Lyall and Elara were tied back-to-back, their arms restrained by pneumatic bonds. Captain Volken stood on the catwalk above them, impassive, while armored guards pointed their cannons. The air, saturated with oil and steel, vibrated with tension.
Volken did not raise his voice. "The Drama is over. Archduke Vane made a very precise wager on you, Countess Finch. He won."
He gestured dismissively toward the remains of the old manor, visible through a breach in the wall. "You came back for sentimental vengeance, didn't you? For that pile of stones your father, that poet, called a 'Domain'."
Volken descended from the catwalk, approaching Elara. His guards activated their Selithes, the crystals' hum amplifying the intimidation.
"Nexium, Countess, is the promise of a new era. And you, you are a slave to the past."
Volken began his sermon, his voice carrying Vane's ideological conviction.
"Archduke Vane does not act out of greed. He acts out of transcendental necessity. Humanity's weakness lies in these sentimental attachments: the love of equality, pity, the preservation of a dead heritage. Your desire to avenge your father is merely a relic of that slave morality which holds the Empire back."
He turned to Lyall. "Lyall, the smith, possesses raw Will. But he squanders it on a morality fit for a petty craftsman."
Volken held up a multi-faceted Selithe. "The Selithes are the path to the Overman. They allow humanity to transcend its weak flesh, to become the Will to Power incarnate. By sacrificing the nexium of an arid zone, Vane saves the entire Empire."
He looked directly into Elara's eyes, forcing her into her conflict: "Is your personal vengeance against the Archduke more important than giving humanity the power of ascension? Your quarrel is an insignificant detail compared to the Higher Good we are building."
Volken's speech struck Elara with a brutal truth. Her vengeance, though righteous, felt like a selfish act in the eyes of the world. Lyall was a prisoner, and the pump would soon restart.
"Vane builds nothing," she managed to choke out, tears welling up. "He devours. He destroyed the beauty of nexium for sterile power."
"Beauty is weakness," Volken retorted. He drew a small dagger. "You've made your choice, Countess. Now, your friend will pay for your sentimental failing."
He moved to slash Lyall's hand. This was the moment for Elara to choose: vengeance (allowing Lyall to fight for her) or the greater good (saving Lyall and allowing the pump's destruction).
"Stop!" Elara screamed. She focused on Lyall: "Lyall, forget the pump. The hand. Save yourself, now!"
Her moral sacrifice galvanized Lyall. Hatred for Vane was selfish; the desire to save Elara was a Will to Coexistence purer than Vane's "Will to Power."
Lyall closed his eyes. Rage against Vane was replaced by cold determination. Volken was right: the Gauntlet was a crutch for "slave morality." Lyall's Overman would be the one who mastered his own raw power.
He did not focus on the rotor, but on his own brass Gauntlet. He used his gift, not to strike the external steel, but to sabotage the alignment of his Gauntlet's gears itself.
With a scream of pain, the metal of his Gauntlet tore apart, releasing a jet of raw, uncontrolled pressure. It was the nexium energy accumulated by his gift, unleashed without focus or control.
The shockwave was cataclysmic. The blow hit the rotor's fracture point. The Mother-Pump, pressurized, exploded into a crash of shredded steel and superheated steam.
Lyall and Elara were thrown into the darkness, silence following the noise.
Volken and the guards lay stunned on the floor, the Selithes fallen from their now useless hands, the power source severed.
Elara struggled free of her bonds and crawled to Lyall. He lay, eyes open, his arm bleeding, the Gauntlet destroyed.
"Lyall?"
"I'm fine," he whispered, his voice barely audible. He had succeeded, but the cost was heavy.
They staggered away into the smoke and ruins. The Mother-Pump was no more. Elara's heritage was redeemed, not by vengeance, but by sacrifice. But they were deep in the Domain of Cinders, wounded and unprotected.