The Constructor

1

RODRIK

Rodrik straightened with a wince, the familiar pinch in his spine flaring up again. He really ought to get a cushion for that stool. Or admit he was getting old.

He sifted through his tray of brushes and selected one with long, thin bristles. After dipping it in black paint, he leaned forward and resumed the bold, swirling pattern along the Construct’s muzzle. The black-on-white design, elegant and sharp, gave the horse a regal edge.

Satisfied with the muzzle, he shifted his attention to the eyes of the horse. With a flourish, he mirrored the stylized eyeliner favored by the more fashionable wizards in Limbus. Delicate and expressive.

The brush hovered, forgotten in his hand. He sat back to take it all in. A long sigh left his lungs as he stood and stretched. A pop sounded in the air when he twisted and he grimaced. He circled the Construct, inspecting it from all angles. Yak-hair mane and tail braided with black ribbon, iron hooves framed with matching fur, and a bone-white body that reflected the lantern’s light. He gave one of the ribbons a satisfied tug.

His best one yet. Though he’d said that about the last one. And the one before that.

He grunted in approval. Nothing wrong with admiring one’s own creation.

Constructing the caravan mounts was easily his favorite work. Monte Rathe, the caravan master, appreciated unnecessary extravagance and Rodrik was only too happy to comply. Most of his commissions were on the practical side: prosthetics, everyday tools, and trackers made for the Tetrads. He could make a tracker in his sleep. It was good work and it was good money. But it was nice to make something more fantastical now and then.

Maybe he’d Construct a stag next time. Or a lynx. An entire caravan of non-horses could be fun. But he had plenty of time for planning. The caravan wouldn’t return for another few months.

He sealed his paint vials and cleaned his brushes. The moment he glanced up at the clock, a tinkling chime announced a visitor to his shop, a cluster of bells he’d strung up near the front door. He smiled to himself. Well, at least this customer had come up with something fantastical for him.

He wiped his hands and went out into the front room, offering the young noblewoman at the counter a small bow.

“Good evening, Lady Saran.”

“Hello, Master Tempest,” the slight woman said, clasping her hands in front of her. “Is it done?”

Rodrik retrieved a small red velvet pouch from behind the counter. From within the pouch he produced a glittering golden sphere and handed it to her. It was no bigger than her palm.

Saran’s face bloomed into a wide smile. She lifted the sphere to admire it, turning it to catch the light.

“Show me how it works.”

He placed the tiny Construct on the countertop and pointed at a flat ruby embedded in its surface.

“Press it,” he said.

She did as instructed. A faint click-whirr arose and the sphere unfolded. Stubby gold legs extended one by one, followed by a long pointed snout and round black eyes, a pair of black pearls. Rows and rows of tiny spines unfurled along its back.

“A hedgehog!” Lady Saran gasped.

The metallic creature gave a grating chirp as it waddled across the desk. Its stubby legs scritched against the wood, then it somersaulted with mechanical precision. Saran’s laugh burst out, bright and childlike, and she clapped her hands.

“Oh, how delightful,” said Saran. “You’ve outdone yourself, Master Tempest. Lana’s going to love it.”

He nodded and retrieved his ledger, feeling his ears begin to warm. Her laughter rang out again, light and warm, as she watched the Construct skitter around. He managed a smile of his own, but it somehow felt like a lie. He remembered when he used to build things just to see someone else’s joy, when that had been enough for him.

“How do I close it?” She asked.

“Press the ruby again,” said Rodrik, flipping through the ledger to find Saran’s entry.

“Sleep, little one,” she murmured and poked gently at the ruby. The hedgehog folded itself back up into a golden ball. “What do I owe you?”

Rodrik checked the ledger. “You’ve paid me fifteen already. Another ten should do it.”

Lady Saran dug through her pouch and handed him ten platinum coins stamped with spirals. Rodrik returned the hedgehog to its pouch, pulled the drawstrings tight, and handed it to her along with instructions on how to care for it.

“Thank you, Master Tempest,” she said. “You’ve made one little mage very happy, I assure you.”

Rodrik thanked her and saw her out, then tossed the coins into a sturdy lockbox. He wished he could be there when Lana saw the hedgehog for the first time. He remembered Lady Saran’s daughter well. She’d begun studying magic at the Limbus Spire a full year ago. The hedgehog was a gift to celebrate the end of her first year. Sweet girl, Lana. Just like her mother.

