"Make the statue hollow," I interrupt, leaning in close enough for him to feel the heat of my resolve. The words slip from my lips like a secret shared between conspirators. "It's imperative you leave a cavity that’s undetectable.”
"A hollow relic," Talrut muses, his eyes narrowing with intrigue. "You plot a deception worthy of legend. What mischief drives you to such lengths?"
I purse my lips and give a cryptic reply, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Talrut doesn’t need to know my business with the Grymlok warlord nor the human female who has become more importantto me than any treasure in the whole of the Universe. My fingers tighten around the sacks I carry at my sides, the thought of Jules left in such a vulnerable position ignites a rage within me hot enough to consume everything in its path.
"Never mind, then. I rather enjoy breathing,” Talrut says with a jagged grin, turning away from me to survey the chaotic sprawl of his workshop. "It will take me some time to scrape together enough zorite?—”
"This will be enough,” I reply dropping the sack filled with zorite bricks on the worktable, my impatience a living thing between us.
Talrut opens the sack and peers inside, his gnarled fingers hovering over a random brick. Golden eyes, gem-like and skeptical, lock onto mine. "Behtu, even with my skills," he rasps, "this is no simple trinket to forge. To replicate the Grymlok relic?—"
“You are the only person I know who can do it.” I’m not stroking the trolite’s ego, what I say is fact.
He grunts, noncommittal, his gaze drifting back to the sack of zorite I so foolishly melted down and formed onto bricks. "The hollow center poses risks. If the structure fails?—"
“It won’t.” The thought of Jules depending on me fuels a simmering desperation. I need the Zorite Statue, and I need it flawless.
"Materials aren't infinite, Star Maverick," he mutters, stroking the bumpy skin at his jawline. "If the core isn't supported properly during the cooling phase, the whole thing could?—"
"Enough excuses!" I bark, more sharply than intended. With a flick of my hand, I toss a second sack. It lands with a solid thud against the surface of his worktable. Dythum crystals tumble out, their luminescence pulsing like captured stars. The sight ofthem causes a greedy gleam to replace the uncertainty in Talrut's eyes.
"Payment," I say, watching as his rough digits gingerly caress one of the gems. "And incentive."
Bushy eyebrows rise, a silent question forming on his lips. Talrut's fingers, knobby and eager, probe the edges of the sack, disbelief etched into every crease of his blue visage. He lifts a Dythum crystal between stubby fingers, its glow casting ghostly shadows on the walls of his cluttered workshop.
“Don’t ask where I got them and you can keep the leftover zorite," I snap, my tone as sharp as a dagger's edge, knowing full well the value of the material. It's a bribe cloaked in generosity, and we both know it.
"Leftover zorite for a job well done?" He weighs the Dythum crystal in his palm, reassessing the challenge. "Consider my doubts extinguished."
"Good." My chest tightens with impatience. "I need it done quickly. Time is a luxury I can't afford."
Talrut nods, a newfound determination steeling his features. He turns back to his tools, the Dythum crystals now forgotten as he mentally prepares for the task ahead.
The forge's roar is a tempest of heat and flame, its fiery breath engulfing the zorite bricks with hungry intensity. Talrut’s fingers dance over the controls with practiced ease as the melting process begins, his focus unbreakable as he monitors the temperature gauges. As the scent of melting zorite fills the air, I'm left to stew in a silence punctuated only by the pounding of my own heart, an echo of the ticking of time that counts down the moments until I can free Jules from Warlord Zarnak’s clutches.
The need to return to her, to ensure her safety, coils tightly inside my gut. It's a desperation that borders on madness, a hunger that goes beyond the flesh that has nothing to do withmy sivot who still slumbers. The mere thought of her in danger sends shivers down my spine, igniting a primal instinct within me that refuses to be quelled.
I pace the confines of the cluttered workshop. A tempest rages within, an unyielding force that demands I reach her side at any cost. My boots kick up small whirlwinds of dust, each step an echo of the turmoil churning within me.
A glance at the chrono cuff around my wrist sends a surge of adrenaline coursing through me. Time is the enemy, slipping through my fingers like the pink sands of Pryt’s beaches. With every blink, her image flashes in my mind, haunting every second that ticks by.
The hum of Talrut’s duplicator is a mechanical lullaby, crafting a mold of the Zorite Statue with meticulous precision. Once complete, the melted zorite can be poured and a framework added to support the weight of the finished statue.
A deafening crack splinters through Talrut's workshop, severing the silence. I whirl around, my heart hammering a frenetic rhythm against my ribs. The mold, once seamless and promising, now sports a jagged fracture down its side like a bolt of lightning frozen in time.
"By the stars..." Talrut’s voice trails off, his blue-bumpy hands hovering over the ruined mold. We lock eyes, and I see the reflection of my own dread mirrored in his rounded pupils.
"Start over," I command, the words laced with a desperation that claws at my throat. "Now, Talrut."
He nods, and my pacing resumes, each step punctuated by the ticking of the chrono cuff around my wrist. Time is slipping away, a thief in the darkness stealing my only chance to free Jules from a certain death.
Talrut resets the duplicator to create a new mold. The machine whirs back to life, its hum now a taunt, a reminder of the precious minutes we've lost. I run a hand through myhair, pushing it back from my face, trying to shake off the grip of dread tightening around my throat. Recreating the relic is only half the battle, I still need time to travel back to Warlord Zarnak’s ship.
"Come on, come on," I mutter, my gaze fixed on the machine.
Sweat beads on Talrut's forehead as he works, an uncharacteristic display of tension from the usually imperturbable artisan. His fingers dance across the duplicator’s controls, adjusting settings with a fervor fueled by my growing restlessness.
