FIRST STEP
Drak left the Tribute Memorial Library with a jumble of thoughts swirling in his head, the half-formed plan simmering somewhere between hope and uncertainty as he realized things were now going into motion. As he left the library courtyard and found his steam-bike, the streets of Tribute greeted him with the same mid-day commotion. Steam carts rumbled by, townsfolk moved about their business, and the ever-present hum of steam-powered machinery filled in Tribute’s background. Drak barely noticed. His mind was focused on the next task: he needed a direhound control collar. Preferably, one that was no longer working.
He hadn’t forgotten about the small shop he’d stumbled upon the day before while looking for the replacement gyroscope, Antiques and Mechanical Curiosities. The name had stuck with him, not for any particular reason, but because of what he’d seen in the shop window. An old control collar, dated and worn, but intact. At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it, but now, it was exactly what he needed to make this plan work.
Turning his bike down a narrow street in the market district, Drak spotted the shop once more. It wasn’t much to look at, just a narrow storefront wedged between two larger buildings, with a cluttered window display that was easy to overlook. He slowed his steam-bike to a halt, parking it a few feet from the entrance. The collar was still there, sitting amidst other oddities in the window, its iron and copper fittings catching the light along its boxy edges. It wasn’t flashy, and it looked like it had seen far better days, but that was part of the charm, or at least, that was the story he planned to tell. For now, it seemed, fate was on his side.
He took a deep breath and stepped inside. A small bell above the door jingled faintly as he entered. The shop was cramped, packed with mechanical curiosities, tarnished brass instruments, and old trinkets that looked like they hadn't moved in years. Dust caught by the light in the air, was stirred by the faint hiss of steam from some unknown contraption in the corner.
Drak glanced around, pretending to browse. His fingers brushed over the various items on display, between rusty tools, old time-keepers, and a few gadgets that seemed far too outdated to be useful. He could feel the eyes of the shopkeeper on him, an older man with wispy gray hair seated behind the counter who kept furtively peeking over at him from the article he was reading in the paper.
Drak wandered for a few moments longer, playing the part of a casual shopper, before the man cleared his throat.
“Looking for something specific, lad?”
Drak turned, putting on an easy smile as he hastily thought of a believable tale. “Actually, yeah. It’s my mother—she loves old antiques. We were in town the other day, and she saw something here that she liked.”
The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow, curious but patient. “Oh? And what might that be?”
Drak hesitated, then nodded toward the front window. “That old control collar you’ve got in the display. She thought it was interesting, said it reminded her of some stories from her childhood or something like that. Figured I’d pick it up for her as a gift.”
The shopkeeper squinted at him, clearly intrigued but not overly suspicious. “That old thing, eh? Can’t say I’ve had much demand for collars like that in years. Most folks don’t bother with the antiques when the new models are so much more efficient.”
“Yeah, I know,” Drak replied, trying to keep his tone light. “But, you know how it is. Some people like the old stuff—has more character, I guess.”
The shopkeeper leaned back, folding his arms. “Well, you’re in luck. I’ve been meaning to clear out the window anyway, and that collar’s been sitting there collecting dust for who knows how long. I’d be happy to part with it, but I’ll tell you straight, lad—it’s more of a display piece now. The internal parts are completely rusted out, so I doubt it’s got any bite left in it, especially without the handler's remote.”
Drak nodded, doing his best to appear casual in lieu of the nervous energy building inside him. “That’s fine. It’s just a gift, after all. How much do you want for it?”
The shopkeeper scratched his chin for a moment, then shrugged. “Twenty coppers should do it. Consider it a bargain for a piece of history.”
Relief washed over Drak as he fumbled for the coins, pulling them from his leather pouch and handing them over. Twenty coppers, far less than he’d expected. This part of the plan was going smoother than he could’ve hoped.
The shopkeeper took the coins, and got up from his stool with a grunt. He approached and carefully lifted the collar from the window display, inspecting it briefly before presenting it to Drak. Up close, it looked even more worn than he’d realized. With scuffs along the metal, the engravings were barely visible beneath the tarnish, and the leather fitting strap was dry, its edges cracking from age and lack of oiling. But it was still sturdy, and looked the part for what he needed.
“Here you go,” the shopkeeper said, handing it over. “Might want to polish it up a bit if you’re giving it as a gift. And don’t expect it to handle anything too... wild.”
