Ash still clung to Finnian’s boots, a fine powder kicked up from the crumbling, abandoned sector beyond the Outer Wall. Beneath the perpetual twilight of Veridian’s smog-choked sky, he moved with the silent grace of a shadow, his eyes scanning every rust-eaten crevice and collapsed steam-pipe. Today, seven Rusted Constructs had fallen to his touch.
Each time his palm connected with the inert metal husk of a vanquished construct, a tremor coursed through him. He didn't absorb their power, not like the old legends spoke of. Instead, he channeled the raw forces inherent in his blood, drawing the lingering, corrupted Aetheric energy from their core, purifying it, reshaping it, making it his own. A spine-chilling ecstasy unfurled in his chest, a dangerous, intoxicating hum that threatened to consume the quiet man he strived to be. The Cinder-Spark within him flared, a silent, internal roar.
It was almost disappointing to think that this surge, this primal satisfaction, might dull once his own capacities reached their peak.
But the growth was undeniable. After the fifth construct, Finnian felt his control over the divine fire, over the very fabric of matter, sharpen, becoming an extension of his will. His Cinder-Spark, a nascent flame, now burned with a fiercer intensity, roughly one and a half times stronger than when he’d first arrived in this sprawling, sooty city.
By this rate, a few months of diligent hunting could see his power multiply tenfold. Yet, he knew better.
Growth derived from these common constructs, the twisted scrap-metal and defunct gears animated by residual Aether, would soon plateau. Their weaker essences offered diminishing returns. Moreover, continued hunting in one district would inevitably deplete the supply, drawing unwanted attention.
So, with practical foresight, Finnian left two of the weakest constructs he’d found – a small, scurrying Cog-Spider with too many limbs and a Molt-Weasel, its plating shedding in patches – alive. Their corrupted energy was too negligible to bother with, but their wriggling forms would fetch a bounty.
Tied securely with scavenged cabling, the two constructs jangled against his leg as he navigated the industrial alleys towards the Veridian Registrar's Office. The air grew thicker with the scent of coal smoke and ozone. Inside the bustling office, Registrar Finch, a man with thin, slicked-back hair and a perpetually furrowed brow, barely glanced up.
“Two, you say?” Finch squinted at the struggling constructs, his eyes flicking from them to Finnian’s deceptively lean frame.
“Precisely. Unharmed save for the binding. Twenty-five Iron Pennies, the standard rate.” Finnian’s voice was low, even, betraying no impatience.
Finch hemmed, a familiar, greasy sound. “Hmm, well… these look a bit small for the bounty. Perhaps we can offer fifteen…”
Finnian simply met his gaze, his eyes, usually downcast, now piercing and unwavering. Finch’s words caught in his throat. The registrar swallowed hard, a nervous tic in his cheek. He fumbled beneath the counter, the clatter of coins echoing in the momentary silence.
“Here. Twenty-five. Standard rate.” He pushed a handful of tarnished Iron Pennies across the counter, avoiding Finnian’s stare. The transaction was swift, a lesson learned in the subtle art of negotiation in this hard city. Earning his own way held a stark, novel satisfaction.
Coins heavy in his pouch, Finnian returned to The Cog & Kettle, the air inside thick with the aroma of fried grease and cheap ale. The serving girl, a robust woman with flour dusting her apron, beamed at him.
“Finnian! Back in one piece, eh? Dinner for you? The usual bread and broth?”
He’d meant to order the cheapest fare, as always. But the glint of the Iron Pennies in his pocket, the memory of Finch’s swift surrender, shifted something within him. An unfamiliar curiosity stirred.
“No. Tonight, I’ll have the finest dish your kitchen can prepare.”
Her eyes widened, a laugh bubbling up. “My, my, you must have struck a rich vein! I’ll tell Cook himself!”
Finnian hadn't realized the inn’s most extravagant offering, the ‘Gear-Lord’s Feast,’ took nearly an hour to prepare. But when the plates finally arrived, laden with steaming, savory fare, the wait vanished from his mind. Thick-cut, slow-roasted Ironwood pork, its skin crisped to a perfect crackle, served with glazed root vegetables from the hydro-farms. Rich, dark gravy pooled around a mound of hearty grain-and-nut loaf. A generous wedge of potent, aged Cinder-cheese, its tang sharp on the tongue, finished the spread.
