Eldritch Guidance

Deep underground, in a chamber lined with sound-dampening stone and humming aetheric insulation, a lone teleportation circle lay in wait. It was a masterwork of engineering, its lines etched with silver, woven into the bedrock floor. Integrated around its perimeter were several large, flawless crystals, their purpose twofold: to amplify the circle’s performance to near precision, and to generate a potent dampening field that would cloak its activity from any external scrying or detection. It was the signature work of an infamous enchantress, a tool built for discretion as much as travel.

With no fanfare and a sound like a muted thunderclap contained within a glass jar, the air inside the circle tore open in a flash of actinic blue light. Where there had been empty space, Cid and Scarlett now stood, stumbling as the solid ground rematerialized beneath their feet.

Both doubled over, hands on their knees, breathing in ragged, shuddering gulps. The air in the chamber was cool and stale, but they drank it in like water.

Cid gagged, a violent, convulsive heave that brought bitter bile to the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, his face pale and clammy.

Cid: “Ugh… this is only my second time using one of these things. Why does this teleportation make me feel like my guts are in a blender? The last time… it wasn’t like this.”

Scarlett, looking a shade of green herself, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Scarlett: “Part of the process for a stable, high-precision teleportation circle,” she managed between breaths, “requires a synchronous stabilization array on the receiving end. Last time you used a circle you didn’t have that. The stabilization field prevents spatial shearing—stops you from arriving fused with a wall or missing a limb. The trade-off is that it plays havoc with the inner ear and the vestibular system. Extreme nausea is the price of a safe arrival.”

Cid: “Why didn’t we just ask Fenny to get us here, then?” Cid groaned, straightening up slowly as the world stopped spinning quite so violently. “His method didn’t turn my stomach inside out.”

Scarlett’s breathing evened out, the color returning to her cheeks. She stood to her full height, her composure snapping back into place like a mask. She fixed Cid with a sharp look.

Scarlett: “You cannot, and should not, rely on Fenny for everything. His ability to teleport is not normal teleportation. It’s one of a kind, he’s the only one in the world that can do that. It has none of the limits of any known teleportation magic. But, that makes his time a finite resource, and he has more claimants on that than there are hours in the day. Besides…” Her voice dropped, taking on a harder edge. “He reports directly to Yin. And I prefer that the bitch not be apprised of my movements or my presence here. Not yet.”

Before Cid could respond, the heavy iron door to the chamber swung inward with a long, protesting creak. Framed in the doorway was Luke Vaga. He held a compact, brutish-looking pistol in a two-handed grip, its barrel sweeping the room with professional caution. His eyes behind a pair of smudged goggles, darted from shadow to corner before landing on Scarlett.

The tension drained from his posture. He lowered the weapon.

Luke: “Oh. It’s you, Scarlett,” he said, his voice a flat, uninflected monotone that matched the sterile, tool-lined walls of his workshop visible behind him. “I was concerned someone had managed to hijack a node on the teleportation network for a hostile incursion. A modicum of warning would have been appreciated.”

Scarlett: “Yeah… I don' t care. Let's get down to business.” she said as he walked past Vaga into his workshop with Cid tentatively following behind her.

After leaving the humming silence of the teleportation chamber, Vaga led them through the labyrinthine expanse of his underground workshop. It was not merely a single room but a subterranean factory, a cathedral of industry buried beneath tons of earth and stone. The air thrummed with the latent energy of dormant machinery and smelled of ozone, cold metal, and machine oil. Massive, skeletal frames of unfinished constructs loomed in the shadows, illuminated by the cold, unwavering glow of aether-lamps. Workbenches groaned under the weight of intricate clockwork components, delicate arcane arrays etched on brass plates, and barrels of gleaming, unidentifiable alloys. Conveyor belts, currently still, snaked through the space like metallic rivers. Scarlett had spoken of Vaga's private sanctum with Cid—the engine room where the genius inventor translated his visions into reality.