Drak smirked at the joke. If only you knew, he mused to himself before he gave the shopkeeper a grateful nod. “I’ll keep that in mind, but I’m sure it’s going to find a new spot on a shelf somewhere in the house to collect more dust, anyway. Thanks.”
With the hefty collar now tucked under his arm, Drak made his way back out of the shop, hearing the bell chime softly as the door swung shut behind him. He paused for a moment, staring down at the old control collar in his hands. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now. One problem solved, at least.
Now, there was still the more difficult part ahead, getting a new collar, and one that looked legitimate enough to pass, for that, he’d need to lie through his teeth. The thought made his stomach churn.
Mounting his steam-bike, Drak revved the engine and set off again. Next stop: a distributor. He needed to get his story straight, and fast. Immediately, the person who came to mind was his wealthy uncle, Garvin, owner of Ridgewell Aeronautics. Uncle Garvin's company was founded on the specialized production and distribution of high-performance fabrics and materials used in both military and civilian airships. Since then, his uncle had come out with countless other marvels in steam-powered aeronautic technology that made his company a top competitor. The name carried influence in the city, and his uncle had owned a couple direhounds in the past, which would fit Drak's narrative. Perhaps, he thought, I could use the excuse that Uncle Garvin is sending me on a paid errand to collect a new collar.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he had. He just hoped it would be enough to keep any suspicion off him. He had no idea if this plan would work, but there was no turning back now. The business district was his best bet. If he could find a new collar, he could pull off his ruse.
The streets of Tribute grew busier as he made his way toward the city’s heart, the towering buildings of the business district looming in the distance. His eyes scanned the storefronts, looking for anything that might sell what he needed, when a polished chrome sign caught his eye: Echelon Innovations.
Drak knew the name. Everyone did. The company sold cutting-edge equipment and tools for the wealthy and elite. If anyone could supply a new control collar, it would be them. As he parked his bike, his mind drifted to his uncle Garvin. Drak hated the idea of having to use his uncle’s name, but this was the only way his story would stick.
He straightened his jacket as he took a deep breath, and walked into the shop, the old collar tucked beneath his arm. The store gleamed with polished metal displays, various tools, and gadgets housed under glass. Steam and clockwork devices hummed quietly, and bright lights illuminated every corner. He even caught the occasional whimsical propeller-shaped logo of his uncles' business, Ridgewell Aeronautics, on some of the contraptions. The sales counter was manned by a neatly dressed attendant wearing spiffy suspenders, who immediately caught sight of Drak as he approached.
“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you today?” The attendant’s tone was polite, but there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes as they shifted to the old collar under Drak’s arm.
Drak forced a smile and began his rehearsed story. “I’m here on behalf of my uncle, Garvin Ridgewell. He’s in need of a new control collar for one of his direhounds, and I need to place an order for an updated one. Something about temporary registration paperwork? I’m just here to purchase a new one for him.”
At the mention of Ridgewell, the attendant’s eyebrows rose a fraction. His expression shifted, interested now, respectful even, but not the slightest bit alarmed over the legalities. To Echelon Innovations, a sale was a sale, and based on everything Drak had read earlier at the library, there was no limit to the number of direhound control collars one could own.
He smiled slightly, nodding as if this were a common occurrence. “I see, for Mr. Ridgewell,” the attendant’s gaze flicked to one of his uncle's patented aeronautic products on the shelf, “We can certainly take care of that. For transparency’s sake, I must inform you we don’t carry stock collars for sale here—what we have are display models for customers to examine, but placing an order for a new one shouldn’t be an issue.”
Drak let out a breath of relief.
So far, so good.
“We’ll need to take measurements from the older model,” the attendant continued, gesturing to the collar. “That way the new one will match the proper fit. If you’ll follow me, we’ll begin.”
Drak followed him to a narrow workbench in the back. The attendant lifted the old collar with a grimace, its rusted hinges and dull copper plate clearly unimpressive compared to the gleaming devices displayed in the shop. He set it down and began measuring its segments with feeler gauges and a set of calipers.
As he worked, the man frowned thoughtfully. “This is… quite an antique. Probably Late-Steam Era design, judging by the resonance chambers. You see here—” he tapped a small, mesh-covered port at the base “—this still uses ultrasound command whistle technology.”
Drak blinked. “Uh… what does that mean, exactly?”
