An attempt to re-create the Stormveil in a controlled laboratory environment resulted in abject failure twelve years and six months ago. It was found that by using crystals recovered from a crashed Mah’Kur vessel, we could approximate the Stormveil to a certain extent, but the laboratory was decimated. Furthermore, Doctor Cornelius Abraham, the proctor of the experiment promptly vanished, only to return in the same spot ten years hence, having not aged a day. 

-On the Nature of the Stormveil ‘Page 9826, Volume Eighteen’

I cursed in a rather unladylike fashion as I pushed my entire weight into the baseboard outside the fourth corridor of the Octagon. The rag in my hand dragged against the board, emitting a muffled scraping sound as I tried in vain to remove the dirt buildup. It had stained at this point; I wondered how long it had been since someone had come this way with a rag. As I bent downward and grunted, I let out a high pitched squeal as pain radiated through my ankle. I shouted in surprise as I fell over, tipping my bucket of cleaning solution and spilling it across the tile floor. I immediately became drenched in the scent of ammonia as it soaked into my dress; I stared at the ceiling and breathed roughly, inhaling the fumes and letting out a labored cough.

“By the Goddess,” I said angrily as I turned onto my side and forced myself back to my feet. 

“Are you certain you can work?” Sheena had asked me

“It’s been three weeks, Sheena,” I said rather impudently. “I feel fine.”

She had scowled at my use of her name, insisting that I referred to her as Elder Sister or First Girl. What was wrong with a name, anyway? 

I leaned against the brass handrail that ran the perimeter of The Octagon and tested my weight on the injured ankle. 

“Okay, it seems fine,” I said to no one in particular. And then the pain struck, shooting through the bone and causing an inhuman shriek to filter through my throat as I struggled to keep myself upright. It didn’t work; the sudden movement saw me slipping on the cleaning solution and rocketing toward the ground while simultaneously shooting forward, slipping across the Octagon and slamming into the wall of the fifth corridor. “Ow.”

Someone that I perceived to be a nobleman strode through the Octagon, giving me only a cursory glance before he disappeared down another hallway. It took some time before I was able to work my way to my feet again, doing my best to get away from the ever-expanding puddle on the floor. I made it to a carpeted section and tried to stand again, only to experience that sharp pain that felt more like an insult than a disability. I leaned against the wall and cried, oscillating sobs not accompanied by tears. In truth it probably sounded like a dying animal to anyone unfortunate enough to be on the other end of the hallway. I gripped the handrail, trying to drag myself along, passing a talky box which probably would have saved me, had I not been so stubborn. The last thing I wanted was Sheena rushing down the hall to save me - becoming yet another reason why I couldn’t have my own independence. I waited for a few moments, teeth gritted and back to the wall before finally working up the courage to try setting my ankle down again. 

“There, it’s fine,” I said triumphantly as I tried my weight on it. Cautiously, I took a step, then another, then another. These episodes came and went, but I had neglected to tell Sheena about it. I’d been stuck in my bunk for three weeks, staring at the same ceiling, unable to even read, apparently. Jen had come by a few times, recounting the events of her day and I’d never felt more jealous at someone for having the opportunity to clean a latrine. No, I was not going back to that bed. I continued down the hall for a moment, then turned to return to the Octagon where I could clean up my mess. Then the pain came again, knives shooting through my ankle, forcing another scream from my throat as I tumbled over and slammed into the floor. 

My next scream was one of pure rage; I slammed my fist into the ground, prompting even more pain but this time through my arm. I pounded the floor again, flipping over onto my back, and to my horror, seeing a man standing over me.

“Lyra, are you quite alright?” The man asked.

“My Lord!” I said without thinking as I tried to push myself to my feet. “I apologize, I-”

“Lyra, I am no ‘Lord’,” The man said with annoyance. “Do you not recognize me? I drew up your contract the night of the Summit, the contract that renounced your noble title.”

Of course. Keniel Rosas. The scribe. He helped me to my feet and I could see him clearly now; a man in his forties perhaps, graying hair at his sideburns, the blue cord of the scribes hanging at his shoulder. Not a noble, but close enough. 