Eventually, they reached a heavy freight elevator that carried them upward with a soft hum. The doors opened not onto another industrial space, but into the sterile quiet of a vast, empty warehouse, its high shelves stocked with unmarked crates. Vaga led them to a side door, and they stepped outside.

The contrast was jarring. They were greeted by a sprawling, meticulously maintained landscape of emerald green—manicured lawns, ornamental gardens, and serene groves of trees stretching toward the horizon. Dominating the view was a giant mansion of pale stone and glass, the Vaga estate. It was a portrait of serene, isolated wealth.

As they walked the gravel path toward the main house, Cid's sense of unease grew. The estate was unnervingly silent. There were no gardeners tending the immaculate hedges, no maids airing linens at the windows, no distant sounds of kitchen staff. A place of such scale and opulence should have teemed with servants to maintain itself. Yet it felt empty, like Vaga was the only person here.

Vaga ushered them inside through a grand, unlocked door into a marbled foyer that echoed with their footsteps. The silence within was even deeper, broken only by the faint, rhythmic ticking of a giant clock somewhere in the house's depths.

They were guided into an opulent lounge, a room of deep carpets, dark wood, and walls lined with books that looked untouched. Plush couches were arranged around a low table of polished obsidian. Cid and Scarlett sank into one couch, the cushions swallowing them with a soft sigh. Luke Vaga settled into an armchair directly opposite, his posture as rigid and unreadable as ever.

He steepled his fingers, his expressionless eyes fixed on them. The only sound was the distant, persistent tick of the clock. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice a flat, unmodulated drone in the hollow room.

Luke: “Now then. What has brought you to my… quiet home?”

The entire moment felt surreal to Cid. He was sitting in the private lounge of Luke Vaga. The name was legendary at the Ember Gear College. Students practically worshipped him; his revolutionary aetheric carburetors were required study, his designs for variable-geometry limbs were dissected in advanced seminars, and his company's latest luxury vehicles were the subject of envy. To be in the same room as the reclusive genius felt less like a meeting and more like an audience.

Scarlett, however, seemed utterly unimpressed. She twisted her lips, her face cycling through a complicated series of expressions—annoyance, impatience, a flicker of disgust—before settling into her customary mask of arrogant disdain.

Scarlett: "Why else would I be here, other than I need your help with something?" she said, her tone implying the request was a personal inconvenience to them both.

Luke: "Well, that is to be expected," Vaga replied, his voice devoid of inflection. His gaze, as flat and assessing as a camera lens, shifted to Cid. "Ah. We have not been properly introduced. I am Luke Vaga, CEO and owner of Vaga Industries, and a fellow patron of John Li."

Cid: "I'm Cid Cook. Also a patron of John, and...well, no one particularly special," Cid said, instinctively standing and reaching out a hand, falling back on the ingrained politeness of his old life.

Before their hands could meet, Scarlett's own shot out like a viper, delivering a sharp, stinging slap to the back of Cid's hand.

Cid: "Ow!" he yelped, jerking his arm back and shaking it vigorously to dispel the sudden, sharp pain.

Scarlett: "Don't touch him," she snapped, her glare icy. "Vaga is disgusting."

Luke: "That is a bit harsh, Scarlett," he replied, unruffled. "I cannot control my current nature."

Scarlett: "I don't care. You're disgusting."

Cid looked back and forth between them, his curiosity now thoroughly piqued, warring with a growing sense of concern. If someone as unflappably pragmatic and morally flexible as Scarlett was this viscerally repulsed, what did that say about Luke Vaga? He decided, for the moment, to keep his hands firmly to himself.

Luke: "Well," he continued, as if the brief interlude hadn't occurred, "back to business. You posited that your only reason for being here was to request my help. However, I also recall an outstanding agreement regarding the enchantment of several high-stability containment crystals. I had partially assumed your visit was to fulfill that obligation."

Scarlett made a sound of pure exasperation. She reached into the seemingly empty air beside her—her special ring glowing—and withdrew a fist-sized crystal. It pulsed with a deep, internal crimson light, its surface covered in impossibly fine, glowing sigils. Without ceremony, she tossed it underhand toward Vaga.

