In her younger years, Lorielei Alterian was a defiant young elf, determined to follow the shining path of her goddess. She learns of a cursed workshop and vows to eradicate it, and though she doesn’t know it when she begins her quest, she’ll do things that will put her life on a different path, squandering her opportunity to wear the shining armor.

Loriel’s research has led her to an ancient workshop, buried beneath a ruin destroyed by an explosion. According to legend, the ruin is on a bleak, windswept grassland surrounded by carnivorous plants. Rumors of a ritual to restore the workshop have reached Rithraunen, and Loriel is determined to make a name for herself by destroying it. The closer she gets to her destination, the more chatter in the surrounding towns, hamlets, and villages confirms her suspicions.

~~~
Scattered campfires dotted the windswept land around the ruined village, though never closer than two or three cart-lengths. The answer wasn’t obvious in the moonless dark, even though the watchers had excellent night vision. They observed from two furlongs away, atop the rise nearest what remained of Riverford, though that name seemed like a cruel joke, given that the river had long since dried up.

Lorielei Alterian crouched behind a slab of broken stone and counted the fires again. Twenty-three.

“No movement?” whispered her cousin, Garyn, beside her.

“None that I can see.”

“You’ve been counting them for ten minutes.”

“Twenty-three fires,” Loriel said. “Twenty-three camps. That doesn’t mean twenty-three groups.”

Garyn sighed. He was a broad-shouldered elf with black hair braided against the wind, and he had the irritating habit of sounding amused whenever a serious situation presented itself. She’d known him all his life, long enough to know that he considered her determination both admirable and exhausting.

The last cousin, Kwynn, lay on Loriel’s other side. She watched the ruins through a brass spyglass.

“Some fires belong to merchants,” Kwynn murmured. “Two caravans. Pilgrims near the western road. A dozen armed men around the largest fire.”

“Mercenaries?”

“Probably.”

“Probably isn’t good enough.”

Kwynn lowered the spyglass, turning her head to look at Loriel. “Then get closer and ask them.”

Loriel glared at her. Kwynn returned a charming smile.

Far below, Riverford waited beneath the darkness. It’d once been a prosperous village built beside a river feeding three surrounding valleys. Now the river had vanished, the houses collapsed, and the old watchtower split from top to bottom.

That was what had drawn Loriel there. The explosion. She’d spent many seasons studying old maps, ruined archives, merchant ledgers, and forbidden fragments of temple records. Almost every account disagreed about what’d happened at Riverford. Some claimed lightning had struck the village. Others blamed a sorcerer’s war. A few insisted that the ground itself had opened.

But the oldest surviving records contained a single phrase that had kept Loriel awake for several tendays. The workshop below the river has awakened.

The workshop. A place built by the artificer-kings before the elves abandoned the southern kingdoms. A place legends said machines existed that could turn thought into matter, blood into silver, and memory into flesh. And tales spoke of the curse laid on the site when something destroyed the workshop.

According to temple doctrine, the goddess Ashira sent seven shining knights to destroy it. Six had died. The seventh returned only to say that they’d sealed the workshop before disappearing once more.

The workshop remained sealed beneath Riverford. Until now. Rumors of a ritual had spread through Rithraunen moons earlier. Someone wanted to restore the workshop. Loriel believed the rumors. More importantly, she believed finding the workshop before the ritual began would earn her a place among Ashira’s Dawnwardens.

She imagined herself in shining armor, standing under the golden banners of the goddess, holding a sword blessed in temple fire. She imagined her mother seeing her; had imagined everyone who had ever called her reckless forced to admit they were mistaken.

Tonight, she imagined none of that. Tonight, she watched twenty-three fires in the darkness and felt something cold settle beneath her ribs.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

Garyn glanced at her. “You say that about everything.”

“Not like this.”

The wind shifted. All three elves went still. Something rustled in the grass below. Not an animal. The movement came in a straight line, straight toward them. Loriel drew her sword.

“Don’t,” Kwynn whispered, laying a hand on her arm.

The grass parted as a man crawled out. He wore a torn and tattered merchant’s cloak. Blood covered his face. One hand clutched a broken lantern. He looked at them, eyes pleading.

“Help me.”

Loriel was already moving. She slid down the slope, with Garyn and Kwynn close behind. The man tried to stand and collapsed.

“Who did this?” Loriel asked.

The man’s eyes rolled toward the ruins. “Below.”

“What’s below?”

“The workshop.”

Loriel’s heart hammered. She knelt. “Is the ritual underway?”

The man let out a terrible cackle. “No.” His fingers closed around Loriel’s wrist. “They finished a day ago.” Then the man convulsed and died.

For several seconds, nobody spoke. Garyn looked toward the fires.

“They’re not waiting for a ritual.”

“No,” Loriel said. “They’re guarding something.” She stared at Riverford. “Or someone.”

They moved before dawn. The rumors hadn’t lied. Towns they’d passed through had reported travelers heading toward Riverford. In nearby hamlets, people whispered about lights beneath the ruins. In roadside villages, frightened farmers spoke of strangers buying every scrap of iron they could find. At an inn three days north, a drunken caravan guard swore that dead men walked beneath the earth.