“I’m sorry,” I breathed heavily. “It’s just that-”

“Your ankle,” He said. “Yes, I heard. Seems folly to be walking about on it.”

“I like to be useful, I guess,” I said, feeling rather foolish.

“So useful that you’re flopping about the corridor like a fish out of water?” He shook his head. “Come then, let us clean you up.”

“That isn’t necessary sir,” I said, trying to pull away from him as he gripped my arm to keep me upright.

“What’s unnecessary, Lyra, is you being so eager to live a life of servitude that you hobble around making a mess of things. Servants are given so few breaks, try taking advantage when they’re offered.”

I didn’t say much, other than a few moans and the sound of my feet stumbling occasionally as he took me into what I’d perceived to be an office, but when we entered, I saw it was much more than that. The room was large; not the size of the ParDar field, but perhaps half that size. Much of it was occupied with large wooden desks, the rest with machinery that dominated the ambiance of the space with the clicking and grinding of gears and the swish of paper as it passed over steel rollers. I swiveled my head, observing the complexity of the room that we had just entered; it was disorganized at least to my eyes with stacks of paper loosely sitting on the desks, quills in ink wells, stamps, pens, leather-bound books of varying colors piled unevenly atop one another. 

“What is this place?” I asked in absolute wonder as Keniel fingered through a stack of parchment, licking his finger once to get a better grip on the pages. 

“You cannot tell me, with conviction, that you have never seen a scribery,” He cast me an annoyed look. “What do nobles do all day in Axock?”

“I can’t remember,” I answered honestly. I had a cursory knowledge of my life there but something was wrong; the visual images were fading fast, leaving me with what felt more like the memory of a novel. “What is this?”

Keniel looked at the machine I’d indicated, right in front of me.

“A typewriter,” He said offhandedly. “Surely you know of them.”

“How…how does it work?” I was fascinated by the machine; the sleek black exterior, the stained white keys, a shiny metal handle on the right hand side. It was beautiful. 

“Well, Lyra,” He said impatiently. “You put the paper in, you press the keys, words come out. Simple machine, if you want to get into something more complex, perhaps the printing press or the monogrammer. 

“Can…can you show me?” I asked eagerly as I leaned forward in the chair and was rewarded by a searing pain assaulting my ankle again. 

“Very well,” He sighed and snatched a blank sheet of paper, feeding it through the machine and pushing what appeared to be a long cylinder across until it clicked into place. “You see the keys there? You simply type whatever you wish to put on the paper, one letter at a time.”

I froze as I stared down at the keys, each one white and painted with an unfamiliar symbol. Timidly, I ran my fingers over the keys and then frowned.

“This is embarrassing, Kenial,” I said. “I…well, I’ve found that I cannot read, or write.”

“That’s a laugh,” Keniel said, walking away and returning to his stack of papers. “Lord Micah Lavoric of Axock didn’t know how to read. No, wait, that oughtn’t be that surprising. Humorous if you delve too deep into it.”

“I beg your pardon sir, but I don’t think it all that funny.”

“I know not what to tell you, Lyra,” He said evenly, snatching a piece of paper and stuffing it into a binder. “People find many things funny. I for one, find that the evil tyrant of Axock not teaching his only son to read, patently hilarious. Tell me, was your upbringing meant as an elaborate joke?”

I ignored the insult and pressed down on one of the white keys, frowning as nothing happened. I pressed down a little harder and noticed the little lever near the front of the device beginning to move. Finally, I pushed it hard enough that it slammed against the sheet of paper, leaving a small symbol in green ink. I cocked my head, then tried another.

“It’s just that…when I write, it comes out all jumbled,” I shrugged. “No one can read it but me.”

“Jumbled? Well then,” He walked over to me, a sheet of paper and quill in hand. “Let us see.”

I looked at the paper a bit nervously, the silence between us filled by the clanking of machines and the perpetual blast of the air ducts above which barely managed to stave off the heat. 

“What…should I write?” I asked him, rolling the quill in my hands and looking nervously at the page.

“Write whatever you wish, I suppose,” He shrugged. “Let us see this ‘jumbled’ writing of yours. 

