Wealthy elites dressed in silks ugh inside the city, and a gaggle of street children dressed in rags take turns kicking a pstic bottle outside of it.

  A Republic Officer shoos them away from the gate and seizes the bottle, crushing it in their hands.

  Cassandra watches the all too familiar scene unfold from atop a nearby rooftop. She would have never joined the other children when she was younger, but she would often watch them.

  Still, even being a simple observer didn’t spare her from being chased down by Republic Officers. After those chases, she would be forced to return to whatever shelter her Father had managed to scrape together to hold off the cold and rain for the night. He was adamant that everything would change the moment Vanessa had pulled them off the street, but now Cassandra can’t even trust her own Father. If he even was that…

  A child trips over a crack in the street. The Officer kicks them to their feet. The child scrambles for safety as Cassandra pulls her hood further over her eyes. She clutches her violin case and looks down at the youth running off into the night.

  “Is it just me,” Mystic says, turning to Cassandra, “or have they been in there longer than they should have?”

  Cassandra turns her attention to the cement cube illuminated by purple torchlight on the horizon. “Well, how long do you think it should take for them to find Ryomen, speak with him, and probably expin our whole situation as well as convince him to give up the information about where he got the metal to make the sword?”

  Mystic taps her chin at the long list. She pulls her finger away from her mouth in a smile, “Let no one say that you are not quick-witted, Cassandra.”

  Mystic dangles her legs over the street as she lies down beside Cassandra. The legs suddenly grow stiff just as quickly as they shot out. In fact, Mystic’s whole body grows stiff. She lets that stiffness out with a breath. “May I ask you something?”

  Cassandra shrugs, unfazed by Mystic’s previous compliment, one that she certainly doesn’t agree with. “Sure.”

  “Smith clearly wants to leave us, but they currently don’t have the means to do so. I suppose I’m just wondering if you feel a simir way.”

  Cassandra sighs, “Well, I don’t want to run off and kill Adamus if that’s what you mean.”

  Mystic huffs, “Of course not, that’s a suicide mission, and you’re smart enough to know that’s not what I’m asking you.”

  Cassandra holds her violin case tighter. She twists the straps. Is she wondering if I’ll abandon her? Cassandra questions.

  I might... She hasn’t told me that much about my Father, and I doubt she ever will. Still, I may find something out if we’re able to discover what those runes mean. The markings on my Dad’s arms looked awfully simir to the runes on that sword we’ve been carrying around. Cassandra flexes her fingers around the straps of her violin case, scratching at them.

  There is the matter of Vanessa, though. She considers the threat of the Republic or the possible ck thereof. The Republic’s oppressive authority has spread further in the wake of the Division slowly being dissolved. That’s all it has done in her eyes, though. Spread.

  Its tyranny bearing the face of the freedom of democracy is the same as it ever was. Cassandra has known that tyranny all her life, and as much as she wants to rip the Republic castle apart and kick Vanessa in the teeth, she knows that it would do little good. Mother is the one with power now.

  Cassandra clenches the strap in a fist. How could you, Adamus? How could you just stand by and let her destroy your Father’s legacy?

  She lets her thoughts out in a heavy exhale, “I won’t leave you, Mystic. I mean, I’ve come this far with you all, haven’t I?”

  Mystic grins, “Good,” She kicks her feet over the city below, dangling them back and forth. “That makes me happy.”

  A hawk soars above the pair, watching and listening to them from above.

  A simir hawk is perched inside of Ryomen Kaga’s office.

  The man himself feeds the hawk a small Ratroach before snatching a handful of powder and tossing it onto the firepce. The fmes turn a mesmerizing violet at the action.

  Ryomen hands his silk robe off to his Lungoza assistant, who pces it on a coat rack beside many other luxurious garments.

  “Would you care to grab some wine for our guests, Yormui?”

  “Of course, Mr. Kaga.” The Lungoza floats toward the door, shutting it as they leave.

