Roald woke warm.
The mattress held its shape. The blanket lay heavy and brushed smooth. No draft slipped through warped shutters. No damp scent of river-mist crept along the floorboards.
For a moment, he did not remember where he was.
Across the room, Sir. Wilkinson was already seated at the narrow table.
Not armed.
Not alert.
Simply awake.
His coat hung neatly over the chair back. His boots were aligned beneath the bed. His satchel lay open, instruments returned to their sleeves with habitual care. Before him sat a blank page.
The candle beside it had burned low.
"You didn't sleep," Roald said.
"I did," Sir. Wilkinson replied.
It was the kind of answer that ended a subject.
They dressed and descended to the common room.
Warm oat steam and woodsmoke filled the air. Merchants spoke in moderated tones. Even the laughter at the far table felt measured—never rising too high, never falling too low. The inn did not feel lively.
It felt arranged.
Breakfast was brought:
Rye bread, still warm.
Goat's cheese, firm and pale.
Salted herring split open and glistening.
Stewed apples dark with spice.
Oat pottage glossed with honey.
Watered ale.
Roald ate eagerly.
Sir. Wilkinson ate because it was sensible to do so.
His movements were precise, economical. He chewed without tasting. Once, he paused with bread still in hand, eyes unfocused—not scanning the room, but replaying something.
"The ruler seemed pleased," Roald offered.
Sir. Wilkinson swallowed.
"Yes."
A pause.
"He spoke well."
"Yes."
Another pause.
Roald waited.
Sir. Wilkinson set the bread down carefully.
"He spoke," he said at last, "as though he had practiced."
Roald frowned. "Is that strange?"
"For a craftsman?" Sir. Wilkinson replied quietly. "Yes."
He wiped his fingers slowly.
"There were no hesitations. No searching for words. No interruptions from advisers. Even his questions arrived in order—as though arranged beforehand."
He did not sound impressed.
"In my experience," he continued, "real interest is rarely so tidy."
Roald considered that.
Sir. Wilkinson's gaze drifted toward the window, but not to look outside—only to avoid looking at nothing.
"The chamber," he added, almost to himself, "was positioned for sound. Every answer carried. Every gesture was visible. It was… balanced."
Balanced.
He did not say the word staged.
He did not need to.
Roald shifted uneasily, though he did not know why.
"Is that bad?" he asked.
Sir. Wilkinson exhaled slowly.
"I prefer wood that shows its grain," he said. "Not wood painted to resemble something it is not."
That was all.
He rose.
"I have business this morning," he said. "It may take some time."
"With the ruler?" Roald asked.
"No."
The answer came too quickly to be careless, but not quickly enough to be rehearsed.
"You will remain here," Sir. Wilkinson continued. "Do not wander far. And listen more than you speak."
Roald nodded.
Sir. Wilkinson placed coin upon the table and departed without finishing his ale.
The door shut behind him.
The inn's rhythm resumed.
Roald finished his pottage slowly now.
And then—
He felt it.
Attention.
In the far corner of the room sat a man in worn leather and dark wool. Travel-scuffed boots. Hands lined with old scars. A wooden cup resting between them.
He was watching Roald.
Not with hostility.
Not even with intent.
With curiosity.
As though observing something unfinished.
Their eyes met.
The man tilted his head slightly.
And this time—
He did not look away.
—------------------------------------------------------
The corner table was empty now.
Roald's stomach tightened.
A chair scraped softly across the boards behind him.
"Is this taken?"
The voice was calm. Unremarkable.
Roald turned. The man stood beside the table with a wooden cup in hand. Travel-worn cloak. Mud dried along the hem. Not a merchant. Not a soldier.
"No," Roald said.
The man sat.
For a few moments, he drank in silence.
The inn breathed around them—low voices, the crack of the hearth, a serving girl scolding someone for dripping grease.
"You're not used to the bread here," the man said at last.
Roald looked up. "What?"
"You're chewing it like it might fight back."
Roald flushed slightly. He swallowed. "It's hard."
"It's milled finer in the north."
Roald stilled.
The man took another drink.
"And they let it rise longer. Less rush."
Roald stared at him.
"You've been north?"
"A time or two."
"Where?"
The man shrugged faintly. "Rivers. Marshland."
"That's half the north."
"Yes."
Roald narrowed his eyes. "You don't sound like you're guessing."
A small pause.
The man's gaze dropped briefly to Roald's hands.
"You still hold a spoon like that," he said absently.
"Like what?"
"Thumb high. Resting the handle against the knuckle."
Roald looked down at his hand.
"That's how everyone holds—"
"No," the man said softly.
Something in his tone made Roald stop.
The man leaned back slightly.
"Boat children hold utensils like that. Keeps the wrist steady when the floor shifts."
The room felt smaller.
Roald's voice came quieter. "How would you know that?"