I shrugged wrote ‘Whatever you Wish’ in the center of the paper, the quill dragged against the parchment, leaving behind lines of green ink as I formed the words - or at least as I thought I formed the words. I sighed heavily as I realized that my words were not coming out correctly. I had been trying for weeks, and still I could only write nonsensical symbols. Well, nonsensical to everyone else - they made perfect sense to me. 

“Write something else,” Keniel suggested, bending over and leaning against the desk. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck now; he had grown more interested and watched with great interest as I scrawled ‘Something else’ onto the sheet. “Try writing out an entire sentence, say…’The King will Sing and Eat Under the Eaves’.”

“That’s a tad silly,” I glance at him, but he pointed, indicating the paper. I turned and took a deep breath, placing the quill against the paper and scratching out the sentence. He finally took the paper from the desk and held it out in front of him. He stepped away from the desk, leaving me to peck at keys on the typewriter as he paced the room, studying the page. As I pecked out symbols, I began to forget about the pain in my ankle and eventually it faded entirely. Finally, he returned with another sheet of blank paper.

“Lyra,” He said. “Would you write the Letragraph for me?” 

“The…what?” I looked up at him, horribly confused. 

“The Letragraph,” He said. “Write down all of the letters that you could use to make a sentence. Start at the beginning, wherever that may be.”

“You are saying that…you wish me to write you a sheet of nonsense?” It was almost laughable.

“If you would not mind, yes,” Kenial said, a serious expression painting his face as I turned my head to regard him. “Humor me, please.”

 I bit my lip and placed the quill against the upper left hand corner of the paper. 

“A question,” He said, prompting me to stop writing. “you start your writing from the top corner?”

“I…of course,” I said. “Where else would one begin writing?”

“Interesting. Do go on,” He waved his hand as I began to scratch the letters. “Wait, the symbols, do they have iterations?” 

“Iterations?”

“The symbols in the common tongue are separated into four types, we call them iterations. Iteration one is the largest, used at the beginning of a sentence, iteration two is every symbol falling. Third and fourth are for emphasis. So, imagine, you are writing the symbol for ‘grass’. If you wish to put emphasis, you would draw a line from the top corner, to the bottom, and then cross the line in the center. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I think so,” I nodded. Beside the first symbol, I wrote a different symbol that was a bit smaller and slightly different; it was round rather than angular.

“And the third and fourth?” 

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Perhaps there are only two.”

“Very well, carry on.”

It took me perhaps five minutes to scrawl the Letragraph as I knew and understood it onto the sheet of paper. Finally, he took it from me and held it up to the light.

“Thank you, Lyra,” He said. “I will call one of your people to retrieve you.”

“I think I can walk,” I offered. “Tis not that far to the servant’s quarters.”

“I would just as rather you not,” Keniel said as he stepped over to a talky box behind us. “I would not be held responsible for Sheena’s beloved sister breaking the entirety of her face on the floor of the Octogon.”

“‘Beloved’?” I repeated the word back, skeptically. Kenial chuckled as he flipped a few switches on the talky and said a few words into the handset.

“Whether you choose to accept it or not,” Keniel said. “That woman loves you in a very sisterly way. Which, by all accounts, is a compliment of the highest order given her background and her discerning nature.”

“What of the symbols?” I asked him, indicating the sheet, now folded in his hand. He gave it a quick glance and shrugged.

“Nonsense, as far as I can see,” He told me. My heart sank; perhaps I had been expecting something more. 

“Sir,” I said. “Might you teach me to write? I feel it would be of great embarassment to my sister if I were truly unable to write.”

Keniel pursed his lips, considering. “Yes, Lyra, I suppose I can do that. Come to me at the fourteenth stroke each Tuesday.”

“I will try,” I promised him.

“Be it on you if you don’t,” He shrugged. 

“Sir,” I said. “Might you teach me to operate the machinery as well? I…”

“The machinery?” He frowned and looked over to the printing presses, still puttering away, producing stacks of paper covered in the strange common script. “Why?”