  Ryomen sits at his desk in a velvet chair that nearly swallows him, “Please,” he invites Smith and Anvil to, “Take a seat.”

  The pair do so.

  “Now,” Kaga smiles, “What can I do for my two new friends?”

  I already don’t trust him, Smith thinks, folding their arms. I’ve seen his type before. Fiskejef, Ymirdrun, that Republic sergeant from Triminiv’s vilge, and of course Gelmidas and Vanessa.

  Smith feels the bandana in their pocket as they press their arms closer to their chest. What was it she said back then? Some people think a badge or a crown makes them a god? Wealth should have been added to that list…

  Anvil leans forward, “We have a few questions to ask you, Mr. Kaga.”

  “Ask away,” Ryomen maintains his smile as he tilts his head.

  Smith shoots off the first question before Anvil can mess things up, “Did you sell metal to a male Squideel named Varaphis before the Rusting?”

  “My, how blunt! How serious as well…” Ryomen chuckles, “Yes, I do seem to recall doing that about…hmmm. Well, that would have been about eighteen, no, nineteen years ago now.”

  Anvil nods, Smith remains rigid. “Where did you get the metal?”

  Ryomen’s smile drops at the question. His lips turn into a straight line beneath his mustache as he lifts his head and eyes up in thought, “Hmmm… That is quite the question.”

  The door opens, and the Lungoza returns. They stretch out their tentacles and set three gsses on the desk. They then pour wine into each gss before setting down the full bottle.

  Ryomen takes a sip from his gss, stating that, “I may have to refer to my personal records for such information. I do hope you two will forgive me for not being able to recall such a minuscule detail. It has been quite some time after all. Yorumi?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kaga?” The Lungoza asks.

  “Be a dear and fetch records book volume number… hmmm… Oh, yes! Volume number eleven point seven.”

  Yorumi exits the room again and goes to do just that.

  Ryomen swirls the wine in his gss. Smith and Anvil refuse to touch theirs.

  Ryomen takes another sip of wine and smirks, “While we’re waiting for Yorumi,” He says, pcing his gss down and folding his ringed fingers before his face, “Perhaps we should invite the rest of your family inside? Don’t worry, I’ll get them to bring the sword as well.”

  Smith leaps from the chair, swinging their scarred palm down to draw blood that becomes a pointed dagger.

  Ryomen doesn’t even flinch. “My, what an impressive trick,” he ughs, “However, I must say that killing me would be awfully stupid, Smith. You are a Smith, right? That’s how you can summon metal? You should also be able to talk to it as well… However, coming to me for answers about that sword says otherwise. Tell me, do you ck that ability, or is the bde just being quiet?”

  Anvil stands and pces a hand on his sibling, “We need answers, not blood.”

  Smith ignores him, “How do you know that we’re Machinists?”

  “I have my ways,” Kaga yawns, “Here’s one of them.” His eyes go white, his gray pupils shifting to the hawk at the end of the room. The bird flies onto Ryomen’s arm as his eyes return to him. “I’m like the rest of you,” he giggles, “gifted.”

  The Martian I fought in Rome had the same ‘gift’ and she nearly killed me, Smith recalls the encounter as they lower their hand. Anvil seems to have recalled the encounter as well, “We once met a Martian who had a simir power over Qrows. No Machinist I know of has such an ability.”

  “True,” Ryomen says as he stands, “True, true. And I am indeed no Machinist. But then again, would you two even consider yourselves true Machinists? You have no metal bodies, and though you cim to be pacifists, the thin and androgynous one summoned a weapon on me.” Kaga narrows his eyes on Smith with those st words. Smith scowls at the look and holds the dagger tight before slipping it into their jacket. Their bad feeling about Ryomen is proving itself valid with each passing second.

  “Come now,” Kaga beckons, “The fire is making my office stuffy, and we should be in a rger area to greet your sister and your… hmmm… Your Cassandra?”