The man didn't answer immediately.
Instead he glanced toward the window.
"Does the river still bend twice before it widens?" he asked.
Roald's heart thudded.
"Yes."
Silence.
The man's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"They never fixed the west dock," he murmured, more to himself than to Roald. "It always tilted after the thaw."
Roald's breath caught.
That dock had tilted.
Every spring.
His father used to curse it.
"How do you know that?" Roald asked.
This time the question wasn't curious.
It was sharp.
The man met his eyes.
And for the first time, something unguarded flickered there.
"I shouldn't," he said.
It was almost a confession.
Roald leaned forward slightly. "You were there."
A long pause.
The man did not nod.
But he did not deny it.
"I passed through," he said.
Roald knew that wasn't true.
Passed through men did not know how children held spoons.
Passed through men did not remember docks tilting.
Passed through men did not look at the river through a window that was not there.
"You didn't pass through," Roald said quietly.
The man's fingers tightened around his cup.
"Eat while it's warm," he said.
It was not an answer.
And that, more than anything, confirmed it.
The man reached for his cup again.
Roald watched him this time — the way he held it, steady but not rigid. His hands were scarred in thin pale lines, the kind brambles left. One knuckle sat slightly crooked, healed poorly years ago. His cloak smelled faintly of sap beneath the smoke of the inn.
"You said rivers and marshland," Roald said carefully. "That isn't passing through."
The man gave a small huff of air. Not quite a laugh.
"No."
Silence lingered between them.
Then, as if the thought had simply surfaced—
"Lomor still climbs higher than he should?"
Roald's breath caught.
"You know my brother."
The man's eyes did not leave the table.
"He never liked staying where he was told."
Roald stared at him.
"How do you know that?"
A faint crease formed between the man's brows, as though he were deciding how much of the truth to allow.
"I showed him how to read ground sign," he said. "Broken twigs. Pressed moss. The way bark peels differently when a stag passes too close."
Roald felt something tighten in his chest.
"You taught him tracking?"
"For a time."
Lomor had claimed he learned on his own. That he simply watched the woods long enough and they spoke back.
Roald studied the man more closely now.
"You're the reason he can vanish in plain sight."
A corner of the man's mouth lifted.
"He was good at it before me."
"But you helped."
"Yes."
The answer was simple. No pride in it. No claim.
Roald hesitated.
"Why did you leave?"
The question felt larger than the others.
The man went still.
Around them, the inn continued its steady murmur — spoons against bowls, low laughter, boots against wood. But at their table, something thinned.
"I thought I wanted something cleaner," the man said at last.
"Cleaner?"
"Straight lines. Measured streets. Places where things are built according to plan."
Roald frowned. "Honeyburrow has plans."
The man shook his head faintly.
"It grows. It bends. It shifts. Nothing stays where it was meant to. A fence leans and no one fixes it because it has learned the shape of the wind. A path widens because enough feet have decided it should." His gaze drifted somewhere past Roald. "It is… organic."
The word sounded almost foreign in his mouth.
"And you didn't like that?"
"I thought I didn't."
Roald watched him carefully. "And now?"
The man did not answer.
Instead, his eyes settled fully on Roald.
Something in them had changed.
Not warmer.
Sharper.
The ease that had rested between them thinned like mist burned away.
Roald felt it before he understood it — the subtle tightening in the air, as if a door somewhere had quietly shut.
"The competition," the man said at last.
Roald blinked. "What about it?"
"It begins in ten days."
"Yes."
The man's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Are you going to enter?"
The question caught Roald off guard.
"I—" He hesitated. "Sir. Wilkinson thinks I should."
"But you?" the man asked.
Roald swallowed. "I don't know yet."
A pause.
Long enough that Roald became aware of his own breathing again.
"And afterward," the man continued, "there will be a dinner."
Roald's stomach fluttered. "Yes…"
Another pause.
This one heavier.
"Do not eat anything he serves you."
The words landed softly.
But they did not feel soft.
Roald blinked. "What?"
The man held his gaze.
"The dinner after the competition," he said, each word measured. "Do not eat anything."
Roald's mind scrambled for meaning. "Why? Who—"
The man stood.
The chair legs scraped once against the floor.
For a moment he remained there, looking down at the boy. The seriousness in his face did not leave — but it softened at the edges.
Almost regretful.
Almost protective.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
Not broadly.
Just enough to crease the scar along his nose.
And without another word, he turned and walked toward the door.
The inn swallowed him as easily as it had before.
Roald sat very still.
The pottage in his bowl had gone cold.
And for the first time since arriving in Dillaclor, he wished Honeyburrow still leaned crookedly toward the river.
—------------------------------------------------------
The days that followed did not unfold loudly.
They settled.
Each morning the same bell rang at the same hour. Not a moment sooner. Not a moment later. Its tone was clear, neither hurried nor slow, as though time itself had been taught discipline.
