugging at his torn coat as the last light of day faded beyond the dunes.
"Okay, seriously — what are you?" Felix asked, crossing his arms.
The bird straightened on its perch, chest puffed out, voice ringing crisply in his mind. "Something far too grand and ancient for your puny understanding." It lifted its beak high, feathers shimmering faintly as though basking in its own importance.
Felix stared at it for a long moment, unimpressed. Then one eyebrow arched. "Ah. Got it. You have no idea."
The bird froze mid-preen, metal feathers rattling faintly. "I— It's not as though I don't know," it stammered, turning its head sharply away. "I simply… don't remember."
Felix exhaled through his nose, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Tomato, tomahto — same difference."
The bird ruffled its feathers indignantly. "Watch your tone, fleshling."
"Or what?" Felix shot back. "You'll glare me to death?"
The bird let out a sharp metallic click that might've been a scoff. "You're remarkably insolent for someone who barely survived a nap."
Felix chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, well. Insolence is kind of my coping mechanism."
The bird's beak clicked once more — quieter this time — before it muttered, "A terrible one."
"Well," Felix said, resting his hands on his hips, "what do you remember?"
The bird was quiet for a long moment, head tilted ever so slightly as though searching the dim corners of its mind. Finally, it gave a soft metallic click. "Hmm… I remember being scared."
Felix blinked, his expression softening. "Scared?"
"Yes," the bird continued, its voice distant — faintly trembling beneath its usual arrogance. "Like something was going very, very wrong. And I couldn't stop it. Couldn't… help."
"Help who?" Felix asked quietly.
The bird's head lowered, feathers rustling faintly. "I don't remember. Only that they were… important to me."
Felix stood there in silence for a moment, feeling an odd weight in his chest. "Great," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Now I'm feeling bad for a tin can with feathers."
He looked at the bird again and sighed. "Well, looks like we're both alone now. So how about you stick with me for a while? I could use the company."
The bird perked up immediately, pride returning like a storm cloud. "Hmph. Very well! 'Tis only proper that a lowly half-kin such as yourself should serve beneath my grandeur."
Felix blinked, then groaned. "I'm already regretting this… wait—half-kin?"