​Night in Iron Hearth had its own frequency.

​It wasn’t the sound of crickets or the chirping of nocturnal birds—that was far too poetic for a city whose breath was soot. The sound of the night here was a low hum of machines that never truly died, the hiss of steam—Hsssss—from the giant chimneys of factories that stayed awake twenty-four hours a day, and the occasional faint rumble of freight trains on magnetic rails. All of it was muffled, seeping through the gaps in the thick stone castle walls like a mechanical heartbeat.

​In the workshop of the Alpha Building, Rianor Sudrath sat motionless.

​His workbench, usually cluttered with the guts of various machines, now appeared unusually empty, leaving a strange, hollow space. The expedition gear from Project Legion had been neatly arranged on the shelves since the afternoon. The Mana Core was locked securely inside a drawer. The crystal tablet containing the data of Orion and Elias was perfectly encrypted. Even the ancient maps had been rolled up without a single corner being folded.

​Everything had returned to its place. Except for Rianor’s thoughts.

​He twirled a small screwdriver in his hand without any real intention of using it. Click, click, click. The tip of the screwdriver tapped the surface of the desk in a constant rhythm. His eyes stared at the empty wall in front of him, but his mind was replaying the recordings in the cockpit of the Annihilator. Orion’s raspy voice, Elias’s gaze, and the weight of a promise that now hung heavily on his shoulders.

​"Wake him up... or destroy him. But do not let him be trapped forever."

​Click.

​The workshop door opened without a prior knock. Rianor didn’t flinch, nor did he turn around. In this castle, there was only one person who dared to violate his privacy so silently at this hour.

​"Hmm, I thought you were already in the land of dreams," Rianor murmured as he set down his screwdriver.

​"Tsk, I couldn’t close my eyes." Roland entered, pushing the door shut with his heel. In both hands, he carried two metal mugs that were still emitting clouds of hot steam. The sharp aroma of roasted coffee beans wafted through the air, overpowering the smell of machine oil that usually dominated the room. "And I knew you’d be ’fighting’ with your own head too. So, take this."

​Roland placed one mug in front of his brother. Pitch black, no sugar—exactly how Rianor liked it, practical and bitter. The other mug, slightly paler due to a splash of milk, he brought to his own lips.

​Rianor took a slow sip of the coffee. Gulp. The heat traveled down his throat, enough to jolt his stiffening nerves. "Thank you."

​Roland pulled over a simple wooden technician’s stool—not a plush guest chair—and sat with his legs crossed. They fell silent. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; it was the ancient language of two people who had endured a great deal together.

​"So, your expedition is officially closed?" Roland finally broke the silence after the third sip.

​"It is."

​"Data secure?"

​"Secure."

​"Father?"

​"I met him last night."

​Roland nodded slowly. He didn’t press Rianor to tell him what happened inside The Vault. As a diplomat, he knew when to push and when to give space. Tonight, Rianor looked like an overloaded machine.

​"I heard the school went well this morning," Roland remarked, trying to steer the current of his brother’s thoughts.

​Rianor stared into his mug. "Elara taught the first day."

​"How was she?"

​"Hmm, she told me about a little girl—what was her name, Mira?—who managed to write her own name. Only nine years old. First time in her life." Rianor paused for a moment, the corner of his lips lifting slightly without him realizing it. "Elara was so happy. I could feel it in her voice."

​"Wait, you didn’t go?"

​"I’m not a teacher, Roland."

​Roland let out a soft laugh, the sound echoing off the workshop walls. "You designed the architecture, you drew up the technical curriculum, and yet you were absent on the first day? Tsk, you really are..."

​"I don’t like crowds."

​"Or you just don’t like being stared at."

​"That too."

​Roland sipped his coffee again, his eyes observing his brother’s profile, which looked more haggard under the light of the crystal lamps. "Sometimes I wonder. You can create war machines, magnetic trains, even a school as grand as that... but you still feel like running away every time you have to sit in front of a crowd."

​"I don’t create things to be praised, Roland. I do it because... because it’s what I can do." Rianor stared at his reflection on the surface of the coffee. "It’s the only way I know to ensure everything doesn’t fall apart again."

​Roland went silent for a moment. He swirled his mug. "Do you ever feel... not enough?"

​Rianor looked up, his eyes meeting his brother’s gaze. "Huh? What do you mean?"

​"Not smart enough. Not strong enough. Not dignified enough." Roland stared blankly at the corner of the room. "I feel it every time I face a problem I can’t solve with my tongue."

​Rianor let out a short sigh and leaned back against the hard back of his chair. "Every day. Every time an experiment fails. Every time a machine I built explodes. Every time a life is lost because I wasn’t fast enough to find a solution." He looked at Roland with a rare, honest gaze. "Yes, I feel it every single day."

