Every time Spyre thought he was finally going to have an evening, just one evening to himself, his brother made the executive decision to invite “the boys” over for ale, gambling, and other distasteful games. Games that, if they were honest, and they never were, were more games of cheats than chance.

Tonight was to be no different, and so Spyre followed his usual routine as well. He gathered his tools until they overflowed in his arms and hauled them to his room, the only eight-foot patch of Gaernod that no one else had plundered from him…so far. Smiling at his own foolishness, Spyre knocked softly on the wooden doorframe, just in case, but not loud enough to draw attention to himself.

He stared down at the items scattered across his thin mattress and sighed. What a mess. But he had every intention to make something useful of it. Tonight the goal was to piece together a device that would make life a bit simpler for his two-person family. It wasn’t much, but it would help Spyre to get the fireplace lit without having to cross the room. It might sound like laziness, but it’s hard to argue with a hungry Ryne who’s just barged into the house after a long day of training “useless” recruits and can no longer understand the importance of carefully preparing food. Of course, if Ryne didn’t care about food poisoning, who was Spyre to argue? 

But no, Spyre laughed to himself again. Ryne was annoying and borderline intolerable, especially on nights like this, but he would never wish actual pain on the man. He was family after all. That stood for something in Spyre’s mind.

The laughter from the other room swelled to an obnoxious volume. Someone had finally realized that he was drunk, and he was taking advantage of the leniencies that went along with such a state of incompetence. The night would only go downhill from here.

Spyre felt around underneath his bed and grabbed the first piece of cloth he felt, shoving it into the gap between the wooden door and the earthy floor to muffle just some of the noise. He knew it was more or less a vain attempt, but taking action, however useless, made him feel slightly better. In a kingdom where Spyre controlled nothing of significance, at least he was the ruler of this small room, and he would maintain that however he could. 

Spyre’s hands hovered above each item on his bed as he calculated its use. He’d already made a few of these but they were tricky. They were tiny, for one thing. Small, black pellets, and they required precision. One sharp movement and there would be a miniature explosion followed by more flames than Spyre was prepared to cope with in his small realm of freedom. But that was good. That was the point, in fact.

However, that being the intended outcome, Spyre had to acknowledge that his mattress was really not the best workspace for volatile experiments, but oh well. The mattress was thin, so it wasn’t the worst workspace either.

Spyre counted his tools. The small leather squares for packaging the compound were present; the charcoal was fine, as was the bit of sulfur. The diagrams were open and ready to guide him to success, and there were his small metal tongs to keep his movements as precise as possible—very important. But Spyre blinked, his eyebrows asking the question that no one was around to hear:

“Where’s my knife?”

As if to answer, an image of his knife sitting on the corner shelf near the fireplace flashed across Spyre’s mind. It hadn’t been on the table with everything else. He’d forgotten to grab it before he retreated to his room.

“Great.” Now he’d have to go out there and deal with the drunken antics of the overworked and ill-mannered soldiers. Yet another routine of nights such as these. The plan? Go quietly, get the knife without drawing attention, if possible—good luck with that—and withdraw. No words exchanged, no eye contact. Just get in and get out.

Spyre barely opened his door enough to accommodate himself, eyeing the room for that small glint of metal. The sun had set a while ago, leaving the room dark but for the glow of the fireplace. 

And I bet they had to light it with the flint, Spyre thought to himself with just a hint of smugness, imagining how much faster the process would soon become. 

He scanned the room, from the dark and bare walls around him to the table of inebriated men guffawing over one another’s losses, and slipped out from behind his door to slink along the wall in search of the best route to his prize. Unfortunately, the table of fools was perpendicular to the fireplace and, consequently, the wall where his knife could now be seen flickering in the dim glow.

Spyre’s shoulders fell just slightly, held aloft only by his resolve to stick to the plan and get back to his project as quickly as possible. He crept along the wall, grinning inwardly at his success in not being noticed. As far as Ryne and the other soldiers were concerned, Spyre was the wall. The prestigious soldiers, however intoxicated, were fooled. It was a small victory, but Spyre had never known a large victory to compare it to, so it was large enough to him. 

