The largest room in the Gray Fox’s hideout was dull and drab, devoid of furniture. Ceiling lights and the service door connecting the facility to the Antikwald were the only visible signs of machinery. Containers of wood and metal, small and large, broke the uniform limestone hues of the wall. Dust from a previous ore shipment, broken boards, and scattered ropes from another delivery, and the scent of solvent spread all over the place. There were no tire tracks, except for wheel marks of carriers and trolleys used inside the facility.

  Much of the clutter was set aside; what occupied the space next were standing men whose eyes were obscured by the caps they wore. Hanging on their necks was a fusion of goggles and a mask; vision pieces made of dark glass and mouth guards with two small cylinders that housed filters. Their uniforms sported many pockets and compartments – all of which contained something inside; this added bulk made their bodies look uneven. This formation had no uniform armament; those in front of the columns held machine pistols, while the rest carried rifles slung on their backs.

  Opposite the large service door was a regular hallway left open; one man was seen walking out of it. The green glow coming from his left eye was made more pronounced by the dimmed light. There were no elevated platforms for him to see the rest of the throng behind the first few rows of those who arrived. He stood still, scanning the congregation before he said:

  “I will repeat this over and over until we take the field: this is not an attack.” Winston pulled up his gloves and slid most of his right-hand fingers at once. “The Master’s provided machines won’t give us a true advantage over our enemies. There are many of them, and few of us. We do have the element of surprise on our side. Use the fighting constructs as a shield if we are left with no choice but to fight, and a sword when we can gain more ground. I urge all of you to hinder or block the enemy from approaching the towers until the main objectives are secured.”

  Winston Norton paused in his speech, looking at the gathering of armed men before him. Three men came from behind; two of them started to set up a box-shaped apparatus. They disappeared into the lower levels of the platform when the device was powered up. A view of an old city surrounded by eight towers came to life inside the room. It looked almost like the whole place was made to fit everyone inside to see; only the occasional distortions in the form of green light reminded everyone that it was nothing but an image.

  “The task is to defend the eight towers surrounding the city.”

  Winston Norton’s voice became coarse on some of his words. He continued:

  “Expect that Luminberg’s defenders will come from both inside and outside. When attacked, we fire back, but do not move beyond our positions. Let the constructs’ controllers deal with most of the fighting. Their armor should be enough to resist bullets—we are not as tough. Don’t be rash, and especially do not let the enemies get near the fighting machine controls. Every bullet will have to count because we cannot expect to be supported. To be overrun is death. The moment our transport discs can secure the objectives, we will leave.”

  “Thank you for reminding us of this task, Mister Norton.” Trevalyn Faricy appeared from the back of the platform. Unlike the rest of the gathering, he donned a deep green suit with a coat draped over it. He said:

  “Remember that we are all doing this to prove to the Empire and its people that we are its future. This is your step, each and all of you, to your futures. No longer will we need to live our lives underground. Our wait won’t be long, for all of us will become citizens of a better, more powerful nation under my guidance. Live so that you will see the day of rebirth. I will be seeing you all with me.”

  No shouts were made; all the uniformed men looked up to the crime lord and answered his words with a uniform stomp.

  · · ─ ·?· ─ · ·

  Nighttime was taking over the sky; Luminberg’s lights came to life, but not in the bright white light the lampposts normally gave off. Men and women in flowing, glittering robes, garish versions of what the magicians wore in the days of the First Empire, approached each light source to open a compartment at the base. A small tank of prismatic liquid was connected to the internal mechanism. The result was a slow, transitioning glow of white and indigo.

  The Defense of Luminberg was both celebrated and commemorated. Locals and visitors dressed as the brave warriors who defeated the invading monsters. Most people settled for tin props, if not leather painted to look like metal. The more dedicated and wealthier individuals roamed the streets in unadorned armor plating. Unlike in previous years, some citizens, mostly those from the younger generations, took on more erratic tastes, choosing to dress in stitched-together leather and scale. There were mostly childish renditions of monsters, while some afforded fur and exotic materials that scared children at sight.

  Music from string and brass instruments, the loud chatter of the citizenry, and the crackling of the many spits and bonfires placed around the city center created a loud, yet very busy environment. Smoke coming from roasting meat and kiln-baked bread made a pronounced scent that constantly reminded the celebrants of food that would be readied soon. Teardrop-shaped crystal lampposts were kept alit, but their glow mingled with the dancing red, orange, and yellow plumes of nearby flames.