Roald began to measure the city by it.
Vendors opened shutters in near unison. Street sweepers moved in straight lines, pushing dust toward waiting carts. Even the river traffic followed an observable rhythm — barges spaced as though arranged by ruler and ink.
Sir. Wilkinson allowed Roald to walk beside him through the merchant quarter on the second day.
"Observe," he said simply.
Roald did.
Stalls were aligned evenly along the stone edge of the square. No cart protruded beyond its mark. No awning sagged lower than its neighbor. Prices were written in identical script upon narrow boards, as if painted by the same careful hand.
A boy no older than Roald reached to adjust a stack of folded cloth that leaned slightly off-center.
Before he could finish, the stall keeper corrected it himself.
Not sharply.
Not angrily.
Just precisely.
"It must face the line," the man said.
Roald glanced at the paving stones.
A faint groove ran through them — a guide carved long ago to keep carts straight.
No one stepped across it casually.
On the third afternoon, Sir. Wilkinson dismissed Roald early and took a measured walk along a quieter corridor near the inner kitchens. He did not intend to wander far — only to acquaint himself with the layout of the palace road before the competition.
Servants moved in orderly pairs, carrying covered trays toward a side entrance.
Sir. Wilkinson stepped aside to give them room.
At the same moment, a man rounded the corner too quickly.
They collided — not violently, but enough to jar the balance of both. A folded cloth slipped from the man's arm and fell to the stone.
"My apologies," Sir. Wilkinson said at once, stooping to retrieve it.
The man was already reaching for it.
His sleeve shifted.
Along the inside of his wrist, just visible beneath the cuff, ran a thin seam of old burn — pale against the rest of his skin.
Their hands brushed.
The man's grip tightened briefly.
Not in anger.
Not in alarm.
In caution.
"It is nothing," the man said quietly. His voice was steady — low, measured, as though each word had been weighed before leaving him. "One must be careful what passes from hand to hand."
Sir. Wilkinson assumed the remark referred to the fallen cloth.
"Quite," he replied.
The man gathered the fabric back into place with careful precision. Each fold aligned. Each corner squared.
Then he inclined his head once — not deeply — and continued down the corridor, merging into the rhythm of the palace servants.
Sir. Wilkinson watched him for a moment longer than necessary.
There was nothing improper.
Nothing hurried.
And yet the man had looked at him not as one servant regards a guest —
But as one measuring another.
After a breath, Sir. Wilkinson resumed his walk.
On the fourth day, they passed a group of children reciting lessons outside a narrow schoolhouse. Their voices rose and fell together, even their mistakes synchronized.
Sir. Wilkinson slowed only slightly.
"What do you hear?" he asked.
"Memorization," Roald said.
Sir. Wilkinson nodded once.
They continued walking.
On the sixth day, Roald lingered near the central fountain while Sir. Wilkinson consulted with a guild clerk.
The fountain's water did not splash freely. It fell in measured arcs, engineered to land within a carved basin without spill. Even the moss along its edge had been trimmed back, leaving only a thin decorative border.
A girl tripped near the steps and scraped her knee.
Before she could cry, her mother knelt and brushed the dust away.
"You must watch where the stones direct you," she said gently.
Not where you step.
Where the stones direct you.
Roald felt something tighten in his chest.
On the eighth day, Sir. Wilkinson spent the afternoon reviewing documents in their room, lines of ink crossing and recrossing the page. He did not look troubled.
Only intent.
Roald wandered no farther than he had been permitted.
Near the palace road, he saw workers repainting a section of wall where the whitewash had dulled unevenly.
They worked carefully, blending the surface until no patch remained visible.
Nothing in Dillaclor was allowed to show its weathering.
By the eight evening, Roald could predict the bells before they rang.
He found himself adjusting his stride to match the pace of others without thinking.
It unsettled him.
Not because the city was cruel.
But because it required so little resistance.
When he mentioned this to Sir. Wilkinson that night, the craftsman listened without interruption.
"And what do you think of that?" Sir. Wilkinson asked.
Roald hesitated.
"It's easier," he said.
Sir. Wilkinson's gaze lingered on the unlit candle between them.
"Yes," he replied quietly. "It is."
—------------------------------------------------------
By the ninth day, Sir. Wilkinson had begun rising before the bells.
Roald woke once in the half-light to find him seated near the narrow window, sketchbook balanced against his knee. The page was filled with intersecting lines — not hull curves, not river craft — but angles. Measurements. Ratios.
"You're awake," Sir. Wilkinson said without turning.
"For a moment," Roald answered.
"Then sleep."
Roald did not.
He watched as his master erased a line and redrew it more narrowly.
On the following afternoon, Sir. Wilkinson requested a length of hardwood from a supplier near the eastern quarter.
Not for building.
For testing.