Loriel had dismissed most of it as superstition. Now, she no longer could.

The entrance lay beneath the ruins of the old chapel. They found it behind a collapsed wall, where a stairway descended into blackness, the symbol of Ashira’s sun carved above the entrance. Someone had scratched a second symbol over it. A black circle split by seven jagged lines. Kwynn touched it.

“That’s not in any archive.”

Loriel drew a breath. “We’ll make sure it gets there.”

They descended. The stairs continued farther than they should have. The air grew warm. Then came the smell. Like the blacksmith’s shop, but not. Hot metal. Oil. And something sweet underneath. Blood.

Loriel raised her sword as she advanced. The stairway opened into a vast underground chamber filled with machinery. Copper pipes crossed the ceiling. Iron walkways stretched over pits glowing with blue fire. Hundreds of tall glass jars stood in rows, each containing a cloudy liquid. Some vessels contained bones. Others contained things that’d once been people.

Loriel stopped breathing, clutching the medallion on her chest. Garyn swore. Kwynn whispered a prayer.

A tree-shaped machine stood in the center of the chamber, metal forming its branches, roots disappearing into the floor. A pulsing red light flowed through it like blood.

And beneath it, bound in chains, stood a woman. She looked elven. She also looked ancient. Her silver hair fell to her waist, black veins showing through her skin. One eye glowed red.

“Dawnwarden,” she said, looking at Loriel.

“I’m no Dawnwarden.”

“Not yet.” The woman’s smile made Loriel’s stomach turn.

“Who are you?”

“The seventh.”

Loriel’s sword dipped. The survivor. The knight who’d returned from the workshop centuries ago.

“You’re alive?”

“Barely.”

“What happened?”

The woman’s expression hardened. “The goddess lied.”

Loriel stepped forward, anger blazing in her eyes.

“Don’t.” Garyn caught her shoulder.

The woman laughed. “Still loyal. How precious.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I did.”

“No. You told me a blasphemy.”

“You came seeking a monster,” the woman said. “And found the truth instead.” She lifted her chained hands. “The workshop was never built to destroy the world. It was built to heal it.”

Loriel looked at the machines. “Then why was it ordered destroyed?”

“Because the workshop could create life without her.”

Silence. The words struck Loriel harder than any blade. The goddess guided not only life; Ashira gave life. Everyone knew that as the foundation of the faith.

The seventh knight stared at Loriel. “The artificers learned how to restore the dead. They could grow bodies, repair souls damaged by war, end famine by making food from sunlight, and in the end, they discovered a way to make miracles without divine permission.”

“And so Ashira destroyed them?”

“No,” the woman’s voice became bitter. “Her priests did.”

Loriel shook her head. “You’re lying.”

“Then look.” The woman pointed.

One of the glass vessels cracked. Something inside moved. Loriel stepped backward. A child’s face appeared against the glass. Its eyes opened.

“Help me,” it whispered.

Garyn drew his bow. Loriel lowered his arm.

“Wait.”

The child looked at her. “Please.”

A warning bell rang. Red light flooded the chamber. Kwynn spun toward the entrance.

“We have company.”

Boots thundered on the stairs. Dozens of them. The mercenaries from above. Loriel looked at the chained woman.

“What do they want?”

“The workshop.”

“Why?”

“To finish what I stopped.”

The doors toppled inward as armed soldiers poured through. At their head walked a man in black robes embroidered with silver thread. Loriel recognized him as High Confessor Jannilor. One of Ashira’s most feared servants. His gaze found the seventh knight. Then Loriel.

“Ah,” he said. His smile was almost kind. “The little scholar.”

Loriel raised her sword. “You followed us.”

“I followed the rumors. You merely confirmed them.”

“You’re going to destroy this place.”

“Of course not. I’m going to awaken it.”

Jannilor gestured. The soldiers advanced, and Loriel attacked. The fight turned into chaos. Steel rang against steel. Blue fire burst from the broken machinery. Kwynn sent missiles into the mercenaries while Garyn fought beside Loriel, cursing every time another soldier replaced one they dropped.

Loriel fought with fierce determination. She’d trained for years. She’d imagined battles like this. But her training had never taught her what to do when the enemy wore the colors of her own faith. Jannilor raised his hand, and golden light filled the chamber. Garyn screamed. He collapsed. Loriel turned. A spear of divine fire had pierced his chest.

“No!” she ran toward him.

Jannilor struck her with another blast. Pain shattered her concentration. She hit the floor. Her sword skidded away. The seventh knight screamed from her chains.

“You fool! The machine!”

Loriel looked. The red light in the metal tree went faster as the workshop reacted to the violence. The dead things in the vessels woke.

Jannilor smiled. “You see?” he pointed at the machine. “The curse remains.”