The attendant brightened, showing how clearly delighted he was to explain.
“Old collars like this relied on a mechanical receiver embedded inside the housing. When activated by the whistle remote, a high-frequency tone—far above human hearing—was emitted to trigger the shock mechanism inside the collar. The technology was crude, but wickedly effective. Unfortunately, the reliability dropped over time as the internal receiver ages. Dust, rust, even humidity could distort the signal.”
He set the collar down with a faint metallic clack and gestured to one of the sleeker models under glass.
“These days we use something far superior: the patented Clockwork Radio Key system. No more whistles. Instead, it’s a tiny rotating drum inside a handheld remote—precision-crafted—that produces a patterned electromagnetic chirp when the key is turned. The collar receives that chirp through a resonant coil and… well, you can imagine the rest.”
Drak nodded as if he understood, though the explanation mostly slid off his mind like water off slate. He just knew it sounded clean, modern, and expensive enough to sell the lie.
“And,” the attendant added with a hint of pride, “a man like Mr. Ridgewell would never be caught purchasing something as outdated as whistle-tech. The Clockwork Radio Key is the industry standard now.”
Drak swallowed. “Right. Yes. That makes sense.”
The attendant returned to his measurements. “Alright. We can base your new collar on this older model’s specifications but with full modern upgrades. I’ll have it shipped in. Meanwhile, you’ll receive the temporary registration paperwork today. The collar itself will take about a week to arrive.”
“How much?” Drak asked, already dreading the answer.
The attendant gave the kind of smile that preceded bad news.
The attendant gave him a practiced smile, the kind people give when they know the price is going to sting. “That’ll be 10 gold crowns for the custom collar, including the document you’ll need for your uncle’s permit.”
Drak felt his stomach drop. 10 gold crowns! That was nearly all he had left after his shopping spree yesterday, but he couldn’t hesitate, not now. If he showed any doubt, the entire story could fall apart. He gave a short nod, swallowing his discomfort.
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“Alright. I’ll take it,” Drak said, keeping his voice steady.
The attendant didn’t bat an eye, clearly more interested in making the sale than questioning Drak’s ability to pay. He rang up the order, and Drak counted out the gold pieces one by one, each coin slipping from his fingers as if it weighed more than it should. By the time he was done, he had little more than a handful of silver left in his pouch.
Once the transaction was complete, the attendant retrieved a sheet of thick, embossed paper and began filling it out, stamping it with the store’s seal of authenticity. “This is your official document stating that a new control collar has been ordered. You can present it to whichever authority may need to see it.”
Drak took the paper, feeling its significance in his hands. It was real. And it was an official document, complete with the Echelon Innovations seal and signatures. It was exactly what he needed to push his plan forward.
“Thank you,” Drak said, tucking the paper carefully into his jacket. The attendant gave a courteous nod as Drak turned and left the shop, stepping out into the busy street.
He took a deep breath, hefting the old control collar. Another step complete. All he had to do now was keep the momentum going. He reached his steam-bike and secured the collar in place by draping it around the handle bars.
Drak revved the steam-bike. It hummed softly beneath him as he rode through the streets, his mind listing with thoughts of what he was about to do next. His entire life, he had stayed on the right side of the law, never even coming close to crossing a line. Now, he was about to forge documents. An act that could land him in serious trouble if caught. His thoughts drifted back to Nalli, her burdened eyes, the wounds she bore, and the way she had sat alone in the barn, lost in thought. She was worth the risk, he told himself.
The Department of Vital Records was located in one of the most pristine parts of the city, adjacent to the towering government buildings that housed Tribute’s lawmakers and financial elite. As Drak approached, the buildings around him grew taller and more grandiose, their polished stone facades and copper trellises gleaming in the midday light. This part of the city had a firm air of authority compared to the more industrial and modest areas Drak usually frequented.
The security here was much more pronounced as well, and that fact only added to his anxiety. City guards, dressed in their brightly colored blue uniforms, marched in pairs, watching over the bustling streets with attentive eyes. Their presence was meant to be reassuring, but to Drak, it was suffocating. He could feel the pressure of what he was about to do settling deeper within his soul with each passing second.
Drak tried to calm his nerves, but it wasn't easy. He was about to enter one of the most tightly regulated buildings in Tribute. There would be forms, officials, and eyes everywhere. Just keep your head down, he reminded himself. Stick to the plan, and no one will suspect anything.
