box like iron filings to a magnet.
He drifted off, sinking into his all-too-real nightmare, and was almost surprised when his tools finished the job without him. The revolving chamber—a pet project of his that he had never gotten to work quite correctly—snapped into place.
Mechanically, he wasn’t there yet. He hadn’t completed the gun on pure skill; this was not a project that could be marketed. If he could finalize development, he could revolutionize firearms all over the Empire.
Instead, he counted on Awakening to cover up the imperfections in his craftsmanship.
Guns were infamously difficult to invest or Awaken for a few well-documented reasons. Any complex machinery tended to interact with Intent as a collection of parts rather than a single object, which made investment inefficient.
In addition, Awakening could transform the parts into a more aesthetically pleasing or powerful whole, but the parts could end up changing shape and working against each other mechanically, so the device might no longer function.
In the case of a pistol, that could result in an explosion that tore the user’s hand off. So Awakened firearms remained largely the stuff of myth.
But the man holding his family demanded the best. The best was what he would get.
Foster beat his overwrought mind into focus, diving into a Reader’s trance. His vision fuzzed as the trance settled on him, and his knees weakened.
Only the driving heat of rage, the icy grip of fear, and the lightning jolt of vengeance drove him forward.
Fragments of this gun remember being part of Crime Duke Telethia Derembor’s personal pistol when she executed her rebellious lieutenants. They are instruments of justice, of revenge, of bloody satisfaction.
Other pieces were designed for the Lost Daylight Regiment, a stranded unit of the Imperial army formed from the loved ones of soldiers who had been killed by rebels. Like their creators, these weapons hunger to be used in a righteous cause.
The Duskwinder sheds its skin in order to grow, but it has a singular focus: to destroy the man that killed its mother. It remembers, the offense carved deep into its Intent, and it will stop at nothing to sink its fangs into the human.
The Shade, an Elderspawn of Urg’naut, is not the most powerful of Elder-kind. It is not as ancient as the stars, or as wise as the being that gave it birth. It exists only as a parasite of humanity, feeding on their bloodlust and their desire for vengeance.
Its hunger for such cannot be sated.
Gathering the Intent took far longer than normal, and Foster almost lost the vision. He took a moment, holding the different images in his mind, combining them into a whole.
“You are a weapon of revenge,” he muttered to himself.
The brigands who had taken over his hometown waited outside the door, and they would be able to hear him if he spoke too loudly, but spoken words focused Intent.
“You are the blade that will pierce their hearts. For the blood that has been spilled, you will spill blood. You will turn from those who use you for cruelty and serve those who seek justice.”
Like he was hauling up an anchor with his bare hands, Foster pulled the Intent steadily, bringing it up to the surface. He had gathered the materials for this weapon himself, selecting and collecting them over the years to store them in his workshop. They had significance to him.
But they had only been introduced to one another over the last week. They had very little connection between them.
This would cause a risk; the Awakening could ruin the gun, or it could turn the weapon into something he didn’t understand, or the Awakening could fail, and he would have to try again another day…
No. That was the worst of all outcomes. He squeezed his eyes tighter, determined not to open them and let them drift to the box with blood staining its corner.
He would finish this. Now. Today.
“Just…kill the bastards,” Foster growled.
He dug deep, hands tightening around the infant weapon, and the effort of focusing caused his head to pound in the beginnings of Reader burn. More and more with every breath, with every passing second, the pain dug into his skull like a drill.
He pushed, dragging on every memory, pushing them together. His grunt became a growl, became a long, low shout.
“You are my sword!” he declared, so loud that he was undoubtedly heard by the guard. “You will tear my enemies apart! My oath to eternity!”
Pain crashed like thunder behind his eyes and he knew nothing for an