  There was an armored man, plump of waist and limbs, who passed by. He was met with a gaggle of children, probably his own. He picked up a boy and a girl, put them on each of his shoulders, and walk away to see a stage performance near the city walls. The other children, bigger and older, followed him side-by-side.

  Euphemia smiled, though she couldn’t help but follow them with her gaze. She remembered her father doing the same to her when she was a child. A feeling that, at some time in her youth, she stood on top of most people, albeit literally. Lord Cecil would have gone around in full battle dress: armor, helm, and sometimes, the man-sized heater shield. The memory of Lady Agnes calling the duke out: him, the excessive show-off. She smiled at the sight, though the evening breeze also carried a wave of sadness: a reminder that now, the one she looked up to for strength was someone who needed to be saved. Rook found her standing on the sidewalk, who caught her attention shortly with:

  “Some festival you have here.”

  The boy kept his coat on, making his festive wear invisible except when looking at him from the front. He often moved the straps of the hastily worn breastplate downwards, but it took a few seconds before he felt the leathery edges go up to the middle of his rib cage again. He had been trailing behind Kirk, who was following where Euphemia guided them.

  She was hard to miss: Canoness Euphemia donned her regular dark-blue habit. Her attempt at a festive gesture was a scapular that covered and extended throughout her body. Only a few people had a decagram embroidered on their clothes, making it the only way for her companions to keep track of her. Though clerics were a rare sight in Luminberg’s streets, she found it easy to blend with the rest of the crowd, on account of many of the festival attendants wearing hoods and cloaks.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Euphemia’s insistence paid off. Rook went for a breastplate and knee pads, though the former gave him trouble in keeping them still with every step. Kirk settled for a yellowed cuirass with a pair of greaves; he decided to wear a cheap sword to complete the appeal. It was, at best, wood painted with a kind of alum pigment: good for a few strikes, if anything else. He took his staff along, though Kirk also spent more effort securing a wooden spear tip at the top end. He didn’t remember seeing any staff in those old city murals, but some of the drawn weapons looked like pikes.

  She faced her two companions, holding a pair of crystal trinkets. It was a quartz sculpture of something made to resemble a winged creature. It was small, comparable to two-thirds of the cleric’s pinkie finger. Gold and silver accents were used to outline and separate the wings and head from the rest of the body.

  “We’re supposed to give these to new friends, or to people whom we wish well.”

  Euphemia touched the crystalline tokens with her fingertips before placing them in their hands. Rook held it against the light while Kirk wrapped it around his hand before looking at it. She continued:

  “I’ve chosen the best quality crystal because...”

  The trinkets gave off light; Euphemia looked at both their faces, as if she was expecting their puzzled glances. Rook blinked twice to make sure the festive smoke wasn’t fogging his brain. Kirk set the glowing thing against the wall, as if measuring the brightest it could get.

  “Useful, aren’t they? Not as good as an actual lamp or flashlight, but they can light up a room—as long as I can put a small charge on them. Just put a finger on their face if you need... or don’t need light.”

  “Not bad.” Kirk nodded twice. “So this is how your country, at least this city, remembers its dark parts of history.”

  “I would not call it completely dark.” Euphemia went near one of the lampposts, watching the throng go about their business. “They would be happy knowing that those they protected, or their descendants, remember their sacrifices. Maybe I hope they feel the same.”

  “That made me curious about this day.” Kirk’s eyes were looking around. “How about we talk history?”

  “That’s dull.” Rook was yet to hide his crystal trinket and made patterns by turning the light on and off. “I’m just here for the fun and lights.”

  “Let us find a better spot.” Euphemia was looking at a small space near a strip of restaurants and food stalls.

  The crowd was growing; more Luminbergers stepped out of their homes and blended with everyone else. Rook was able to spot a table for three—he had to make a few long steps to get ahead of the others. Euphemia stopped for a few moments to catch a glimpse of someone who was preparing to enter backstage. It was a few minutes before the event itself.

  There should be nothing strange about it, and the figure was Magister Demian Silbern himself. He was speaking to a man in a green suit.

  She was no stranger to the busy lives of Imperial public servants; Lord Cecil took the role of being the face of Albertan administration, if he was not away on matters related to the armed forces. Though he was able to become quite the speaker thanks to Lady Agnes and her staff.

  Her business with Magister Silbern should be brief: a greeting here, followed by a gesture of gratitude. Those books she was allowed to copy helped her gain new knowledge; perhaps she wouldn't be as blind as when she started the search for the cherished duke.