“All I know is service, sir,” I said hesitantly. “I wish…I would like to be more.” 

“And it seems good to your mind that you should be a scribe?” He raised an eyebrow at me. “A girl who cannot read, nor write?”

“I can learn, sir!” I promised, attempting to rise to my feet but experiencing a searing pain instead, which drove me back down into the wooden chair; casters clanking against the floor as I did.

“We will see,” He said. “I will make no promises, Lyra. And, even if I can teach you the basics, a true scribe must attend an accredited institution that instructs in Letragraphy, to start. 

“What if I could?” I perked up, the possibilities running rampant through my mind. Keniel sighed.

“Then,” He said. “I would be very surprised indeed. Your friend is here.”

I looked to my left to see Jen standing in the door, hands on her hips, white-blonde hair disheveled. I noted the stain marring the front of her uniform; clearly she had been in the middle of something.

“Jen!” I said happily, and then dialed it back a touch as she stomped toward me. Wordlessly, she grabbed the back of the chair I sat in and rolled it on its casters, toward the door and out into the hallway.

“You’ll bring that back then?” Kenial called after us as she pushed me down the hall.

“You left a right mess in the Octogan,” Jen scolded me as her pushing became faster and faster. The casters squeaked as we went. “You oughtn’t have returned to work if you weren’t ready. Who does it help?”

“Sorry,” I offered sheepishly. “I just-”

“Sheena’ll be fit to be tied when she finds out,” Jen turned a corner and the chair lurched, nearly knocking off as we passed a group of male servants who gave us a strange look. 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that…I did not wish to be useless.”

“So instead you lied to her,” Jen said accusingly. “She won’t suffer a liar, there’ll be punishment, to be sure.”

I sighed and laid back as Jen finally wheeled me to the door of the temporary servant’s quarters and helped me to my bunk.

“You ought get better before the month is out,” She told me. “Another summit has been called, by the High Lady.”

“Another?” I looked at her in surprise. “What on Fadraiye could that mean?”

“Word tells that the Lord Regent will be in attendance, among others,” She nodded. “seems concern about Axock is growing. They’ve got soldiers, more than anyone elsewise, and now there’s the clockwork men.”

“Clockwork men?!” I gasped, trying to sit up, only top be stopped by Sheena placing a hand against my chest and pushing me back to the bed. 

“Graorhiel is nervous, seeing as they’re right snug on the border, supposedly there’s ‘training exercises’ near the dead zone, Lady Meighan is worried that her palace will go to waste once the clockwork men come through and have their way.”

“And a summit will stop that?” I asked, my eyes wide. 

“Would,” She nodded. “that a royal decree forces em’ to.”

“That’s quite enough, Jen,” Sheena’s voice cut through our conversation like a serrated knife as she stormed over to my bunk. “Lyra, you told me you were ready to return to work.”

“I thought I was,” I said apologetically.

“You will lay in that bunk for another week,” She ordered. “Elsewise, if I catch you up and walking, I’ll tether you to the bunk in my office, are my words clear to you?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling defeated.

“Yes?”

“Yes Elder Sister,” I sighed, getting more than a little tired of being forced to use the honorifics. Jen giggled quietly, only to stop when she recieved a sharp glance from Sheena.

“Jenisa, you are removed from your work assignment,” Sheena snapped.

“First Girl?” Jen frowned and shook her head. “But I-”

“You will remain here, at her bedside. You will ensure she does not leave this bunk. Furthermore, you will read to her!”

“What? Read to her? Stories, First Girl?”

Sheena walked to my locker and pulled open the door. She pulled out the blue volume that she had handed to me earlier, in the hospital wing. 

“You will read this to her,” Sheena said, almost triumphantly. “Teach her of Klocby familial traditions, especially the punishments for untruths! Count yourself lucky, Lyra, that you are bound to that bed. I would punish you severely otherwise.”

“I’m sorry, thank you, Elder Sister,” I sighed. 

“Read the book,” Sheena pointed to it aggressively just as she turned and stormed out of the servant’s quarters.

“I suppose we ought do this,” Jen sighed as she opened the book. “We’ll start at the beginning…”