The Unravelling Engine:

Prologue

1915

Treachery tasted remarkably like copper and old pennies. High Sigilist Qorash spat a thick mouthful of his own blood onto the flagstones and forced his right boot forward. The jagged spike of splintered oak buried in his ribs made a wet, sucking sound with every breath. A hot torrent of red soaked through his heavy robes, leaving a thick, glistening snail-trail in his wake.

The Great Hall of Volpecula Keep had been reduced to a smoking ruin. Icelandic wind howled through the shattered remnants of the grand oak doors, whipping the banners of Court Pavo and Court Lepus into a frenzy. They had called themselves allies yesterday. Today, they had brought firebolts and absolute destruction.

Qorash kept moving. One shuddering step. Then another. His vision blurred, grey at the edges, but his eyes remained fixed on the centre of the room. The Engine.

It waited on its dais: a beautiful, dangerous cube of cogwheels, tubes, cylinders, and impossible geometry. Humming faintly. Hungry for aether. He reached the smooth stone plinth and his trembling legs finally gave out. He collapsed hard against the metal base, gasping for air as he hauled his heavy, blood-slicked palm up to rest against the cold surface.

"Don’t you dare die before you finish that," snapped someone behind him, ice shards clanging against their shimmering shield.

"I am trying!" Qorash wheezed, shoving the absolute last dregs of his aether into the machine. Locks unlatched. Cold, satisfying clicks. Nearly there.

A blast of white fire took his second-in-command as her glowing amethyst shield collapsed. She didn’t even scream. A hole burned clean through her and she dropped. Dead before she hit the floor. Another celestial went down choking, wrapped in red energy like a strangled puppet.

Then rough hands wrenched Qorash backward by the collar. Vrindaka loomed over him, letting out a sharp, breathless laugh of pure triumph, his eyes wild with the thrill of it. "Going somewhere, old friend?"

Qorash spat a glob of blood onto Vrindaka’s pristine boots. "Just looking for a bucket," he wheezed, his breath rattling wetly. "The hole in my chest I can manage, but your ugly face is making me genuinely nauseous."

Vrindaka’s smugness vanished, replaced by a twisting snarl of genuine fury. He turned his back on Qorash, raising a fist toward the swarm of Pavo and Lepus battle-mages flooding the hall. "Finish them!" he roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Drain them! Every last one of them! Now!"

Slumped against the plinth, Qorash closed his eyes. "Not now, you bloody fool," he whispered. His voice was incredibly weak, barely carrying over the last clashes of magic, but it was thick with anger. "You have no idea what…"

Vrindaka cut him off with a brutal kick directly to his wounded ribs and Qorash could do nothing more but listen to the roars of agony. The piercing cries. And then... nothing. Silence, save for Vrindaka’s whisper in his ear.

"Your turn."

The rune burned into Qorash, ripping his soul out in a torrent of shimmering light. He screamed. His last sight: the Engine’s final cylinder slotting into place, glowing faintly. And then his body burned, and crumbled.

Vrindaka wiped the blood and ash off his boots, smirking. "Perfect," he muttered. "Court Volpecula never saw it coming. Their little toy is dead before it even—"

Whirr.

He froze. The Engine ticked. A bubble of iridescent energy rolled outwards from it’s centre, enveloping it in a shimmering, impenetrable sphere.

The triumph and the colour drained from Vrindaka’s face.

"Oh. Fuck."

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