He lunged forward with an uncharacteristic burst of panic, snatching the crystal from the air mere inches before it would have struck the obsidian tabletop between them. He cradled it as if it were a live grenade, his usually expressionless face taut with tension.

Scarlett: "There," Alexandrea said, sounding bored. "I made it while I was babysitting my disciple. To your exact, insane specifications. It took me an absurd amount of time to get the calculations to align without causing a localized collapse."

Luke: "Good," he said, carefully placing the crystal on a velvet-lined tray he produced from a drawer. "I will need to run diagnostics, but if it matches specification, this should suffice for the foreseeable future."

Scarlett: "Don't get used to it. I'm not your on-call enchanter," she retorted. She reached back into her pocket space and pulled out a slim, technical booklet filled with dense schematics and material lists. She slid it across the table toward him. "Now, my project. I require a series of very specific, custom-fabricated materials."

Vaga accepted the booklet. He paged through the dense schematics, his eyes scanning the complex diagrams and material specifications without a flicker of reaction. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft rustle of paper.

Luke: “These are articulated components for golem assembly,” he stated, his voice flat, stating a fact rather than asking a question.

Scarlett: “Yup,” Scarlett confirmed, leaning back in her chair. “And you’re probably the best machinist and fabricator I know who can handle the tolerances and doesn’t ask inconvenient questions.”

Luke: “Your assessment is likely correct,” he conceded, still flipping pages. “The volume is substantial, but I have a significant portion of the standardized components in inventory. However, several items listed here are non-standard or require custom alloys. Others will need to be fabricated from scratch.”

Scarlett: “Does this mean you cannot proceed?”

Luke: “I did not say that,” he replied, his tone unchanging. “I am indicating a delay. Procuring and fabricating these items will require time. Furthermore, I assume you wish for all pieces to be adjusted and test-fitted to ensure seamless integration upon final assembly?”

Scarlett: “Obviously. And I want the molds for all these parts as well.” she said, as if it were the most basic of requests.

Luke: “Then the timeframe extends further. I cannot provide an exact completion date, but you should anticipate a wait of several weeks, at minimum.”

Scarlett’s jaw tightened. She was a woman of action, and the idea of her Project Fury grinding to a halt was anathema.

Scarlett: “Can you at least provide the components you do have? I could begin preliminary framework assembly while you fabricate the remainder.”

Luke: “If you require my guarantee of a perfect final fit, then no. The adjustment phase is integral. Unless you intend to perform the precision machining and harmonic alignment yourself?” He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to his head. “No offense intended. You are an exceptional enchanter and aetheric programmer. A machinist, you are not. It would take you longer to achieve the necessary tolerances than it will take me to complete the entire order.”

Scarlett fell silent, her mind racing through the implications. Her choices were stark: wait for Vaga’s perfected parts, or return to the unstable, explosive dead-ends of the organic Fury prototypes. Her pragmatism won out, but the forced idleness chafed. She was already mentally cataloging potential side-contracts—discreet jobs that could funnel more capital into her project while she waited.

Scarlett: “Fine,” she said at last, the word clipped. “That’s acceptable.”

Luke: “Excellent,” Vaga said, placing the booklet neatly on the table. “As I am undertaking a significant commission for you, perhaps you could reciprocate with a smaller task during my fabrication period.”

Scarlett: “No,” she said flatly.

Luke: “Come now, Scarlett. Our relationship has been mutually beneficial. I even provided instrumental aid in young Cid’s recent… extraction.”

Cid: “Oh, were you there?” he asked, genuinely curious. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember. I was unconscious for most of it.”

Scarlett: “He was not there,” Scarlett cut in, her annoyance bubbling to the surface. “His contribution was purely logistical, and minimal at that.”

Luke: “I provided the localized radio dampening field generator,” Vaga defended, his monotone taking on a hint of pride. “It successfully scrambled all short-range communication frequencies, preventing your pursuers from coordinating. I am certain it was a decisive factor.”