Now, to finish the horse. Rodrik unhooked a set of keys from his belt and unlocked a small room tucked in the back of his shop. His supply room, where he kept all of his gemstones and most valuable materials. Along one wall was a shelf lined with drawers. He opened one of them and retrieved a long flat piece of obsidian cut in the shape of a star.

Back in his workshop, he approached the horse’s head and steadied himself with a deep, cleansing breath. He reached inward, tugging on the central weave where his magic lay dormant and ready, drawing a thread of it to the surface. Guiding the thread through his arm, holding the magic at his fingertips, he flattened the star to the horse’s muzzle. Obsidian vibrated against steel.

With the thread of magic plucked from his core, Rodrik stitched the star in place. When he lifted his hand, the obsidian remained behind.

The Construct flared to life, fueled by Rodrik’s gifted thread. The horse tossed its head and stamped an iron hoof into the floor with a ringing clang, like a hammer striking an anvil. Glossy black eyes stared, awaiting a command.

“Come.” Rodrik walked across the room and the horse clopped along behind him. He led it into the back of his workshop.

“Stay,” he said. And the horse stayed put, flicking its ears contentedly.

Once the paint had sufficient time to dry, this Construct would join the others out in the stable where they would await their turn to join the caravan.

He cleaned and tidied his workshop, meticulously putting everything back in its rightful place. Then he locked everything up and walked out into the evening air, shrugging into a thick dark coat and drawing it tight against the early autumn breeze.

* * *

The Moonlace Cup Tavern was lively at this time of night, its brightly lit interior contrasting with the darkness outside. Rodrik sat alone near the hearth at his usual table.

Dena, the server, greeted him by name and set down a plate piled high with roasted quail and potatoes, a tangle of wilted greens he couldn’t name, and a rosemary-crusted bun still steaming in the center.

He ate in silence, letting the warmth of the food ground him. Firelight danced across the lacquered wood. The smell of meat and smoke hung in the air, familiar and soothing.

Once he soaked up the last bit of sauce with the bread, he leaned back and sighed. Laughter burst from a nearby table. Cutlery clinked, and voices rose and fell.

None of it reached him.

He traced the rim of his wine glass with a callused thumb. Chatter ebbed into a distant hum. The tavern moved around him, but Rodrik sat anchored in a memory. A moment that no longer existed.

He didn’t need to come here. Limbus had no shortage of eating establishments. Every street offered a new inn, a new bakery, a new tavern. Anywhere would have been better.

Anywhere would have been less painful.

But habit drew him back again and again, like a man pressing on a bruise just to see if it still hurt.

The Moonlace Cup had been their place. He and Aeiran sat at that very table several times a week, chatting and laughing over some of the best food to be found in Limbus.

For months after Aeiran left the staff had asked about him: where was he? When would he return? Was he well? Questions Rodrik didn’t have the answers to. Eventually they stopped asking.

The tavern hadn’t changed, but everything it reminded him of had. He glanced at the empty chair across the table, half expecting to see Aeiran sitting there, laughing cheerfully over a glass of white wine. Reaching across the table to touch his arm or tangle their fingers together.

Looking up at him with blue eyes full of adoration.

Now there was nothing. Just an empty chair. An absence that even now, three years later, dug into his chest, seeking the last remnants of his heart.

Rodrik swallowed and stared at the gilded tabletop. He’d long since accepted that he would never let go. The ache of loss would belong to him forever.

And he would deserve it.

It took him a moment to realize a sudden stillness blanketed the room. Through the open front door tavern strode a tall red crane carrying a scroll in its beak. Crimsonwing, the Archmage’s threadkin. It wove its way between tables, fixating a judgmental eye on those it passed. Patrons either dipped their head in a respectful bow or looked away entirely.

The crane’s talons clicked on the lacquered floor as it approached. Rodrik knew its meandering path would lead to his table eventually. There was no other reason she’d send the bird specifically to The Moonlace Cup at this hour. He gulped down the last of his wine and watched, having no qualms about catching the crane’s eye.

As expected, Crimsonwing came to a halt next to him. It dropped a scroll beside his plate and tapped the table with its long beak, almost as if making sure it had his attention. Waiting, watching, it tilted its head to regard him with a beady eye.

Rodrik’s gut turned as he broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment.

The Archmage requests your immediate presence upon receipt of this notice.

That was it. No explanation, nothing. Not even her own damned signature. The handwriting he recognized as belonging to the Archmage’s assistant, Brandei Fillary.

A summons from Tiedre Amada never preceded anything good. Not for Rodrik. He stared at the crisp black ink until the words blurred.