He had Roald plane it until the surface reflected light evenly across its grain.
"Again," he said once.
Roald frowned. "It's smooth."
"It is nearly smooth."
That word lingered.
Nearly.
Sir. Wilkinson ran his fingers across the wood, eyes closed.
"In Honeyburrow," he said quietly, "a hull may forgive a breath of deviation. The river compensates."
Roald waited.
"In a city built like this one," he continued, "deviation is visible."
He handed the plane back.
"Again."
On the ninth evening, a courier arrived with a folded notice bearing the seal of the competition committee.
Sir. Wilkinson read it once.
Then again.
He did not comment.
Roald shifted in his seat. "Is something wrong?"
"No."
A pause.
"Everything is precisely as described."
Roald was not sure why that unsettled him.
Later, as they prepared their tools, Sir. Wilkinson adjusted Roald's grip on the measuring square.
"Do not rush to impress," he said. "Accuracy is louder than flourish."
Roald nodded.
Sir. Wilkinson studied him a moment longer than necessary.
"You must decide," he added, "whether you wish to be seen — or understood."
Roald blinked. "Is there a difference?"
Sir. Wilkinson did not answer immediately.
"In some places," he said at last, "there is."
The room fell quiet after that.
Outside, the evening bell rang — measured, resonant, exact.
Sir. Wilkinson rose and crossed to the worktable. He lifted Roald's measuring square and turned it once in his hand.
"You built a steamcraft once," he said evenly.
Roald stiffened slightly.
"Yes."
"You built it before you knew what the guild required of you."
"I built it because I wanted to see if I could."
A faint nod.
"Good."
Sir. Wilkinson set down the square and slid a length of hardwood toward Roald.
"Show me how you would cut the housing for a pressure chamber."
Roald stepped forward without hesitation. He marked the wood swiftly, confidently — the angle bold, slightly unconventional.
Sir. Wilkinson watched without interruption.
Roald positioned the chisel.
"Stop."
Roald froze.
"Before you cut," Sir. Wilkinson said, "tell me where the strain will travel."
Roald frowned. "Through the rear joint."
"Where else?"
A pause.
"The lower seam."
"And?"
Roald exhaled slowly.
"The lid. If pressure builds unevenly."
Sir. Wilkinson nodded.
"Mastery is seeing the failure before the cut."
He adjusted Roald's grip — not the design, only the leverage.
"Your steamcraft worked," he continued. "But it argued with itself."
Roald's jaw tightened.
"It was brilliant," Sir. Wilkinson added calmly. "And impatient."
The word lingered.
"In a place like this," Sir. Wilkinson said, glancing briefly toward the straight mortar line of the opposite wall, "noise is corrected."
Roald absorbed that.
"If you choose to build steam," Sir. Wilkinson continued, "do not announce it. Hide the innovation in the joints. Let the exterior appear compliant."
Roald looked up.
"You think I should build it?"
Sir. Wilkinson regarded him carefully.
"I think," he said, "you should build what you can control."
A beat passed.
Then Roald asked the question that had been circling since the notice arrived.
"Are you entering as well?"
Sir. Wilkinson's expression shifted — not softer, not harsher. Simply direct.
"Yes."
Roald straightened slightly.
Sir. Wilkinson held his gaze.
"And I am not letting anyone overshadow my work," he said plainly. "Including you."
There was no challenge in it.
No hidden lesson.
Only fact.
Roald felt the weight of it settle — not as discouragement, but as measure.
He was thirteen.
The hall would not care.
The ruler would not care.
Nux would not care.
Skill would stand alone.
Sir. Wilkinson stepped back.
"You will not be given space," he said. "You must take it."
Roald nodded once.
Then, without further prompting, he closed his eyes and traced the invisible paths of pressure through the wood in his mind.
He adjusted the angle slightly.
Cut.
The blade moved cleanly.
No tear.
No hesitation.
Sir. Wilkinson watched the shavings fall in thin, obedient spirals.
"That," he said quietly, "is control."
Roald set the piece down. He did not smile.
He was recalculating.
The steamcraft would not be abandoned.
It would be refined.
Stronger. Quieter. Inevitable.
Across the room, Sir. Wilkinson aligned the tools within their case — edges parallel, handles flush, no shadow between them.
"You must decide," he said, closing the lid, "whether you want the city to admire you."
Roald looked at the wood in his hands.
"Or?"
"Or whether you want it to underestimate you."
The final evening bell sounded — precise, unhurried.
Beyond the narrow window, Dillaclor held its shape. Steps corrected themselves. Voices stayed within measure. Stone did not bend.
Sir. Wilkinson extinguished the lamp.
In the darkness, neither master nor apprentice spoke.
The morning would come on time.
And beneath carved arches, under the ruler's composed gaze and Nux's patient attention, wood would meet blade.
Not to display imagination.
But to measure alignment.