  Cassandra and Mystic are invited inside by Yorumi and then escorted to a private library upstairs by both them and the man at the door, the same one who had cimed to have his eyes on Smith. The man is sure to remind Smith of that promise with a gre as he leaves.

  “Forgive, Kavish,” Ryomen chuckles, “He’s always in a grumpy mood and wary of strangers. But that’s one of the reasons I keep him at the door.”

  “You’re Ryomen Kaga?” Mystic asks, appearing to be somewhere between curiosity and revulsion.

  “I am,” Ryomen states as Yorumi pulls the records book off the shelf and ys it down on a small reading table. “Thank you, Yorumi,” The Lungoza floats up at the words. Cassandra carefully watches them leave. Her face does little to show her judgment, but her words are a different matter: “I didn’t see any other Lungozas around. Are they the only one employed here?”

  “If you’re referring to the history of Lungoza ensvement, I can assure you that Yorumi is both paid a fair wage,” Ryomen comments as he opens the book and flips through it.

  Smith works their way to Cassandra’s side to whisper, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Maybe, but I can’t read your mind.”

  Smith hides their next words under a sigh, “This ‘Kaga’ man is going to try to py us.”

  Cassandra nods, “And if we don’t py along-”

  A hawk nds on a bookshelf above Cassandra and Smith. Ryomen presses a finger on a date within the book, “Ahh, Yes…” His grin widens, exposing his teeth, “Here we are. I did sell Varaphis that metal, and it appears as if I bought it from one,” He holds the book up, “Tendo Batharuk.”

  Cassandra goes pale. Smith raises an eyebrow while their siblings narrow theirs.

  “What is it?” Ryomen gnces back at the book, “It says it right there, doesn’t it?”

  “Tendo Batharuk was a Machinist,” Mystic states. “He’s also my Father,” Cassandra adds.

  “Really? You’re Tendo’s daughter?” Ryomen gasps, “Why, I already knew that you were President Vanessa’s, but it seems like things have become far more interesting.”

  Mystic steps closer to Ryomen, “So you knew that Schor? Alright, I’ll bite. Was the metal you bought from him Machinist metal? Is that why it has runes on it and why my Smiths can’t talk to it?”

  “Runes?”

  Anvil unsheathes the sword to show Ryomen. He squints and ughs, “Why yes, those do appear to be runes!”

  Mystic pounds a fist onto the table, “Answer my questions, human.”

  Ryomen carefully readjusts the shaking table. “Yes, metal from you Machinists was indeed used to forge that bde, and I have seen runes appear during simir processes.”

  Anvil sheathes the bde, but not before studying it himself and asking, “Are you saying that other metals like this exist that didn’t succumb to the Rusting?”

  Ryomen lifts a finger, sliding a ring off it, which he holds out for the group to see. “Indeed, my new friends.”

  Mystic snatches the silver ring from Ryomen. A single rune is engraved on it. The number one shines blue as Mystic rubs her thumb across it.

  “How is that even possible?” Smith questions, “If this is Machinist metal, then how come it didn’t rust like our bodies did?”

  Ryomen coughs, “Sorry to say it, Smith, but you are quite slow. The answer is right in front of your eyes.”

  Runes, Smith thinks, that still expins so little, though.

  “How do you know my Father?” Cassandra blurts out, not wanting to wait for answers any longer.

  Ryomen shrugs, “He’s an old friend. Perhaps my oldest friend. I’m the one who helped him get into a proper body.”

  Smith has to resist the urge to toss Ryomen into a bookshelf at that comment. The look on Mystic’s face portrays a very simir emotion. Cassandra, on the other hand, isn’t sure how to feel. He knew my Father, she tells herself, he can tell me about him.

  It is as if a wave of uncertainty crashes over her and wipes her off her feet. Cassandra wants to ride that wave, no matter how perilous it is. She needs to chase the truth.

  She needs to know who she is.