The last time she called upon him, she’d breached his boundaries unforgivably. Commanded the use of his magic in a way he’d made clear was off limits. He was nothing but a tool for her to use, he knew that now.

It had been too much that time. Too easy.

Even more troubling was the fact that using it had felt… right.

That was the moment he swore he’d never touch his inherited magic again.

Rodrik crushed the parchment in his fist.

“I’m coming,” he said through gritted teeth.

Crimsonwing dipped its head and wandered out the way it came.

Rodrik stacked a few coins on the table and left. The warmth of the tavern and the comfort of his meal fell away behind him.

In its place, dread. For telling the Archmage “no” likely wouldn’t end well.

* * *

The Spire of Limbus rose from the city’s heart like a twisted blade spiraling into the clouds. Monumental and imposing, it was built long ago by elemental and thread wizards working together, named after the Weaver who ordered its construction. The Spire became a beacon, a meeting point for wizards all across Elima. More settlers arrived and built their homes around the tower, marking the birth of Limbus City.

Spiraling banners rippled in the wind, their colors shimmering between violet and silver. Around them, loose threads flitted like dragonflies, tiny luminous things that danced along the stonework and chased one another through the air in erratic loops. Their innate glow reflected along veins of silver and amethyst that streaked through the stone.

If he weren’t so angry, Rodrik might have allowed himself to stop and admire the craftsmanship.

He slowed as he approached, unsettled by the feeling of being watched. A lone cat sat at the base of the stairs, sleek and gray, observing without blinking. Cats made his skin crawl. Like they were only half present, one foot beyond the veil into some other world. It wouldn’t surprise him if this one obeyed the Archmage, set to watch for his arrival.

The Spire’s entrance towered over him. He drew a breath, heavy with resentment. On the way here, he reminded himself over and over not to let her coerce him again. Tiedre called his magic a gift.

She was wrong. It was a curse. A terrible ability that should never be used on another person.

A robed attendant met him just inside the doors, further justifying his suspicions of the cat. The young man couldn’t have been yet twenty. He silently led Rodrik through hushed, echoing halls.

During the daytime, the Spire would’ve been lively, full of wizards and novices hurrying through the halls. This time of night, however, the Spire fell into a silence both eerie and peaceful. While he was still training, Rodrik had always enjoyed wandering the halls at night, often with Aeiran at his side. Throughout their years at the Spire, they’d found just about every niche and private corner in the tower.

An ache gripped his chest. Unbidden, he pressed his palm against his ribs, as if that would lessen the pain. Rodrik snapped shut his mind and focused on the boy’s deep purple robe swishing in front of him.

He didn’t ask where they were going. He’d been here before and had taken this exact path to this exact chamber many times, with its violet upholstery and silver-trimmed shelves holding books and vials and other wizardly knick-knacks.

The attendant pushed the door open for him, bowing his head, then shut the door behind him.

Rodrik took two steps and froze.

He wasn’t alone in the room. In a plush violet armchair situated near the roaring fireplace, someone sat quietly. He had one leg crossed over the other, bouncing, tapping his boot in an irregular rhythm against the chair.

Rodrik’s stomach dropped.

Those boots. The braid.

The golden prosthetic.

His heart seized, constricting in his chest.

“Aeiran?” The near-whisper tore out of him, raw and unguarded, an old wound splitting wide open.

The man’s leg stopped bouncing. He clutched the arm of the chair, the soft fabric bunching underneath metallic fingers. The spoken name hung in the air, thick and oppressive.

Shoulders tensed as if bracing for a blow, the man in the chair slowly turned his head and looked up.

Their eyes met. And for one long, panicked moment, Rodrik forgot how to breathe.

Aeiran Orenath.

The same blue-gray eyes that matched the sky out over the Frigid Ocean in the early mornings. The same thick braid, golden strands of honey-colored waves barely contained. He was thinner. Paler. Older, somehow, though not in years.

He looked hollowed. And yet, it was still him.

Rodrik’s knees buckled. He caught the back of a chair with both hands, the carved wood biting into his palms. He sucked in the breath he’d forgotten to take, his heart deafening in his ears, drowning out the crackle of fire.

They stared at one another, the space between them throbbing with words unsaid.

“Rodrik,” Aeiran said. Cautious, as if the word itself held destructive power.