  She decided to draw closer to the city governor, waiting on him to finish conversing with this other elderly-looking gentleman. Euphemia, in her attempt to draw closer discreetly, caught some parts of the conversation amid the growing noise of the celebrations.

  “...thank you for this generous shipment of Merlot.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Magister.”

  Euphemia failed to catch a glimpse of his face.

  “I’m sure that this celebration will be far greater than anything Luminberg has done in a few or more years.”

  “We have you to thank for that, Mister Faricy.”

  “Certainly, my pleasure to do business with the esteemed Demian Silbern of Luminberg.” The man in the green attire took a bow. “If you excuse me, I have other arrangements to attend to. I will return to see the Wizards’ Wall come to life after this.”

  “Make the best of your stay here in the city. We would love to have you as an honored guest.”

  Euphemia was about to go even nearer; a hand that tapped her shoulder stopped her in the attempt.

  “Look what Rook and I found: bottled soda.” The cleric turned back to see Kirk smiling at her, a cold glass vessel in his hand. “Something up?”

  “I was… I saw the city governor and wanted to-” Euphemia turned to where Magister Silbern and the other man were; the crowd took them out of sight. “They’re no longer around.”

  “They’ll be around.” Kirk said, “I know you’re not completely in any festive mood, but you should be less serious, even a little.”

  “I think I’ll take your advice, thank you.” The cleric shook her head. She took one of the bottled drinks but ended up staring at it. “How did you... open yours to drink?”

  “That’s easy. Here.” Kirk took the bottle from the cleric’s hand and flicked the bottle cap with a gloved thumb.

  “Thank you."

  She reached for the glass vessel Kirk handed out. Euphemia blinked twice at the open drink bottle; small bubbles rose to the surface and dissolved into a fruity smell, with a hint of sweetener. She brought the mouth of the bottle to her lips. A giddy smile on her face, as if it were a new revelation hidden from her for so long.

  "I would assume you have heard what this celebration is called.”

  “Some people called it Eve of the Defense.” Kirk answered.

  “And I thought I’m the only one good at eavesdropping here.” Rook appeared shortly, with two bottles in hand. “Either of you got any change? I can’t get enough of these.”

  Euphemia was about to reach for her purse when Kirk stopped her before she could draw anything. He waved a fifty-mark note in front of the boy: good for around twelve bottles.

  “You can have this, on one condition.”

  “Like what? You’re going to buy my trust, or buy my friendship?”

  “Drop the 'monster-caller' name.”

  “No problem.” Rook took the money before Kirk could pull it away. “Thanks a lot, fiend-conjurer.”

  “Crafty little rat…” Kirk groaned at yet another defeat and scratched his head. He heard Euphemia press her hand against her lips to block out laughter, which made him turn around and say. “Somber-faced prayer lady knows how to let loose a little, huh?”

  “This is unbecoming of me, yet I failed to contain myself.” Euphemia closed her eyes and shook her head. The canoness looked at the large stage and said, “It looks like an announcement is about to be made.”

  The stage in front of Luminberg’s administrative seat came to life; lights from above and around turned on and made an outline of Brillanz in dark, orange shades. There was a slight screech that came out of the black boxes placed under the platform. A graying man in long, flowing robes took the stage; the lights made his silver hair a shade of whitish gray. He spoke:

  “Thank you, citizens and visitors, for taking part in the Evening of the Defense. For years, we have remembered the efforts and sacrifices of the brave men and women of this city who made this nation possible. Ourselves, our empire, and especially our sons and daughters: none of us would be here without this victory. I would also like to congratulate you on attending this year. We are all about to witness a great part of our history unfold—and reborn in our time and age.”

  Euphemia held her temples and took her eyes off the stage. Was it the bright lights? They were bright, but she had been used to even stronger-glowing devices before, and she had been staring at them with no problem. The sensation seemed to have made the voices of the crowd become ragged moans; music that was played around her became slow, low notes. She placed her half-consumed soda bottle on the ground before leaning on the wall. Her pulse skittered in her throat; the lights felt as if they were prying at something inside her. Rook was quick to notice her sudden change and asked:

  “Are you okay, Euphemia?”

  “No Rook, something is–” Euphemia righted her senses. She missed most of the speaker’s message but was able to clearly hear the next few words.

  “… I present to you, the old, yet reborn pride of Luminberg: The Wizards’ Wall!”