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In a windowless room, on the outskirts of the palace, a father and son together were trapped.

But despite their tight proximity, they could not be farther apart.

No longer would Gabreel’s son look at him.

Nor would he talk.

They were now estranged, divided by invisible insurmountable suffering.

And the inventor wished to set everything aflame.

Gabreel’s sky magic pulsed at his fingertips, cascaded like a wash of lava across his palms as he leaned on the worktable. The papers beneath his hands hissed as they burned, but Gabreel cared little for the damage. He was too busy eyeing Aberthol, who sat chained on the far side of the room, nearest the locked door.

Gabreel worked to find any cut or bruise or break peeking from his son’s washed and pressed clothes. But besides his hollow eyes, wilted posture, and disheveled hair, Aberthol appeared whole.

As he was the first time he had been returned.

Which only spurred worse imaginings from Gabreel.

What internal monstrosities has my son faced?

The question sent Gabreel reeling in anguish, knowing the answers were unending.

He had tried to approach Aberthol multiple times, but his son always shrank away, shielding himself as if Gabreel was there to continue his torment.

And perhaps he was.

Everything they now faced was because of him.

What he had done and yet now could not do.

Gabreel leaned more heavily on the table, bile rising up his throat as he returned his gaze to the papers in front of him. He forced a deep breath, drinking in the thick scent of ink and parchment and fresh balsa wood that filled the room. Once a fragrance that had calmed his nerves, it now only sent them buzzing in disquiet.

Gabreel was not here to better. He was not locked up in the hopes that when he reemerged, he would birth wonder or ingenuity.

No, Gabreel was here to dig another catacomb.

And his son was allowed with him not for comfort but as a threat.

See who will suffer if you disobey. This was the king’s everlasting vow of encouragement.

A vow he upheld.

If Gabreel worked, proved progress in his engineering, Aberthol would remain by his side. If he showed that he was stalling or had stagnated, his son would be pulled away, not to be returned until the morning.

As had happened last night.

When Gabreel had dared to once again choose his conscience, his wife’s people over his king’s wishes.

Over his child.

At the thought, a roar surged up his throat, the suffocation of his position caving in, but he clenched his teeth to keep his scream at bay. Making noise would only attract the guards outside his workroom.

Gabreel could not afford for them to see how little he had done today.

More importantly, his son could not afford that.

With a frustrated exhale, Gabreel pushed aside the burned papers to study the old ones he had been supplied.

Each held failed attempts from his predecessor to build a strong enough infrastructure for the new mining site. Most held similar issues Gabreel had endured at the Dryfs, but this time, despite this new location proving wealth, it was situated dangerously close to the exposed cliffside. Closer even than the Dryfs. The unceasing pounding waves of the Aspero Sea were forever an obstacle and an unfortunate by-product of their gems and ambrü forming only in such rough conditions.

But that was the way of precious commodities.

Currency held value only in its scarcity and the effort required to obtain it.

Though Gabreel knew the treasury didn’t wish for their currency to be this scarce.

Gabreel shuffled through the drawings, drinking in the different crosscut proposals, shaft designs, and ways André Bardrex had wished to access the various veins of precious rock. But every calculation kept collapsing at the same point. So far Bardrex had only been able to tap the shallowest ore body, and that would not long sustain what the treasury needed.

The soil was too wet at this new location. Too easy to crumble, fall, fail.

This was what Gabreel needed to solve.

Solve so more Süra could be sent into its bowels.

Ire bubbled through Gabreel’s veins before a rattling cough snapped his attention to Aberthol.

His son was bent over, hacking for breath.

Gabreel sprang to his side, cup of water in hand.

“No,” wheezed Aberthol, recoiling from his touch, but his cough had him barreling over again.

Gabreel caught him, whispered gentle comforts while urging him to drink.

A wash of relief filled him as his son finally accepted the cup, the shackles on his wrists clanking as he drank.

But Gabreel’s reprieve was short lived when he spotted the blood marking his son’s hand, splattered from his lips.

Fury was an explosion that left Gabreel hotter than the sun.

What have they done to my child?

Aberthol cried out, snapping Gabreel back to where he held his son, grip burning.

In a panic, Gabreel sprang away, his eyes wide in horror as he caught the tears tracking down Aberthol’s cheeks.

But it was not anguish that filled his son’s gaze; it was hatred.

Hatred that pierced Gabreel.

A thousand blades puncturing Gabreel’s heart as he took in a stuttering breath. Never had Aberthol looked at him thus. Never had Gabreel thought it possible.

Despite all he and Aisling had sacrificed to raise their family, it was his children’s love that kept him going. Kept him determined in their chosen life, their hidden life.

But how quickly the king had stolen everything he had worked so hard to acquire. First his freedom, then his family, and now his son, turned against him.

A crippling pain flooded through Gabreel, a desperate apology poised at his lips for hurting his Aberthol, when the door swung open.

“What is going on?” asked the stern voice of a guard. His brown wings twitched at his back, no doubt feeling the discomfort of the tight-walled and windowless space.

“What have you done to my son?” Gabreel seethed in return, his remorse redirecting to ire. “He is coughing blood.”

The guard looked to Aberthol, and Gabreel instinctually positioned himself in front of him.

“Well,” said Gabreel. “Don’t just stand there. I require warm water and crushed barlimant. And I need them quickly, or you’ll be blamed for my delay in today’s work.”

The guard appeared unsure what to do with such a command, but evidently Gabreel still held a bit of his Volari demeanor, for the man eventually left to do as he was bid. The lock on the door clunked into place.

“Aberthol,” said Gabreel gently as he turned back to his son. “I am so sorry.”

Sorry for burning you. Sorry for bringing you here. Sorry for everything.

But his son had slipped back into whatever fog he had swum in earlier, where the pain of his present and past must not have existed. Where even the voice of his father—once capable of gleaning the reverent wonderment of his child—could not awaken him.

Blood still stained the corners of Aberthol’s lips, but Gabreel left it there, fearing another rebuke. He did not want to be the cause of any more of his son’s pain.

Gabreel realized then grief was like drowning. It burned, sparked panic until there was no fight left. Until you gave in to the cold darkness of your fate.

With a chill enveloping his heart, Gabreel returned to his worktable.

But this time his mind was clear as he gathered the papers and readied his pen.

He was not a hero of a story.

Not someone built to carry the weight of the world’s problems.

He was merely a father desperate to protect his child.

And if that caused him to fail others, fail another of his vows to himself, so be it.

Forgive me, he thought silently to Aisling, his chest splintering. It’s what must be done, my love.

So long as he was the key to keep Aberthol from suffering more nightmares, Gabreel would build the king’s new mine and any other monstrosity he commanded.