Drawings cover the nearest walls, yellowed pieces of parchment decorating nearly every inch from the floor to the ceiling. All of the sketches depict weapons. Swords, knives, bows, arrows, every kind of spear and axe I could ever imagine, along with depictions of larger contraptions with enormous cogs and rods, the likes of which I’ve never seen before.
The air smells clean in here, faintly like soap. A soft whooshing sound indicates some sort of ventilation mechanism, but there aren’t any windows to the outside world, at least not that I can see.
Antony finally stops in what could be the center of the room.
The door clicks closed behind us.
Whatever the light source, it’s behind me. That is, the direction Antony’s facing.
After the altercation outside, his voice is quieter than I expected. “Victor.”
I try to see the man he must be speaking to, but even arching my neck, I can’t make out more than the side of an enormous figure sitting in a chair, stooped over a workbench. The figure lifts a large hand, one finger raised, as if to ask for patience.
“Done,” comes the quiet murmur before the figurefinally moves.
I can’t crane my head any longer. My neck is already killing me. I’ll have to make do with what I can hear.
A creaking sound reaches me, then soft scraping. Perhaps the chair is being pushed back?
“Brother,” comes the reply. A deep voice. A welcoming tone with a surprising hint of happiness.
Then, heavy footfalls sound, and a moment later, new hands close around me. Not Antony’s because he hasn’t moved them. “You brought her to me. Thank you, Antony.”
Within seconds, my feet are on the floor, and Victor’s features remain in the shadows now that he’s standing outside the light source.
He quickly lifts the gauzy material covering my face, and I catch a glimpse of a smile before he jolts back into the darkness. “This isn’t Emiliana.”
Antony’s hand is on my back, a steadying force. He sounds almost contrite. “I’m sorry, brother, I didn’t realize you’d misinterpret who I was carrying?—”
Victor’s voice is now hard. “Who is this lowborn, and why have you brought her to me?”
“This,” Antony says, again more softly than I was expecting, given how upset his brother seems, “is the Oracle.”
Silence greets me from the other side of the room.
It extends for a very long minute, during which neither man speaks nor moves.
Finally, Victor says gruffly, “That doesn’t tell me why she’s here and not in chains within the Constellation.”
Antony gives a heavy exhale. “She’s here because I’m here. And I’m here because of this.” He gestures to the broken helmet before he adds, “I need your help with something else, too.”
“I see.” Victor gives an equally heavy sigh. “Well. Sincefixing your armor will require me to step into the light, I should ask: How strong is her stomach?”
Antony shrugs. “I guess we’ll soon find out.”
How strong is my stomach?
At that moment, the gauzy material Victor lifted off my face drops back across my eyes. It swishes against my nose, an irritating tickle. If only I could find my hands in this giant suit to reach up and deal with the itch. All I manage is to swipe my arm across my face, but at least it relieves the irritation.
Antony catches my arm, pushing it firmly down before he reaches for the gauze and secures it up against the hood for me.
I’m surprised by his stony expression, his lips compressed into a hard line, and a hint of hollowness in his eyes as he speaks. “Thyra, meet my brother Victor.”
The enormous man shuffles back toward the circle of light, his feet coming into view first.
He’s wearing boots. Nothing unusual there. And black pants, also not unusual.
But I’m curious to see that he keeps the right side of his body angled backward, approaching me from his left, a method that results in a shuffling gait.