Scarlett: “It was helpful,” she admitted. “The problem isn’t your inventions. The problem is that you report directly to Yin. I know you briefed her on our collaboration. It allowed her to ambush me with the information during the last meeting. She made me look unprepared.”

Luke: “I had little choice. She is, technically, my boss. When she requests operational intelligence, I comply. Besides, concealment was pointless. Her information network had already flagged our association.”

Scarlett: “That damned network,” Scarlett muttered. “Useful when I need a dossier, infuriating when it’s used against me.”

Luke: “Regardless, we are ostensibly allies within the same organization. Assisting me ultimately strengthens our collective position.”

Scarlett let out a long, exasperated sigh.

Scarlett: “Fine. I’ll listen. But if it’s some tedious corporate espionage or a political wetwork job, forget it. I have my own jobs from the Unseen Hand to fulfill.”

Luke: “Do not worry. It should be well within your particular… skill set,” Vaga said, a phrase that sounded more ominous than reassuring.

Cid: “Um, quick question before we get into that,” he interjected, raising a hand tentatively. Both sets of eyes turned to him. “I thought you were the owner of Vaga Industries? But you just said Yin is your boss. Is that a secret?”

Luke: “It is an open secret, and a legally structured one,” Vaga explained, steepling his fingers. “When I founded Vaga Industries, I required significant seed capital. No one within our circle possesses greater liquidity than Yin. However, funneling such a sum to an unknown inventor would raise scrutiny. Therefore, a corporate structure was established. Publicly, I own thirty percent of the company. Yin owns another thirty percent through various holding trusts. The remaining forty percent is publicly traded, providing liquidity and a veneer of normalcy. Privately, our shares act as a single bloc, giving us de facto sixty percent control.” He paused, his gaze returning to Scarlett. “Incidentally, this corporate nuance is directly related to the favor I require.”

Scarlett pinched the bridge of her nose, a gesture of profound fatigue.

Scarlett: “Just spit it out, Vaga. What do you want?”

Luke: “I want you to take care of someone,” he stated, the clinical phrase hanging in the quiet room. “Specifically, an individual attempting a hostile takeover of my company.”

Scarlett raised an eyebrow.

Scarlett: “Didn’t you just explained you and Yin control sixty percent? How is a takeover even possible?”

Luke: “Because they are unaware of our alliance. They do not know that neither Yin nor I will ever relinquish our shares. That ignorance is what makes them bold. They believe I am a naive inventor distracted by his toys, and that Yin is a distant, disinterested investor. They think I haven’t noticed their maneuvers, but the Nighthound information network, while less omniscient outside of Graheel, is still formidable.”

Scarlett: “More likely,” she countered with a dismissive wave, “this person simply went to Yin directly and tried to buy her out. You don’t need a spy network for that; you just need audacity and poor judgment.”

Vaga paused for a moment before speaking.

Luke: “Correct. That was the initial overture. What the network subsequently uncovered, which he did not reveal in his communications with Yin, was that this individual has been systematically sabotaging my manufacturing operations and supply chains. The goal is to depress company performance and stock value, creating panic to pressure Yin into selling.”

Scarlett: “Which won’t work, because she’ll never sell,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Luke: “Correct again. However, these ‘disruptions’ are not merely financial. They are delaying the production and shipment of specialized weapons and supplies I am secretly funneling to Gix to support Anya’s war effort. Every delayed shipment has a tangible cost in lives and territory on the front lines.”

Scarlett’s posture shifted from bored to focused.

Scarlett: “I see… The solution is straightforward. Who is it, and where do I find them?”

Luke: “Lord Klavis Van Yigso the Third. A minor aristocrat with major ambitions, residing in the Golgotta capital, Cordova.”

Scarlett: “Fine. He’ll be dead before the end of the week,” Alexandrea declared, rising from her seat as if the matter were already settled.

Cid felt a jolt of cold shock. He had taken lives, but always in the heat of defense or against foes he knew to be monstrous. This casual, premeditated discussion of murder, framed as a simple business transaction, turned his stomach. They were condemning a man based on a one-sided account. Couldn’t they expose him? Ruin him financially? Apply pressure?

