Mother of Midnight

Chapter 200 – Bubbling

She stood amidst the ruins of the city, her body blending seamlessly with the shadows that clung to the crumbling wall behind her. The air was thick with the scent of ash and decay, the remnants of a once-thriving place now lost to time. Her eyes, gleaming faintly in the darkness, scanned the scene before her—soldiers clad in heavy armor, their insignia emblazoned on their chests, moving with purpose through the debris. The sight of them, the mere presence of their emblem, sparked something in her—a cold fury, a well of anger that she couldn’t quite place, but that burned deep within her gut.

Why did it fill her with rage?

Why did it gnaw at her, twisting her insides with something that bordered on grief?

Her thoughts swirled, disjointed and hazy. She couldn’t remember who she was. Couldn’t remember why she stood here, in this destroyed city, staring down at the soldiers who seemed so oblivious to her presence. The fog in her mind obscured everything—her past, her purpose, her identity. She was a stranger to herself. A stranger to this place.

Yet the instinct within her, primal and undeniable, was clear. The soldiers were wrong. They didn’t belong here. She didn’t know why they were wrong, but she could feel it in her bones.

They were approaching, their movements deliberate. The sounds of their armor scraping against themselves as they walked, the soft clink of their weapons, were the only noises in the stillness. Their laughter, too, reached her ears—laughter that filled her with disgust, the kind of laughter that seemed too casual, too cruel.

Her breath quickened. Get away, she thought, but the command was more of a whisper than an action. Something deeper within her, something darker, was urging her forward.

She didn’t have a weapon. No sword, no dagger. Nothing but her fists and her claws—those sharp, deadly tools that had been made to tear. She had no memory of how they came to be. No recollection of ever having a reason to sharpen them, but they felt right, they felt alive, like an extension of herself.

The soldiers drew closer. She could hear their footsteps now, louder with every passing second. They were close enough for her to sense their presence without effort. Closer, she willed them, her gaze fixed on them with something approaching hunger. She wanted to move. To act. But there was still something in her chest that hesitated. What was this rage? Why did it feel so...personal?

They stopped near a broken section of wall, one soldier scanning the area, unaware of her proximity. They were far too comfortable, far too assured in their positions.

In that moment, a flicker of recognition ignited in her mind—a memory, or perhaps an instinctual knowing. She hated them. She hated them because they were the cause of this ruin, of this city now broken beyond repair. She hated them because they represented everything that had been torn from her. And though she didn’t fully understand why or how, she knew she couldn’t let them continue.

With a sharp breath, she tensed. She didn’t need a weapon. The soldiers didn’t need to be aware of her yet. The element of surprise was on her side, and it would stay that way for as long as she could control it.

Her feet shifted, muscles coiling, ready to spring. She watched as one of the soldiers turned to speak to another. Now.

She leapt forward, silent as a shadow, propelled by the sheer fury coursing through her veins. Her claws raked across the nearest soldier’s face before his own body could register the movement. Blood sprayed from the deep gouges she left in his skin. He staggered back with a howl of pain, and before he could recover, she was already on him, slamming her fist into his throat, her nails digging into his armor as she drove him to the ground.

The others reacted in an instant—shouting, drawing weapons—but she was already moving, faster than they could react. She didn’t care about their weapons, didn’t care about their armor. They were nothing compared to the rage that fueled her, nothing compared to the hunger that gnawed at her every time she struck. Her claws sliced into the second soldier’s side, and she heard the satisfying crunch of bone breaking beneath her strike. He gasped, collapsing to the ground, unable to scream as the breath was knocked out of him.

The third soldier lunged at her, but she ducked, her body a blur of motion. She twisted around him, delivering a sharp kick to the back of his knee, causing him to fall forward. Before he could recover, she was upon him, her fists pounding into his face, her claws tearing at the soft flesh of his throat.

The sounds of struggle filled the air—grunts, curses, the clang of metal. But none of it mattered. They were nothing. She was a force of nature, a storm breaking against them. They would not stand in her way.

By the time the last soldier attempted to raise his sword in defense, she was already in motion again. She closed the distance between them with an inhuman speed, slamming her fist into his chest with enough force to crack ribs. He wheezed, staggering back, and she wasted no time in following him, her claws finding his throat in a final, brutal strike.

When the silence returned, it was deafening. The air smelled of blood, of sweat, of the wreckage of the soldiers who had dared to come into her world. She stood among them, breathing heavily, her body trembling with the aftermath of the fight. But her rage hadn’t abated. It still smoldered inside her, a fire that refused to be extinguished.

