Chapter 17

A low groan rumbled from the old helmet. It had been a long time since the thing behind the metal had heard a tale like that. It gave tiny nods where it could and let out that low growl when it could not.

Gravemarch loomed over the sisters.

A maid had brought a table, chairs, and some tea for the Graveins earlier. Liza told it in pieces—through bandages, burns, and a clenched jaw. Mabel filled in the rest. She was only in her usual blue dress. Her coat had burned up the night before.

Liza continued.

"Yeah. That’s how it is, old timer... We all took our money at the counter and Rail Crew 68 hit the Arms to blow off steam—maybe figure out what comes next. Without Eleanor. Without Albrecht."

She took a sip to try and steady her thoughts.

"Zina looked... off. Passive, almost. First time I’ve ever seen it. Maybe she won't rough me up the next time I need some fixing, though with the stakes, that’s rare these days."

Another quiet groan left Gravemarch's helmet, followed by the clack of heels.

The girls looked up.

Down the great hall came the figure.

Amber and crimson eyes cut through the gloom.

Dantalion had a chair slung over one shoulder.

She lowered it—slow, deliberate—and joined them at the table.

She studied the two girls, then glanced up at Gravemarch.

“I told you he was fine company.

Though I doubt he has ever heard a story quite like that.”

Dust stirred. A few chips of stone fell as Gravemarch gave another small nod.

Mabel turned her cup slowly between both hands—thumbs tracing the rim, careful not to spill.

She wasn’t really drinking. Just... thinking.

“So... what happens now, sis?

The pilebunker’s gone. Heartpiercer can handle a lot, but if you’re punching stakes all the time...

That’s gotta hurt.”

Liza looked down at her hands.

They didn’t even look like hers anymore.

The knuckles were raw—skin split, some still weeping blood.

Bruises bloomed in deep purples and sickly yellows, swelling around the joints.

The fingers were stiff, starting to swell, already losing definition.

One nail was cracked halfway down.

The wraps were half-burned, half-soaked, and clung like old bandages that didn’t want to come off.

Mabel was right.

Dantalion reached behind her jacket and drew a Forgewood stake.

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She slid it across the table—smooth, deliberate—guided across the table with two fingers on top.

Liza took it without a word.

Ash bloomed as the stake burned in her hand.

A maid stepped in behind her, silent as breath, and gathered the ashes with a silver pan.

“Yeah,” Liza muttered. “Every stake’s gonna cost two now.

And if any contracts are like R’n’D... that definitely won’t forge.”

She ran a hand through her hair—slowly. Her fingers caught more than once.

The skin was almost healed.

“I need something,” she said. “Tall. Wide.

Something to stop the slag coming at us…

and hold more stakes.”

Dantalion was mid-sip when that all-too-familiar smirk crept across her face.

“Oh? Anything else you wish it did?”

Liza stroked her chin, eyes unfocused.

“Yeah. I wish it could just… hold the stakes for me. Have some already sticking out.

I don’t really need the shells anymore—just something to carry blast stakes and point them out.

Some for me. Some for Mabel.”

A soft giggle slipped out as Dantalion set her cup down.

“You remind me of Derrick,” she said, eyes half-lidded.

“When he wished he could just stake from afar.”

Liza and Mabel both snapped their eyes to Dantalion—disbelief written plain.

Only Mabel managed to find words.

“You mean Heartpiercer?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh—that’s right!

You helped him build it. You told me last week!”

Dantalion smiled, eyes closed, and gave a slow nod.

Like the question tugged at something old and sweet.

“Yes, Ms. Gravein.

Have you ever heard the story of the many inventions he tried…

before we settled on your rifle?”

Liza and Mabel slowly shook their heads.

They hadn’t heard this one.

Dantalion’s smile widened—just a little.

She rested her chin on one hand, eyes distant now, voice light with memory.

“He tried an atlatl first,” she said. “Spent weeks fumbling with the motion.

Too much wind-up. Not enough follow-through.”

She gave a soft laugh.

“Then a crossbow. But the stakes tumbled in flight. Lost their shape. Lost their point.

They never flew true.”

Her fingers traced circles on the rim of her teacup.

“He even tied stakes to sticks. Made his own javelins.

Carried a whole bundle over his shoulder like a hunter on campaign.

Clumsy. Heavy. Inelegant.”

Her smile tilted—fond, but sharp.

“He cursed the whole time.

Wished, over and over, for a way to send them farther. Cleaner. With force.”

She paused, just long enough for silence to settle again.

“Then one day, a mine collapsed. Burst wide open—sent debris flying like a god’s sneeze.

And Derrick…”

She chuckled.

“Derrick came to me covered in dust and shouted,

‘That! I want to do that, but with stakes!’”

Liza sipped her tea—drinking in the story, and the memory.

She thought of her father. How he’d traveled far across Faltenia… maybe even beyond its borders.

She remembered his stories.

Of northern warriors in skirts, fierce enough to strike down sirens.

Of eastern fighters who wielded long blades to hold back the forest itself.

But then—another tale came to her.

“I know a thing they do in the south,” she said slowly.

“They stick your head in a hole, and a giant blade comes down and cuts it clean off.”

She looked up, eyes alive now.

“I want that, Dandy. I want a big ol’ thing that can hold my stakes,

and I can just slam it down onto vampires.”

A grin broke across her face.

“It’s gonna be expensive as all slag.

But I bet the goblins wouldn’t mind a project like that.”

Dantalion straightened—eyes glowed brightly, smile blooming like a spark catching silk.

There was a sharpness to her now. Drive.

“Ms. Gravein!” she said, voice rising with delight.

“The goblins may not mind it—

but I love it.”