“There has to be another way,” he thought, his mind racing. “I know Scarlett says I need to be tougher, but there’s a chasm between being ruthless and being an assassin.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Vaga spoke first.

Luke: “Wait. Before you proceed, I require a specific methodology, different from your usual… flair,” Vaga called out.

Scarlett sighed heavily and sank back into the couch, her expression one of profound irritation.

Scarlett: “What now?”

Luke: “When you eliminate a target using your pyromancy, there is a significant degree of… collateral damage. It tends to be loud and visually distinctive.”

Scarlett: “So? It’s not like you’re footing the bill for the repairs,” she retorted.

Luke: “The issue is not cost, it’s scrutiny. Klavis is a noble. His death by obvious, spectacular violence would trigger an immediate and intense investigation. While there are enough layers between us to avoid direct suspicion, the ensuing political and legal storm would create immense operational headaches for both myself and Yin, diverting resources and attention at a critical time.”

Scarlett crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Fine. A quieter death, then. Poison. A staged accident.”

Luke: “Precisely.” his gaze slid from Scarlett to Cid. “Which is why I am proposing a different operative. I have heard you acquired a particular ability from John—one that allows you to orchestrate fatalities that appear to be pure, tragic coincidence.”

Cid’s eyes widened.

Cid: “You want me to kill him?!”

Luke: “Yes. If Lord Klavis chokes on a grape, suffers a sudden aneurysm, or takes a fatal tumble down his own staircase, the authorities will file a report and move on. There will be no manhunt, no forensic teams scouring for magical residue…” He glanced pointedly at Scarlett. “…no need to explain why half his estate is a glassy crater.”

Scarlett merely shrugged, utterly unconcerned by the implicit criticism of her methods.

Cid: “But it’s not that simple,” he protested, his voice tight. “To calculate the chain of cause and effect with the Book of Grand Design, I need vast amounts of information—specifics about the person, the environment, their routines. It took me a week of research on the University grounds to set up the conditions to eliminate that necromancer.”

Luke: “A trivial obstacle,” he dismissed. “Comprehensive dossiers on figures like Klavis are easily acquired. I can provide you with his schedule, architectural plans of his estate, dietary habits—likely even his blood type, if that would assist your calculations.”

Cid: “But…” Cook’s voice wavered, the moral ground feeling slippery beneath him. “…why does it have to be killing? Can’t we just… stop him another way?”

Scarlett: “Really, Cid?” she cut in, her tone sharp with frustration. “After everything that just happened to you—the attempted kidnapping, being betrayed, nearly becoming a permanent statue—you’re still trying to moralize about some pampered noble who’s actively getting people killed for profit?”

Cid: “We don’t know that for sure!” he argued, a desperate edge in his voice.

Luke: “Cid,” he interjected, his flat tone somehow carrying more weight than Scarlett’s anger. “If you have a moral objection, I will respect it. But allow me to clarify the nature of the target. The ‘disruptions’ I mentioned are not boardroom maneuvers. They have involved sabotaged machinery, resulting in the maiming of three factory workers. A rigged transport vehicle failed, leading to two deaths. Klavis views these people as expendable collateral. He is driven by avarice and possesses a pathological lack of empathy. He will continue to cause suffering until he achieves his goal or is stopped.” Vaga leaned forward slightly. “Review the file. Then decide if you can participate. The choice will be yours.”

Cid nodded slowly, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a heavy, conflicted weight. He felt he had disappointed Scarlett. He did carry a deep-seated anger, a capacity for violence he’d been forced to acknowledge. But he feared that crossing this particular line—moving from killing in defense and need to killing for convenience—would change something fundamental within him, a compromise from which there might be no return.

He would later receive the dossier on Lord Klavis Van Yigso III. The pages would detail many terrible things the noble had done. In that moment, holding the evidence of the man’s true nature, Cid’s moral quandary would not disappear, but it would twist into a darker, more complicated shape, forcing him to confront the grim arithmetic of the world he was now bound to.