As he rounded a corner, a sight ahead made his heart leap into his throat.
A full squad of eight Roughriders.
The Roughriders were Tribute’s elite soldiers, known for their militance, discipline, and deadly efficiency. Mounted on tall, sleek war horses, each soldier was outfitted with mechanical spring-powered leg enhancements that made running and leaping easier compared to the average man. They patrolled the streets in perfect formation. Each rider was clad in reinforced scaled armor, their revolving rifles gleaming in the morning light on their backs, and pointed sharp helmets on their heads that sloped menacingly to the rear. They moved with a stoic confidence that made them both revered and feared.
The squad moved with well-rehearsed training, their formation perfect and unyielding. Their mere presence seemed to suffocate the air, silencing the usual city hum. The lead rider lifted a gauntleted hand, his voice booming through the streets. “Clear the way! Out of the road!” The command sent a ripple of panic through the crowd.
Shopkeepers scrambled to pull carts out of the path, and pedestrians darted for the edges of the street. A man hauling a crate hesitated a moment too long, earning a glare from one of the Roughriders. The rider urged his horse forward, forcing the man to stumble aside, spilling his cargo in the process. The Roughriders didn’t pause or glance back as they moved through the city like an armored stampede, leaving chaos in their wake.
Drak felt his pulse quicken. These were the very people trained to sniff out threats and troublemakers. They were on the lookout for anything suspicious, and he couldn’t afford to attract their attention.
He kept his head low as the squad passed by, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. His grip on the handlebars tightened, knuckles white. The Roughriders moved past him, their horses’ hooves clattering against the cobblestone streets. For a brief, agonizing moment, he feared one of them might stop, turn around, and question him. Drak’s mind raced with all the possible ways this could go wrong. For the briefest moment, he allowed himself to glance up. The Roughriders were already rounding another corner, their imposing silhouettes disappearing into the city’s labyrinth of streets leaving only the thunderous clatter of their horse’s hooves and their reputation in their wake.
Drak allowed himself to exhale from the breath he’d been holding.
He pulled into a side alley to gather his thoughts, parking his steam-bike out of sight. His hands were trembling, though whether from fear or adrenaline, he couldn’t tell. He leaned against the cool brick wall of a nearby building, taking a moment to compose himself. I have to get it together—panicking won’t help now.
Pushing off the wall, Drak steeled himself and stepped back onto the main road. The grand bureaucratic building of the Department of Vital Records loomed just ahead, its four-story facade built with architectural masterwork. Massive, fluted columns rose from its wide stone staircase to support its upper floors. A polished copper dome crowned the top of the structure, gleaming in the midday light, casting a brilliant reflection that radiated the building’s unspoken authority.
Uniformed guards stood sentinel at the bottom of the stairs, their unreadable faces shadowed by helmets adorned with plumes of brass. More guards patrolled the upper balconies, their eyes scanning the streets below for any signs of disturbance.
Drak swallowed hard as he approached, the polished stone steps seeming to stretch higher with each step forward. The grand double doors at the top might as well have been gates to a fortress. Every creak of his boots sounded impossibly loud in his ears, and the nagging feeling that every guard and passerby could see straight through him boiled in his chest. He reached the last step.
This was it. No turning back now.
Drak stood outside the door of the Department of Vital Records, clutching the old control collar in his hand. The antique device, though wiped clean of its dust and grime, still looked worn and battered. He wasn’t sure if bringing it along would help his case, but it made his story feel more convincing. The reassuring weight of it in his palm gave him some comfort as he prepared to step inside.
He pushed against the heavy metal doors and stepped inside.
The interior was even more overwhelming than the building’s grand exterior. A vast rotunda stretched out before him, its polished marble floor gleaming under the golden light streaming in from a series of arched windows high above. The walls were paneled in rich, dark wood, carved with intricate motifs of gears and scrollwork. Above it all, the dome’s interior was painted with a sprawling mural of the landscape of Ardraelion, complete with human figures that nearly looked alive as their arms outstretched over the borders of conquered wilderness.
Taking a deep breath, he climbed the stone steps and entered the building, immediately engulfed by the sounds of bustling activity. Clerks and officials moved in every direction, their heels clicking on the polished marble floor, while denizens waited in lines or hurried about their business. The place was far grander than any building Drak had ever visited, and the sheer formality of it all made his stomach churn.