For a man whose life had been a stark regimen of plain gruel and scavenged rations, it was a revelation. He ate with a quiet ferocity, every bite a profound experience. The table was swiftly cleared, every crumb, every drop, utterly consumed. A satisfied sigh escaped him.
“Did… no one take it while I looked away?” he murmured, more to himself than anyone.
The serving girl chuckled, clearing the plates. “Not a chance! For a quiet one, you certainly can put it away, Finnian! Makes a cook happy to see food appreciated like that!”
Even Cook, a burly man usually confined to the kitchen’s fiery depths, emerged, wiping his hands on his apron. “First time that plate’s been cleaned like that in months! Enjoyed it, did you?”
Finnian nodded, a rare, small smile gracing his lips. He understood, now, the appeal of such a lavish meal. It was another facet of this strange, new world.
---
Three days bled into a week. Finnian's quiet expeditions yielded over thirty Rusted Constructs. Only a handful were presented for bounty, but the Iron Pennies steadily accumulated, enough to exchange a portion for several heavy Veridian Crowns – far easier to carry than a bulging pouch of tarnished coin.
His increasing proficiency with his Cinder-Spark, a nascent form of Aetheric detection, was the key. He’d discovered he could attune his senses to the residual Aetheric traces left by constructs, even beyond direct visual range, following their faint, metallic footprints through the industrial maze.
While Finnian's coffers steadily grew, Kael's Scavengers, the group he’d travelled with to Veridian, seemed to be floundering. Their faces grew longer, their complaints louder, the worry of unpaid rent a constant drone.
One evening, as Finnian retired, two of Kael’s men, Rourke and Jaren, blocked his way on the creaking stairs. Rourke, a bulky man with a permanent sneer, shoved a calloused hand into Finnian’s path.
“Hear you’ve been doing well, quiet one.” His voice was a low growl. “Seems only right you share a bit with your fellow scavengers, eh?”
Jaren, thinner and quicker, positioned himself to block any retreat. Finnian simply looked at them, his eyes unreadable.
Rourke misread the silence. He lunged, a clumsy swing aimed at Finnian’s head. But Finnian was faster. He ducked, pivoted, and a precisely placed elbow sent Rourke stumbling, grunting, into the wall. As Jaren rushed in, Finnian’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm, twisting. A sharp crack of bone. Jaren screamed, his eyes wide with pain, before Finnian’s boot connected with his chest, sending him tumbling down the stairs after Rourke, who was still trying to regain his footing.
The commotion drew Kael, who found his two sworn men groaning in a heap at the bottom of the steps. After a brief, furious exchange, Kael’s face was etched with shame. He approached Finnian, bowing his head in a gesture of sincere apology.
“My deepest apologies, Finnian. They’ll be disciplined. This… this won’t happen again.” He looked utterly defeated.
“Are you having a difficult time?” Finnian asked, his voice soft, almost devoid of judgment.
Kael hesitated, then nodded, his shoulders slumping. “Aye. Things are tight. Damn tight.”
Kael and his brothers had once been factory floor enforcers in a larger metropolis, until whispers of Aetheric-infused derelicts – the Rusted Constructs – and the potential for immense power, lured them away. They’d abandoned their brutal, yet stable, lives to become scavengers, hoping to strike it rich, perhaps even awaken some latent ability as the legends claimed.
But hunting constructs wasn’t for everyone. And unless a derelict was clearly imbued with potent Aether, no official bounty was paid. Two years they’d wandered, scratching out meager livings with odd jobs, only ever stumbling upon three viable constructs.
Finnian listened, a quiet understanding settling over him. They were strong, perhaps, but lacked the sight, the innate connection to the Aether, that he possessed. They were just men, chasing a myth without the tools to grasp it. He saw now why the city officials regarded scavengers as little more than desperate opportunists.
“Truth be told,” Kael continued, his voice rough, “another three days and we won’t afford the beds. This district’s too picked over, too little legitimate work. But don’t think for a second we’d ask you for money, not after… well, not after this mess.”
Finnian reached into his pouch, pulling out a small stack of Iron Pennies. He held them out. “Here.”
Ten coins. Enough for Kael and his remaining men to stay another three days, perhaps more if they negotiated with the innkeeper.