He sidestepped across the doorway and reached the corner of the room that bore the shelves, which he had installed himself. There, third shelf from the top, lay his most favored tool. While his brother would value such an instrument for its efficiency in punctuating a situation to his favor, Spyre saw something more. This tool was versatile. It was invaluable for hunting, yes, but there was so much more to it. Carving, cutting, slicing, dicing, and shaping, attacking being the least impressive of its uses. That knife played a part in every one of Spyre’s experiments, and it had never resulted in the death of another person.

Ryne would probably argue that this wasn’t something to be proud of, but Spyre begged to wholeheartedly disagree. Though he never did so outside of his own inner monologue. Ryne never allowed room for argument.

Spyre extended his hand, reaching along the wall for his favorite possession. At the sound of his brother’s voice over the rest, Spyre shot a swift glance over to the table. 

“Well boys,” Ryne’s voice strained slightly as he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his stomach full of ale and wearing a wide grin. Spyre dreaded that grin. It was never the prelude to something positive. “You’ve cleaned out my pockets this round,” Ryne continued, still grinning despite his declared loss. Spyre moved his attention to the thin, wooden cards. He was particularly interested in the fact they Ryne’s were still in his hand. The round was not yet over. Ryne was about to make another move. Spyre also took note of the winnings in the center of the table. Many items were carelessly tossed into the pile, but money was scarcely among them. Spyre’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the back of his brother’s head. Ryne’s pockets were not even approaching their limits, and he was not one to hold back. His arrogance usually motivated him to throw everything he had into the pot and watch it burn. What was he playing at now?

Ryne leaned forward and swept a clumsy hand toward his mug. The rattle of something rolling along the planks of the table disturbed the quiet, followed by the noise of impact and a bit of bouncing.

Spyre’s eyes grew as the item rolled his way. He quickly withdrew his hand and held it close to his chest, as though the thin air had burned him. 

Wood creaked as the men turned their attention toward Spyre’s dark corner of the room.

Ryne pivoted at the waist, keeping himself in place with a hand on the opposing knee and grinning so wide that his teeth glowed in the firelight while shadows played below his eyes.

  “What’s that thing? What’re you trying here, Ryne? Think you can distract us from the hand and slip a card out of your sleeve?” one of the soldiers accused his host. With good reason, his first assumption to explain the disturbance was foul play.

That’s news to you, is it? Spyre scoffed in his mind, fully sharing in the soldier’s anger. He remained in the darkest patch he could find, attempting to be one with the shadows. He glanced at the edge of the lighted area to see what had nearly compromised his cover.

  The bowl mold. Really? Spyre silently released the breath that he’d been holding, frowning at the mold like it had personally offended him.

Spyre used the thing to make bowls out of clay. It was easier to simply stick the clay in the mold and press it with the limestone ball that Spyre had carefully smoothed into a sphere himself. Throw it over a flame to harden and there you have it—a perfectly acceptable bowl. He’d been using the tool earlier to help replenish their supply since they’d been losing a lot of them to Ryne’s temper lately. It was the military’s recruiting season, after all. Spyre must have forgotten to put the mold back in the box that sat next to the bench, which Ryne was now sitting on. Keeping his devices out of sight usually kept them free of Ryne’s attention as well.

“That,” Ryne said as he bent forward to meet the eyes of his subordinates, “is one of my brother’s pet projects. It’s worthless.” 

Spyre’s jaw dropped indignantly from his spot in the shadows. Worthless? I don’t see him finding ways to replace all the things he breaks.

The others looked unimpressed and more than a little betrayed, still questioning the timing of it all, but what could they really do about it? The betrayal only remained on their faces for a fleeting moment before they realized this for themselves and settled their expressions into ones of confusion instead. Ryne was not fazed by their reactions. He seemed to be more entertained than anything. He gave a short laugh and elaborated.

