2406 Rab 9, Velpa

The smell of metal burning assaulted his nose, making him hold back an oncoming sneeze. It couldn't come now at this point. This was the part that needed the steadiest hands.

So, Cyrdel sucked in a breath, peering closer than it was deemed safe into a sheet of gears and wires, squinting past the hazy layer of his spectacles. His hands shook but gripped the solder tightly, slowly edging towards a gear tooth in need of refining. Sweat dripped down the side of his face and past his cheek, his breathing labored and thick with the cooped up, humid air inside the shop. Just a little bit more now.

The charged solder's tip hit the gear just as a bell blared throughout the whole manor. Cyrdel jumped, missing the tooth by mere millimeters. "Nira's bottoms," he cursed, throwing the solder into the wooden table and dislodging the sentzite ore powering it. "Would it kill them to delay lunch by a minute?"

With a sigh, he undid the knot tying his apron around his form and chucked it next to the solder. He glanced down at his recent invention still in parts, a mess of out of place gears, wires, and sheets of dented metal he still had to refine in the forge. Apparently, lunch was more important than finishing and Cyrdel didn't have a say in that matter. At all.

It'd be a disaster if he even thought about being late. He'd learned that the hard way just a few years back.

Cyrdel wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve and strutted out of the shop. A cool wind from the palace's ivy-infested backdoor garage hit him, making shivers run up his arms. How long had he been inside for him to be used to the sweltering heat?

His soles clacked against the trail of cobblestones sloping up, taking him to the real ground floor of the Royal estate. All the flowers, despite how colorful and unique they were, breezed by his periphery knowing they'd still be there the following day, even weeks after. The landscape remained the same, too, almost as if mocking Cyrdel for wishing each day wasn't as boring as the last.

He reached the front door of the estate, letting his eyes rove over the glass-paned windows forming the facade. Behind him sat the arched gap in the tall, white walls surrounding the manor, the city of Depandes lying just outside. He pursed his lips, clenching his hands against his sides. It was only a few steps and he'd be out of his family's collective hair.

Still, one glance at the timeteller stuck to his wrist told him it was best to swallow his feelings and just head to lunch. So, on he walked, past the bustle of servants and some of the Masters in the Court of Varis heading towards the open gardens of the manor's backyard and into the adjacent wing where the dining hall was located.

It never did make sense to Cyrdel why the King and Queen decided it was a good idea to have everyone in the Palace eat communal meals but it was what it was. He wasn't consulted with the matter, despite being the Crovalis. Perhaps they knew he would rather eat meager snacks in his shop at all times while inventing. Was this their way of forcing Cyrdel to get out of his rooms?

If so, he wasn't enjoying it, despite having done it for years.

The swarm of people meant the advent of chatter, of pounding footsteps against the marble floor, and of the painful rustles of clothes. Cyrdel gritted his teeth as he made his way into the crowd. Those things he never could get rid of no matter how hard he tried. No one bothered to notice him as he wanted. It was something he didn't expect, though, considering what everyone in his race was taught.

The traffic trickled into a large, brightly lit hall. Chairs with tall backs flanked a long dining table laden with a red tablecloth and about a thousand plates, goblets, silverware, and napkins dyed crimson. Cyrdel eyed the head of the table where the King usually sat. He's supposed to take the seat to his right as per custom.

Servants clad in simple tunics and dresses filed in and out of the hall, disappearing behind a fake wall shielding the kitchens from view. It was the invention of Master Philine in her spare time and was still regarded as a treasure whenever the topic blew in that direction.

Cyrdel reached his designated seat and pulled the chair back, letting the grating sound blend with a couple of others down the length of the table. He couldn't care less about the other people dining with him since most of them were the members of the Court, visiting officials from the Seelie Court, some esteemed businessmen and company owners having an afternoon appointments with the King, and the assigned Generals from Elshire sent to control the platoons of the Russet Guard in Depandes. The servants, cooks, the Guards, and everyone who was inside the Palace were in a separate dining room, eating the same meal at the same time as them.

In short, it was like every day, except the faces and the chatter around him changes with no regard for his memory or interest.

The air shifted when a familiar presence filled the room. In came the King and Queen, dressed in their stiffest and most formal attire from head to toe. Eyes darted across the room, following their movements until the King settled into the head of the table and the Queen took the spot in his left hand. Silence coated the hall, so thick it might cause a sheet of fog to arise in Cyrdel's glasses.

A bit of shuffling. The King poured himself a serving of wine in his goblet. He raised it to the gathered crowd and nodded. When he finished taking a sip from his drink, the servants burst from the kitchen, bearing all kinds of dishes and trays upon trays of differently-flavored fairy potions. Within a few seconds, lunch began.

Cyrdel was about to wrap his fingers around the first fork he could see when a crisp voice speared through his ears. "What's that on your face?"