The hum of activity within the building was almost deafening. Clerks in crisp uniforms scurried between tall counters, carrying stacks of papers and stamping documents. Tribute’s citizens stood in orderly lines, their subdued chatter mingling with the echo of voices reverberating against the stone floor. Massive cabinets lined the far walls, and a grand staircase spiraled upwards, its brass railings catching the light and glinting gold.
Drak hesitated just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping across the intimidating scene. Everything about this place screamed authority, from the towering columns that framed the entryway to the meticulously dressed officials who moved about with an air of rigid bureaucracy. He felt impossibly small, as if the sheer formality of the space could crush him if he didn’t tread carefully. The feeling compounded in his mind.
He was about to commit a criminal act, after all.
All for Nalli, he reminded himself.
Clutching the collar tightly, he took a tentative step forward, his boots barely making a sound against the marble. His heart pounded as he approached the nearest line with a suspended sign that read: Registration & Permits. his every move rubbing against his nerves and by the ever pressing feeling that he didn’t belong here.
His thoughts were interrupted as the line moved forward, inching him closer to the counter. He gripped the collar tighter, feeling its cold metal digging into his palm. Every second felt longer, his nerves building with each passing moment.
His feet started to ache from standing until, finally, after what felt like an eternity, Drak found himself next in line. He took another breath to steady himself and stepped forward when called.
The official behind the counter was a steely-eyed woman with an air of no-nonsense authority. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her glasses were perched low on her nose as she looked at Drak with a measured glance.
“How can the department assist you today?” she asked, her tone bureaucratically formal.
Drak cleared his throat, feeling his pulse quicken. He gingerly placed the collar on the counter between them, hoping it would lend some legitimacy to his story. “Yes, ma'am, I'm here to pick up a temporary registration permit for a direhound. The old one here... well, it’s malfunctioned. My uncle sent me to handle the paperwork for him.”
The official raised an eyebrow and glanced down at the collar on the counter. “Your uncle, you say? And who, exactly, is your uncle?”
Drak swallowed hard, forcing himself to maintain eye contact despite the dryness in his throat. His mind raced, but he stuck to the plan.
“Garvin Ridgewell,” he said, hoping the name would carry enough significance to smooth things over like it had before. “He’s the owner of Ridgewell Aeronautics. He’s been having some trouble with his direhound’s control collar, so he asked me to take care of the paperwork while he’s tied up with business.”
The official’s sharp gaze lingered on Drak for a moment, her expression unreadable. She reached for the old collar, examining it with a practiced eye. The room seemed to grow quieter around them, the din of activity fading into the background as Drak waited for her to speak.
“Ridgewell Aeronautics, you say…” she muttered, turning the collar over in her hands. She appeared to be weighing her options, but her face remained impassive. “This collar is an old model. They haven’t issued these in years.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here,” Drak replied, forcing calm into his voice. “It’s outdated and malfunctioning. We had to order a new collar today, and I was told I could handle the temporary registration paperwork in the meantime. I have the Echelon Innovations letterhead as proof of purchase, if you need it?”
The woman studied him carefully, her lips pursed. She set the collar down, her fingers drumming lightly on the counter. “I won’t be able to issue a temporary registration for malfunctioning devices without proper documentation on the direhound’s status, first. Is the direhound in question currently unregistered?”
Drak’s stomach flipped. He wasn’t expecting the question, but he nodded, trying to maintain his calm demeanor. He was glad he spent the whole morning reading up on the direhound statutes. He remembered a subsection that stated newly acquired direhounds were given a thirty-day lenience to allow the owner time to complete the registration process: the only caveat to that technicality was that direhounds in that situation were required to be housed in a secure facility under lock and key. He figured she couldn’t verify that, and he used the information to make his tale more credible. “Yes, ma’am. He’s had her for less than thirty days. She’s secure now at his estate. My uncle is in the process of updating all the paperwork, but the collar gave out before he could get everything finalized. That’s why I needed to place an order for a new one and get the temporary paperwork sorted. He can’t afford for the direhound to go unregistered for long.”
The official’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she pulled out a large, official, records log and began flipping through its pages. The bureaucratic hum of the building returned, and Drak could feel the tension in his shoulders.
“I will need to verify the details before processing the request,” she said, still flipping through the book. “In the meantime, I’ll require the direhound’s name and any identification marks it may have. You’ll also need to fill out the proper documentation. We don’t typically issue these permits unless there’s evidence of urgency.”