“You see that thing?” Ryne pointed a thumb over his right shoulder. Spyre jolted for only a second before grabbing his knife and shrinking back into the darkness, his blade digging into his clenched fist. That hurt, but at least he hadn’t been caught spying when the men’s eyes scanned along the wall this time, instead of the floor. Spyre also followed Ryne’s gesture and noticed that he was indicating the small device that Spyre had invented to launch his kindling pellets into the fireplace from across the room. It was a simple enough idea: kick the counterweight, pulling a tightly wound string to its limit, and let go to release the pellet toward its measured target. 

Now Spyre knew the soldiers were definitely being deceived. There was nothing useful about that contraption outside without the combustible pellets. It had no valid use thus far. Of course, Ryne might not know that. He never showed much of an interest in thinking outside of the armory. The corner of Spyre’s mouth twitched upward in amusement as he waited to hear Ryne’s uneducated guess about Spyre’s latest invention.

“It’s a kitchen tool,” Ryne explained lamely. Then he reached down and retrieved the mold from the floor. “So’s this. They do the chores for you.”

He had definitely made that up. Spyre could tell. He had no idea what the pellet shooter did. He only knew about the mold because he’d been patronizing Spyre over it earlier.

“You can use it for…” Ryne stared at the ceiling, trying in vain to think on his feet.

Not your most honed skill, Spyre noted with a grin. Oh, how he wished he could doll his own piece of mind out to his brother. But he would never be that brave.

  “…Cracking eggs and…” his brother continued until his patience evaporated. “It’s useful, got it? Just place your bets.”

At the sound of the mold being harshly slammed back onto the table, the round continued, and Spyre’s jaw dropped. Had the others even realized that Ryne had gotten by without placing another bet? How many times had Ryne used his hotheadedness as a diversion from his cheating? It made Spyre sick, but, again, there was nothing he could do. One craftsman against six trained and heartless soldiers…

No. No, thank you very much.

There was nothing left for Spyre to do but accept his brother’s shameful acts and return to his untouchable corner of the house. He kept his senses alert, but managed to easily slip back into his room without receiving any attention from the others.

The door shut with a soft thud.

“A kitchen tool, sir?” a younger soldier spoke up once it was clear that Spyre was out of earshot. His usually smooth, youthful face was scrunched up in confusion. This one was new. He hadn’t yet grasped the concept of a ruse.

“It’s not a kitchen tool, you idiot,” Ryne snapped at him. The boy wisely cringed, earning a thin smile from his superior. “He hasn’t put it to good use yet, but I know a decent weapon concept when I see one.” 

“To be fair, Ryne,” a more seasoned soldier leaned forward on one arm with a smile, “do you really need an excuse? Wouldn’t it be easier if you just took it from right in front of him? Won’t he wonder where it’s gone if you take it?”

Ryne’s eyes danced in the light of the fireplace. “Easier, sure,” he replied casually as he glanced at his now winning hand. He had indeed slipped a card from his sleeve. His eyes grew dark, as though the light had never existed at all. He caught every glance and said, “But I enjoyed feeling the disappointment roll off of him when I insulted his precious toy. Wish I could’ve seen his face. Did you see it? He’s working for us now, and he can’t do a thing about it. He doesn’t even know it.” Ryne reached into the box next to his seat and dug around for a moment before revealing the real fruit of his younger brother’s labor. A fistful of sketched design plans were triumphantly brought to the table. Ryne’s shadowy gaze found its way into the soul of every man at the table, and their leader laughed, low and proud.

The others didn’t fully understand what their second-in-command was saying, but they knew how to respond to that look in his eyes. They all unleashed their most sinister grins and snickered on cue with Ryne. 

Spyre heard them laughing and forced his anger away from him. He forced himself to focus on his newest idea, ignoring the fact that they were probably laughing at more of his “useless” projects around the house. Venting his frustration in the form of a very slow exhale, Spyre set to work on carefully mixing the ingredients for the pellets.

The laughter in the main room subsided.

“Just a few more months, boys.” Ryne released a proud sigh, wiping away the foam of his latest swig of ale. “A few months and things’ll get nice and interesting for all of us.”