Quiet and gentle, the sound of his voice threatened to undo the semblance of control Rodrik desperately clung to. He gritted his teeth against the flush of memory that spread like heat in his gut.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Words were there, but he couldn’t reach them. Or they didn’t want to be reached. Unable to stay upright, he sank into the wooden chair he’d been clutching, weak and numb, every inch of him prickling with pain.

Three years.

Three years of silence. Of absence.

And now, Aeiran was here, real and alive and sitting no more than an arm’s length away.

Aeiran turned back to the fire, his stubbled jaw rigid and tense.

With his attention diverted, Rodrik studied Aeiran’s prosthetic, watching the golden skeletal fingers tap against the chair. It was scuffed and dented. More than half of the decorative stones were gone, leaving behind empty settings. Even the tiny emerald snake he’d cut himself from a gem that came from the East Greenfield mines, gone.

Swallowing hard, he gestured toward it. His voice came out rougher than he intended.

“You should have come in. I could’ve—”

“It works fine,” Aeiran said, cutting him off in a clipped voice.

“It needs maintenance.”

A long silence passed between them. Then Aeiran lifted his head and met his gaze.

And something in Rodrik cracked. His eyes stung as every memory and thought and emotion he’d been burying for the last three years clawed to the surface.

Aeiran’s eyes shimmered. His brow bunched up and his throat bobbed. It was written plainly across his face, dancing with unshed tears: pain. A silent plea.

Not here, he begged. Not now.

Then Aeiran turned back to the fire, retreating from the wreckage they had become.

Rodrik’s chest caved in. This moment of reunion had played in his mind a hundred times, in a hundred different ways. In these visions, Aeiran was whole, laughing and beaming, radiant as the sun.

Not an empty husk. Not disheveled and unsure. The permanent lines between his brows, the way he sat folded in on himself… Aeiran hadn’t healed either, and that knowledge gutted him.

The fire popped. A log shifted, sending an ember floating up into the air.

“Nice of her to warn us,” Aeiran murmured, disrupting the silence.

Rodrik’s jaw stiffened. He shared Aeiran’s irritation. The Archmage knew what had happened between them. At the very least, she should have warned them. Decency demanded it.

A resounding clunk filled the small room, tearing him from his despair. A pair of heavy double doors swung open, and in flitted Brandei Fillary, Archmage Tiedre’s personal attendant. Her warm smile included them both and she waved them through. Rodrik could muster no more than a nod as he passed her, even though it wasn’t her fault Tiedre had suddenly discovered an inner cruel streak.

The chamber beyond was dimmer, lit only by the soft shimmer of thread lanterns, but maintained the warmth of the sitting room. Rows of books packed high, silver-trimmed shelves. The air smelled fresh and floral, though no flowers were visible.

In the center of the chamber sat Archmage Tiedre Amada. Though the monstrous slab of a desk dwarfed her slight frame, her presence alone was enough to command attention. Parchment scattered like fallen leaves across the desk’s stone surface.

“Come. Sit,” said Tiedre, beckoning, her husky voice carrying across the room.

Aeiran moved to sit in one of the cushioned chairs, folding his hands in his lap. He maintained an outward appearance of composure, but Rodrik could see the tension in his too-stiff posture, in the white knuckles.

Rodrik swept past the empty chair beside Aeiran to stand a few paces off. Close enough to be included, but far enough to give Aeiran the distance he clearly needed. Besides, he didn’t know if he could endure the proximity just yet.

The Archmage took note of the distance, looking back and forth between them. When she spoke, a flicker of regret tightened her eyes and colored her tone.

“It occurs to me that I should have been more forthcoming in my letters,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “I admit that in my urgency I had not considered…” She waved a hand toward them.

“I apologize for not informing you of my intent to call upon you both.”

Rodrik crossed his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves. He heard the tap of laces against Aeiran’s boot, saw his leg bouncing out of the corner of his eye.

Ignoring the apology, Rodrik fixed her with a glare.

“I told you I wouldn’t do this again,” he said.

“I know,” she said gently, authority leaving her tone. “But I ask that you hear me out.”

The silence that followed was thin and strained. Flipping through a stack of parchments, she plucked one from the pile and came around to lean against the front of her desk.

“There have been a number of magical disturbances in a small village called Norham,” she said, handing the parchment to Aeiran. “Reports of warped terrain, animals behaving strangely. Inanimate objects becoming mobile. There have been injuries. Livestock deaths. A child has gone missing.”

“Norham?” Aeiran looked up from the paper, his brow cinched together. “Is that not in Belamros?”

“It is,” Tiedre said.