His eyes widened, his hands veering away from the table and towards his face. The King's dark brown eyes burned towards him. Oh, gods. What now?

"You've been inventing again," the King, and unfortunately, his father hissed. "What did I tell you about missing your morning lectures?"

"Kaste, not now," the Queen said from the opposite side. Her ocher eyes darted towards the assembled guests beyond them and back to the rising tension between Cyrdel and his father. "Let's just focus on the meal now, yes?"

"He's not a child, Gwyne," the King responded. "He needs to learn how to handle responsibilities and not always dawdle in his...fantasies."

Cyrdel slammed his hand against the table, making a few tableware clink. Dozens of chatter died. Eyes speared towards him, all judging and never sympathizing. "I'm not playing around, Father," he forced himself to meet the King's eyes despite the bile curling at the base of his throat and the heartbeat pounding in his temples. "I'm inventing. I can catch up with all my lessons in the evening. This project just couldn't wait."

The King's face contorted into anger. He hadn't touched the bowl of soup placed in front of him despite it being the usual way of him starting his meals. "And this project is more important than your duties? You're supposed to serve your people and not fiddle around."

"I am helping our people!" Cyrdel's voice was reaching a peak for no apparent reason. It's just annoying that this wasn't the first conversation they've had regarding this specific issue and this certainly wouldn't be the last. "Unlike you, sitting around in pretty seats and talking nonsense, I'm doing things that could improve the lives of brownies in the city."

"Say that again," the King's tone was flat.

Cyrdel seethed. "I'm sure you heard it the first time," he narrowed his eyes. "Father."

A resounding clap of palm against cheek rang in the hall, shattering any illusion of people continuing their conversations in peace. Cyrdel gritted his teeth against the growing throb in his face. The King's hand was still raised in the air, his breaths coming up hard and labored.

"Get out," the King hissed.

Cyrdel didn't need to be told twice. He couldn't stomach more minutes in this place, anyway. His chair scraped in a blaring noise as he pushed against the table. Silence followed him on his way out of the hall and out of the Palace, entirely.

Once he was well away from the manor's glass-paned facade, he leaned against the wall and blew a shaky breath. His cheek stung much like how the tears threatening to fall did to his eyes. He gulped in breaths of air tinged with the smell of burning coal and molten metal. After a few minutes of calming himself down, Cyrdel peeled away from the wall and stepped into the busy streets ahead.

Depandes was noisy after lunch. Cyrdel weaved through the non-linear roads, past circular huts and throngs of brownies going about their usual activities. A herd of noure, cart-animals similar to a dagrine used in the west, gathered near a well punched deep into the road. Their attendants, fairies clad in colorful robes signifying they're merchants from other territories, flocked around their rides, hefting buckets of fresh water drawn from the well.

Cyrdel waved his hand in front of his face when the smell of wet fur wafted in his direction. He switched direction and instead approached the shops similar to the one he built back in the manor. The main difference was that the ones in Depandes were bigger and their furnaces burned brighter.

Over the course of a few minutes of walking, his eyes were bombarded with hundreds of interesting trinkets, machines, and mechanisms being displayed from the front of the shops or being put together behind them. Brownies dressed in coveralls strutted around in this area. He didn't even need to try hard to fit in with his oil-stained tunic tucked inside his own coveralls, worn boots, and messy hair.

It was part of the reason he always went to Depandes after a particularly hard day of deflecting his father's tirades. This was the part of the city where he belonged. Not in the Palace. Certainly not in a room full of pompous nobles discussing boring issues like trade. It didn't matter what his father said about Cyrdel's wants. He wasn't going to start listening now.

His footsteps turned angry and scathing against the otrite stones dotting the road. Irritation itched at the back of his mind knowing full well he had no choice to attend his afternoon lectures with Scholar Alshera to not push his father's buttons even more. It almost sucked when the sun was out and not the moons. He wouldn't be able to see the road glow in their eerie but calming light in the evening.

Something drove his shoulder back and a flash of khaki strands blazed in his periphery. What the—

A girl with bright, hazelnut brown eyes and an innocent face whipped to his vision. Cyrdel narrowed his eyes. "Did you just bump into me?" he said.

Her eyes widened and she began patting her skirts like she was dusting dirt away from it. Cyrdel clicked his tongue. This little witch. "Hey, I'm talking to you," he stepped closer to the girl who stopped fiddling with her maroon dress. "Don't you know to look people in the eyes when they are?"

The girl drew a sheaf of parchment from the pockets of her dress and began scribbling. He scoffed. What was she doing? From the corner of his eyes, he caught a flash of russet coats moving towards them, sensing the commotion. He's making a scene. They couldn't recognize him here. They'd report to the King and he might be banned from leaving the Palace entirely.

With a click of his tongue, he pushed past the girl and ran in the first direction which leaped into his mind. Forget her apology. Forget she even existed at all. He came here to escape and escape he would. No amount of rude girls was going to change that.