​"Then how do you deal with it?"

​"I don’t deal with it," Rianor answered coldly. "I just keep working. I keep turning bolts, I keep connecting wires. Because if I stop, that feeling of ’not being enough’ will swallow me alive."

​Roland swallowed hard. He was used to seeing Rianor as a bedrock—cold, unshakable, and always having an answer. But tonight, in the quiet workshop, he saw the cracks in that bedrock.

​"I’ll be honest with you," Roland whispered. "It’s about Seraphina."

​Rianor sharpened his attention.

​"She’s coming the day after tomorrow. And I... I really don’t know what to say." Roland ran his fingers through his hair, looking frustrated. "This is ridiculous. I can negotiate with the most stubborn kings, persuade war generals, or manipulate councils of merchants. But facing her... I’m like a child who has lost his words."

​"It’s because you care about her."

​Roland looked up, his face flushing slightly.

​"If you didn’t care," Rianor continued flatly, "you would easily weave lies or sweet words. To you, everyone out there is just a chess piece. But Seraphina isn’t a piece, is she? What is she to you?"

​The question hung heavy in the air. Roland didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the wall, at the table, doing anything to avoid eye contact.

​"She’s... different," Roland’s voice weakened. "With her, I don’t feel like I have to be ’Roland the Diplomat.’ I don’t need to wear a mask or a strategy. I just need to be... myself."

​Rianor remained silent, listening.

​"But that’s also what scares me," Roland continued. "Because if I show her who I truly am—without the title, without the silver tongue—and she rejects me... then what is rejected is ’me.’ The real Roland. Not my role."

​Silence fell again, thicker this time.

​"You know," Rianor finally spoke, "I felt the exact same way before I proposed to Elara."

​Roland blinked. "Oh, really?"

​"I’m not an orator like you. I don’t know how to craft poetic sentences. So, when I proposed to her... I gave her a presentation on mana energy efficiency."

​Roland nearly choked on his coffee. "What? Are you serious?"

​"The ring... I attached a micro-crystal that functioned as a mana stabilizer. I explained voltage, frequency, and resonance to her for an hour."

​"And she accepted?"

​"She said it was the most romantic thing she had ever heard."

​Roland burst into laughter, truly letting go this time. "She said that because she’s just as crazy as you are, Brother!"

​"Perhaps." Rianor took a sip of his cooling coffee. "But the point is... I was also scared to death back then. Scared she would see that behind the title of ’The Inventor,’ I was just an awkward man who didn’t know how to treat a woman. And thinking that I wasn’t enough for her."

​"Then why did you keep going?"

​Rianor looked at his brother sharply. "Because I realized that if I didn’t do it then, I would regret it for the rest of my life. Fear is painful, Roland. But regret? Regret is a poison that kills you slowly. And I don’t want to die because of that."

​Roland went quiet, absorbing every word his brother said. Not poetic, but honest. Brutally honest.

​"Are you still afraid? Now?" Roland asked softly.

​"Every day," Rianor replied without hesitation. "Afraid of failing to protect her. Afraid that one day she’ll realize she deserves a better man than me."

​"But you don’t stop."

​"No. Because she chose me that day. And as long as she still chooses me... I will do everything to be worthy of her. That is enough."

​Roland was stunned. He placed his empty mug on the table. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

​"Sometimes I still dream of riding a motorcycle in Bandung," Roland remarked suddenly, his voice filled with nostalgia.

​Rianor gave a faint smile. A sudden change of topic, yet he followed the flow. "I still remember the smell of the gasoline. Here... it just smells like scorched steam engine oil."

​"Gasoline smells better, doesn’t it?"

​"The smell gives me a headache, Roland."

​Roland chuckled. "You’re always like that. I say A, you say B."

​"That’s my function as an older brother."

​Earth felt very far away now. The winding roads on the mountainside, the scent of mountain air, the sound of a motorcycle engine—all of it they might never touch again. But mentioning it once in a while felt like opening a small window in the middle of a dark room.

​"I’ll face her," Roland said firmly. "Whatever the result may be the day after tomorrow."

​Rianor nodded with satisfaction. "Good."

​"But if I fail miserably... you better have a seat ready in this workshop. I might need a place to hide for a month."

​"That seat is always empty for you."

​Roland smiled, standing up. "Thanks, Brother."

​There was nothing left to say. Outside, the hum of Iron Hearth’s machines continued—like the heartbeat of a city that refused to die.

​They just sat there, two brothers cast far from home, trying to build a new world on top of the fears they fought every day.