Gorath felt the calluses on Locke's hand.
Not the pampered smoothness of courtly men who never lifted more than a quill.
No—this was a man who had held tools, and weapons in times of war.
The suit was tailored to his build, yes, the tie an elegant dark pattern—but the hands betrayed him. Not the soft, idle hands most nobles or officials had.
They let go.
"I know you've all come a long way," Locke Wright said, already turning as he unbuttoned his coat. "So I won't waste your time."
There was something unhurried about his pace, but it wasn't slow.
He led them to the base of the transparent elevator, glancing around the building as if searching for something.
Then his attention shifted briefly to his hires before settling on the elevator's front.
He paused, one foot hovering just above the threshold, then glanced back at the group.
"You ever ridden one?" he asked, hand poised near the control panel.
Gorath replied without hesitation. "We've got several. In the manor, and a few more in the old tower estate. They're not new to us."
Locke smirked. "Not the mechanical kind."
He pressed something—nothing visibly moved, no button depressed, no lever thrown—but the floor beneath them gave a subtle pulse, a quiet thump, and the elevator began gliding downward.
It wasn't like the lifts Gorath was used to.
Most had the sound of rumbling, and if you touched the walls, you could feel the vibration of gears catching and chains straining under the weight.
But this—this felt effortless.
A silent motion.
Like sinking through water without the wet.
The transparent cylindrical walls allowed a full view of the shaft around them.
And that's what let them see the outside.
Stone. Natural rock. A tunnel bored smooth by precision. The lighting changed subtly as they descended, strips of soft white light weaving like veins across the carved walls.
"This is a basement?" Volker muttered, watching it pass.
"Looks more like a mine," Cheng added.
Gorath said nothing, but his brow furrowed. He'd expected brass. He'd expected concrete.
This meant they either didn't have the time or money to pretty it up—or they simply didn't care.
This place is not for the public to see, he concluded.
The platform slowed, then settled with a hiss of air against the floor. The doors parted without sound.
Locke stepped out first, still not saying anything.
They followed.
Two guards flanked the corridor ahead, their spears polished, their round shields stamped with the Lockewright sigil.
They were talking in low voices—until they saw who emerged from the elevator.
The reaction was immediate. One straightened. The other stopped mid-sentence.
They gave Locke a simple nod.
That was it.
No military salute. No heel-clicking or shouted announcement. Just a nod. Recognition, respect, and immediate clearance.
They stepped aside, allowing the group to pass into the next chamber.
The hall they entered was colder. More utilitarian.
Grey polished cement walls stretched wide, coated in a dull reflective sheen—like someone had tried to make a vault look tasteful.
Pipes ran along the upper edge, and you could hear something flowing through them, softly.
The scent was sterile—a mix of chemicals and cleaning agents, overlaid with a floral blend trying hard to mask the former.
Then they reached a door.
Massive. Round. Thick as a war wagon's wheels turned on end.
It had no handles. Just a panel in the center.
Locke stepped up, placed his hand against the console, then keyed something in without speaking—making sure no one behind him could peek at the passcode.
The door shuddered.
It didn't slide open so much as... fold. Five metal panels withdrew inward like petals pulling back from the center of a flower, revealing an interior soaked in white light.
They stepped inside.
Gorath's eyes narrowed instinctively. Not because of what he saw—but because of how focused everyone inside was.
No one looked up.
A dozen engineers worked at once, in silence broken only by the scratching of styluses on slate, the mutter of mental math, or the occasional chime from an ether-calculator.
At the far wall, a large blueprint—half-drawn, smeared with red wax, layers upon layers of angular sketches—stretched across a reinforced glass display.
At its center: a weapon.
A siege engine.
No. Bigger.
In a side room walled with transparent crystal, two more engineers hunched over a half-constructed rig.
One tapped at a dial.
The other ducked low and fired a test bolt into a small dummy shaped like a human.
The hit sent it flying backward into the far wall, denting the steel lining.
Though impressive, something else immediately captured their attention.
The main room—the center stage—there it stood.
A massive construct. Its frame marked with blue ink, scrawled numbers, notes, annotations.
Bronzed bones reinforced with mana circuitry, curved plating of steelwood alloy, a rotation platform beneath that must've weighed half a ton.
The barrels—plural—angled in a triad formation, wound with glowing conduits that pulsed gently even at rest.
Gorath stopped walking.
Even Volker made a sound—barely audible, but real.
And Cheng, eyes wide, stepped forward, breath catching in his throat.
"That's it?" he asked. "That's the weapon?"
Locke Wright smiled as he saw their faces.
He knew these men were hard to surprise.
But seeing that look on them—his smile widened.
What he was about to say might've been even more surprising.
"Only the prototype."