Aeiran let out an audible sigh and turned back to the parchment in his hands.

“Well, that’s not exciting,” he murmured.

“I’ve drawn up a permit to allow entrance for the purposes of this investigation.”

“Is it the right permit this time?” Aeiran gave her a level look and she cleared her throat.

Rodrik shook his head. That wasn’t a memory he needed to deal with right then.

Suspicious, he took a step forward. “What exactly do you want us to do?”

“Investigate the disturbances,” she replied. “Discover their source. And, if you believe it within your power, stop them.”

He snorted. Did she expect him to believe that? There had to be more to it. There was always more to it.

For several heartbeats, the room remained silent.

Then, so softly he almost didn’t hear it, Aeiran spoke.

“Why us?”

“You’re both skilled, loyal wizards in whom I have—”

“No,” said Aeiran.

Rodrik turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“If it’s such a straightforward task, there are many other wizards you could’ve called upon. Why us?”

Nodding, Rodrik turned his attention to the Archmage. Aeiran was right.

Tiedre hesitated, lips parting and closing, as if sorting through her thoughts and choosing her words carefully.

“There are rumors,” she began. “And I have no confirmation, mind you. But Remen Tempest might be involved.”

Rodrik’s clenched fists trembled at his sides. He clamped his teeth together to keep from unleashing a string of curses in the Archmage’s presence.

Guilt, shame, fury—everything bubbled up at once, coalescing in his throat. A name that hadn’t crossed his mind in years, landing like a boulder dropping off a cliff. He swallowed, dug his fingernails into his palms.

It didn’t matter what he promised himself, what he told Tiedre. If there were even the slightest chance his brother could be in Belamros, he had to go.

“There’s no need to endanger us both,” said Rodrik firmly. “I’ll go alone,”

“You will not,” replied Aeiran.

The defiance in his voice sent a thrill of… something skittering up Rodrik’s spine.

For the first time in three years, they made solid eye contact. Rodrik felt power in that look. Aeiran challenged him.

But he would never forgive himself if Aeiran were harmed because of him and his family. Again.

“It’s my fight.” Rodrik sliced his hand through the air. “There’s no reason to put us both in danger.”

“Your fight?”

The quiet, cold edge of Aeiran’s voice made his arms prickle. Rodrik shifted his weight.

“Have you forgotten who took my arm?” Aeiran’s eyes froze him in place.

They stared at one another for another long moment. Rodrik looked down at Aeiran’s arm and swallowed. Finally, he gave a tight nod, the weight of which landed on his shoulders the moment it left him.

Aeiran dipped his head in return, a silent agreement.

Tiedre exhaled in relief.

“Here.” She held out a small round mirror. “I trust you know how to use it?”

Aeiran nodded and slipped it into a pouch on his belt.

“What is it?” Rodrik asked.

“Whisperglass,” said Tiedre. “It will allow communication between us. Bear in mind my response may not be immediate.”

Rodrik’s chest felt heavy. His breaths came in shallow gasps. The unexpected meeting with Aeiran, the news of his brother, Aeiran’s insistence on coming along… he could bear it no longer.

Without another word, he spun and clutched the door handle.

Tiedre was there in an instant, placing one of her hands on his arm.

He didn’t have to look to know that Aeiran was close beside him. He could feel his warmth. Could smell him, the slightest hint of jasmine mixed with something wholly Aeiran overtaking his entire being.

Rodrik squeezed the door handle until his hand ached.

Tiedre regarded them both. Not as their Archmage, but with compassion, as someone who knew what they’d once meant to one another. What they’d lost. Her expression softened.

“I know what I’m asking you to do is difficult,” she said, giving them each a pointed glance. “It isn’t fair, and I apologize. But I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t necessary. You know as well as I do how important it is to investigate even a hint of Remen’s whereabouts.

“But I cannot send an army to chase a rumor. The two of you know what you’re doing, and you know Remen. And if it turns out he’s not involved, then resolve the disturbance and come home.”

She removed her hand and stepped back.

Rodrik nodded and left the room before she could stop him again. He heard them speaking behind him, but he was already through the sitting room and out into the hallway beyond.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

I hope you’re enjoying the story so far! Thanks so much for giving it a read.

The Constructor is the first book set in my fantasy world of Elima, free to read through Chapter 5! New chapters will be published here (and on my Ream and Inkitt page) as they're completed.

Comments are for readers. Unsolicited pitches and self-promotion will be removed.

Thank you for keeping the focus on the story!