Kael stared, dumbfounded. “Why?”
“You offered me a place in your group, when I was alone. Believed it dangerous to travel by myself. Consider this repayment for that kindness.” Finnian’s mother, in the quiet hills of his youth, had instilled a simple code: repay kindness in kind, and grievances with equal measure. The grievance with Rourke and Jaren had already been settled. Kael’s initial goodwill was worth more than a few coins.
“Still, I can’t just…” Kael began, his brow furrowing.
“Then repay me with information,” Finnian interjected. “Tell me about the cities you’ve visited, the derelict zones, anything useful.” Information, he’d learned, held its own currency.
Kael’s face brightened. “That, I can do.”
For the next hour, Kael spoke, sketching rough maps on the inn’s dusty tabletop with a greasy finger. He spoke of outlying industrial hubs, forgotten mining towns, even zones rumored to hold ancient, pre-Veridian ruins – places where constructs were more numerous or potent. He detailed regions to avoid, dominated by predatory guild-syndicates or fiercely territorial tech-priest enclaves.
One detail, in particular, seized Finnian’s attention. “A library, you say? In Thaneborough?”
“Aye. The Great Foundry Archive. Heard it holds thousands of schematic-plates, data-scrolls, actual *books*,” Kael said with a shrug. “Never been myself. Too busy scraping by. But they say only those with a… certain designation… can enter.”
“A… wizard can enter?” Finnian asked, his voice hushed.
Kael laughed, a short, bitter sound. “A wizard, or a high-ranking engineer from the Iron Hegemony, or a sanctioned scholar. Some such thing. One day, perhaps, eh? When we’re not chasing scrap for pennies.”
Finnian, who had learned to read from his mother, had never once held a book. In their forgotten village, such luxuries were unheard of. His mother had often lamented the stories she could no longer recall, the knowledge that had slipped away. He’d always imagined books as mystical vessels, holding the very wisdom of the world.
Now, he found a new hunger stirring within him, deeper than the primal thrill of his power, more profound than the satisfaction of a full belly. A hunger for knowledge. He wanted to understand this iron-bound world, its forgotten past, its true nature.
“Is this enough payment?” Finnian asked, gesturing to Kael’s hastily drawn maps.
“More than enough,” Kael replied, shaking his head in wonder.
Finnian had planned to leave Veridian the next day. Now, he knew exactly where to go.
---
His departure was hastened. The following afternoon, during what Finnian intended to be his final sweep of the industrial outskirts, he found Rourke. The man lay slumped against a broken generator, clutching his gut, blood blooming across his stained tunic. His breath hitched, ragged and wet. His eyes, half-lidded, stared emptily.
“What happened?” Finnian knelt, the metallic tang of fresh blood sharp in the air.
“A hare… a monster…” Rourke gurgled, a cough tearing through him.
“Kael?” Finnian’s voice was sharp with urgency.
Rourke weakly pointed. “Over there…”
Finnian followed the trail of torn metal and smeared ichor. Beyond a stack of corroded piping, he found Kael. The scavenger leader lay twisted, his neck unnaturally angled, a single, wide eye staring up at the perpetually gray sky, frozen in a silent scream of indignant regret. Near him lay Jaren, his body horrifically torn in two, strewn like discarded rags.
A small creature, no larger than a common house cat, turned its head, its crimson optical sensors locking onto Finnian. It sat amidst the gore, chewing something wet and sinewy. Its front incisors, long and curved like polished blades, nearly touched the ground. Its hind legs, grotesquely over-muscled, twitched with coiled power. A Grinder-Hare.
The creature launched itself forward, a blur of rust-red and steel, moving with the terrifying speed of a hurled projectile.
“Urgh!” Finnian threw himself sideways, a primal instinct flaring. The Grinder-Hare shot past, impacting a thick support column with a sickening *crack*. The column didn’t just buckle; it sheared, cleanly sliced through, collapsing with a deafening crash.
*What in the Cinder…*
Testing various approaches felt like suicide. Finnian’s hand instinctively went to his belt, pulling out his well-worn slingshot. A smooth, heavy ball-bearing, charged with a flicker of internal Cinder-Spark, was nocked and launched.
It streaked towards the Grinder-Hare with the speed of a bullet.