Drak swallowed the lump in his throat as the official’s gaze lingered on him, clearly waiting for an answer. For a split second, his mind raced—he couldn't use Nalli’s real name or her origins. His thoughts scrambled for a solution, and then it came to him.
“Her name’s... Surge,” he blurted out, remembering the Mounted Expeditionary and her direhound. The name rolled off his tongue before he could think twice. “She’s been with my uncle for a little while now.”
The official paused, tapping the quill against the edge of the form, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Surge,” she repeated, as if testing the name. “That’s different from the standard-issued names given from the direhound stock. And you said your uncle is Garvin Ridgewell?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Drak replied quickly, trying to maintain his composure. “Garvin Ridgewell of Ridgewell Aeronautics. He doesn’t really stick to conventional names. He’s been, uh... busy with work. That’s why I’m here to sort this out for him. We have the new control collar ordered, and he needs the temporary paperwork as soon as possible so he can legally put her to work.”
The official seemed unconvinced but handed him a form. “Fill this out completely. Include all identifiable markings and the approximate measurements. Be thorough.” She slid a sheet and quill across the counter, and Drak’s eyes widened.
The form was daunting. It asked for height, weight, sex, unique markings, and behavioral notes. Beside the list of questions, a faintly printed anatomical diagram of a direhound’s silhouette awaited his attention. He picked up the quill with a shaky hand and stared at the blank spaces.
He closed his eyes briefly, trying to recall every detail about Nalli. The memory of her bestial features flickered in his mind: her towering frame, pointed ears, the subtle silver and purple streaks in her fur, and her plum-colored nose. He hesitated for a moment, then sketched the details of her markings as best he could. The cut on Nalli’s side gave him pause. Should he include it? It was distinct, but it would heal over time. Withholding it might cause problems later, he thought. After a moment’s deliberation, he added a small slash to represent the wound but kept it vague.
When he finished, his hands were clammy, and the quill trembled slightly. “Here,” he said, sliding the form back across the counter.
The official’s brow furrowed as she took it without looking, but she continued searching through the log book. “I’m not seeing any recent direhound ownership titles under Garvin Ridgewell. These things tend to happen when the former owner hasn’t fulfilled their obligation to put in the transfer paperwork, but it shouldn’t be a problem as long as the creature is being registered. Additionally, I’ll need your uncle’s signature before any of this is official,” she said, glancing up at him over her glasses, “because, unfortunately, we can’t process these requests without direct authorization from the current owner. Without it, the direhound remains unregistered.”
Drak’s stomach tightened and his heart sank as her words hit him. He hadn’t spoken to his uncle in years. Not since his 18th birthday, in fact. Garvin Ridgewell was more than just busy; he was eccentric, aloof, and wrapped up in his business enterprises. The thought of having to confront him now, for a signature, was enough to make Drak nauseous.
He forced a nod, trying to mask his rising anxiety. “I’ll, uh, get the signature,” he said, forcing confidence into his voice. “He's a busy man, but I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.”
The official raised an eyebrow but didn’t challenge him further. She slid the temporary registration form across the counter toward him. “I’ll need this back with his signature. Until it’s signed, it’ll be invalid without the department’s seal of authenticity. Understood?”
Drak nodded again, reaching out to take the form with trembling hands. The magnitude of the problem was pressing down on him, and now had to see his uncle, a man he hadn't been face-to-face with for nearly seven years. He wanted to faint, but there was no other option. Without the signature, everything would fall apart, and he’d never get Nalli out of human lands unnoticed.
“Understood,” Drak replied, his voice steadier than he felt inside. “I’ll get it to you.”
The official nodded, her expression softening just a fraction. “Good day, sir. If you need any further assistance, the Department of Vital Records is open from eight a.m. to five-thirty p.m.”
“Thank you,” Drak muttered, stuffing the paperwork into his jacket.
Without wasting another moment, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, his heart pounding in his chest. As he walked towards the exit, his head felt dizzy, and he wanted to retch. He had no idea how to approach Garvin Ridgewell after all these years. And no idea if his uncle would even see him on a whim, let alone sign the papers.
He didn’t have a choice. Nalli was counting on him, and if they were going to pull this off, Drak would have to go to Ridgewell Aeronautics and he would have to face his uncle.
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