Loriel understood. The workshop hadn’t awakened because someone had performed a ritual. It’d awakened because people had died near it. Every death fed it. Every wound gave it strength. And Jannilor intended to sacrifice everyone in the chamber.

The machine shuddered. Cracks spread through its roots. The ground shook.

“Loriel!” Kwynn shouted.

She looked at Garyn. Blood spread beneath him. He was still breathing. Barely. Then she looked at the machine. Then at the seventh knight.

“Break my chains,” the woman said.

Loriel hesitated. “If I release you—”

“You’ll have to trust me.”

“I don’t.”

“Good,” the woman smiled. “Faith is what brought this place to ruin.”

Loriel ran to her. She seized a fallen soldier’s axe and hacked at the chains. Once. Twice. Three times. The metal snapped. The seventh knight collapsed. Then she rose, and the black veins across her body flared.

“What are you doing?” Loriel asked.

“What I should have done the first time.” The woman walked toward the machine. “You cannot destroy it,” she said. “Not now.”

“Then what?”

“Someone must become its heart.”

Loriel stared at her. “No.”

“There is no other way.”

“There has to be.”

The woman touched Loriel’s cheek. “You wanted the shining armor.”

Loriel flinched. “How do you know?”

“I was you once.”

The machine screamed as the chamber shuddered. Jannilor fled, and his soldiers followed.

Cowards, Loriel thought.

Then she understood. They’d never intended to survive. Jannilor wanted the workshop awake and running. He wanted the curse. The seventh knight climbed into the machine. Loriel grabbed her arm.

“Don’t.”

The woman looked at her. “You have a choice, I no longer do.”

“What choice?”

“You can leave, carry your friend out, return to Rithraunen, and tell them I died here. You will earn your place among the Dawnwardens.”

“And the workshop?”

“Burn it.”

Loriel stared at the machines. At the vessels; at the child; at Garyn. The shining path waited for her somewhere beyond this chamber. She could still take it and save Garyn. She could destroy the workshop and return as a hero.

But she looked at the child again. Its small hand pressed against the glass, wide, innocent eyes staring out. Loriel knew what the temple would do if it learned the truth. They would destroy every vessel. Every record. Every living thing. And they would call it mercy.

She’d spent her whole life believing obedience was righteousness. Now she understood that righteousness sometimes required disobedience.

“I can’t burn it,” she said.

The seventh knight smiled, sadness in her eyes.

“Then you lose your place among the Dawnwardens.”

Loriel looked at her sword. Then, at the golden emblem carved into its hilt. She pulled it free. For a moment, she imagined wearing the armor. The white cloak, the sunburst, the applause.

Then she dropped the sword into the blue fire. It vanished with a hiss.

“I think,” she said, “I already have.”

The seventh knight closed her eyes. “Then help me.”

Together, they worked. Loriel severed the power lines while the seventh knight climbed into the machine. Kwynn carried Garyn toward the stairs. The child in the vessel vanished in a burst of light as, one system at a time, the workshop shut itself down.

The explosion came before they reached the surface. Riverford disappeared beneath a pillar of fire. Stone, iron, and ancient secrets erupted into the night. The scattered camps cleared out, and the mercenaries fled as the ruins collapsed.

When dawn came, Loriel woke beneath a blanket of ash, Garyn beside her. Alive. Kwynn sat nearby, exhausted and bleeding. For several minutes, Loriel listened to the wind.

Then she touched her sword belt. Empty. She looked toward where Riverford had stood. The workshop was gone. Not destroyed. She knew that much. Hidden. Deep beneath the rubble, she sensed that something still pulsed. But it no longer felt hungry. It felt asleep. Garyn opened his eyes.

“You’re going to be in trouble.”

Loriel gave a tired chuckle. “With whom?”

“The temple.”

“Probably.”

“You’ll be expelled.”

“Probably.”

“Your mother will kill you.”

That hurt more than Loriel expected. “I know.”

Kwynn looked at her. “Do you regret it?”

Loriel thought of the armor. The banners. The shining path she’d followed since childhood. She’d wanted glory. Instead, she found a truth she could never un-know.

“No,” she said.

She knew that wasn’t quite true. She regretted the sword and Garyn’s blood, and she regretted how easily she’d once believed that the righteous path must also be the shining one. But she didn’t regret choosing.

Years later, people would tell stories about Lorielei Alterian. Some would call her a traitor. Others would call her a heretic. And some would whisper she had betrayed the goddess herself. The temple erased her name from its records, and she never wore shining armor.

Instead, she traveled the forgotten roads between kingdoms, searching for other remnants of the old workshops and other miracles that powerful people had buried. She learned how to heal without prayer. How to build without permission. How to protect without becoming a servant of those claiming to own righteousness.

And sometimes, when she stood beneath the stars, she’d remember Riverford. She’d remember the twenty-three fires. The dead river and the ruined chapel. The machine that had asked for a heart. Most of all, she would remember the moment she dropped her sword into the fire. That had been the moment Lorielei Alterian lost the future she had wanted. It also turned into the moment she became free to choose another.