She looked down at her bloodied hands, and for a moment, there was stillness. Her thoughts were murky, distant. She didn’t know what she was doing, not really. But she knew one thing for certain: the soldiers were gone, and the city was now free of their presence.

But there were more.

She would hunt them down.

She would hunt them all down.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock was driving her insane.

It wasn’t the fact that it was loud—though it was, piercing the silence like an insistent drill. It was the fact that it kept going, second after second, minute after minute, always reminding her of the time she was wasting. And yet, she knew she couldn’t stop it. Not yet.

Kivvy turned her gaze toward the source of the incessant noise, the ugly, oppressive thing mounted on the wall across the room. The hands of the clock were moving steadily, as if mocking her impatience. She clenched her jaw and pulled her attention away, focusing on the task at hand.

Silent clocks, those were the ones she favored. The ones she could make herself, without all the damn ticking. A slow-moving hand, a careful balance of gears and arcane pressure—just enough to mark the passage of time without the intrusive sound that grated on her nerves. Those kinds of clocks were quiet, peaceful. They didn’t demand attention. They just… existed. But this one, this clock, was an annoyance. A constant reminder of how little time she had left to act.

It was a damn clock, but it was still only about fifth on her vendetta list. Number five, she thought, and it felt like it might as well be number one. The infernal ticking of it cut through everything, worming its way under her skin. If only she could throw it out the window, smash it into a thousand pieces, but no—she was trapped here. No room for that kind of release.

Her weapon, though. That was complete.

It was simple, nearly perfect in its design. Disguised carefully amidst the scrap of her current project, a work of artifice that wouldn’t raise suspicion. If she had to, she could assemble more. Many more. A dozen, even. But the key would be finding the right help—more of her sisters, more of her kind, those who understood her work and would rally to her side. They could make it happen.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? The clock might be loud, but time was slipping away faster than she could act. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting for help. There was no time to plan for the future. Only now.

Her fingers twitched, restless. She thought of Rava and Vivienne. A fleeting, almost absurd thought. She had no reason to believe that either of them would come charging to her rescue, not with everything that had happened. Especially not after what Vivienne had done to Drakthar. That was a memory that still made her stomach churn—those moments when she had heard of it, when the stories had reached her ears of what Vivienne had become. What she had done.

Kivvy shuddered involuntarily. She could still see it in her mind’s eye: the raw, unsettling image of Drakthar’s final moments. The grotesque way that Vivienne had acted. That wasn’t something Kivvy wanted to get involved with. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready to see Vivienne again. Could she trust her? Could anyone?

And what if Vivienne didn’t care at all? What if all the things that had happened, the bonds they had shared, were forgotten? It was a possibility, a harsh, bitter thought, but one that lingered in her mind. The ties that had once seemed so strong could very well be just as easily cut, undone, left to wither.

A month in bonds had been good at destroying those kinds of thoughts, the hopeful, optimistic ones that made her think someone might care enough to come looking. It had been too long since any of them had made an appearance. A month… it felt like a lifetime. Maybe that was what it had taken to snap the last of her illusions.

She didn’t even know if they really cared.

Kivvy turned back to the worktable in front of her, fingers brushing over the cold metal tools. The room was dim, shadows draped over everything like a heavy blanket. The smell of oil and dust filled her nose. The metallic scent that always hung in the air, always made her feel so restless, so confined. She could hear the distant creak of chains. The faint clang of something outside, far away. The murmurs of guards, though they were nothing but white noise at this point. She had learned to block it out.

What else could she do but keep working?

She wasn’t going to sit around waiting for someone to come save her. No. She would save herself, and then she would make the others pay for what they had done to her. To all of them. She had suffered long enough. They all had.

Her fists clenched for a moment, nails digging into the palms of her hands. She wasn’t sure if it was the anger or the frustration of being trapped in this place, but she could feel the rage boiling inside her again. It was always there, simmering beneath the surface. Always bubbling up when she thought about how things had ended up. How she had been left behind. Forgotten.

It was a cruel joke. A funny thought—her thoughts always were a little twisted. So much time, surrounded by clocks, tick-tick-ticking away, and yet none of it was for them. None of it was for her.

But it didn’t matter, did it? There was no time left for regrets, no time left to mourn what had been lost. There was only what was left to do. Only what she could still make happen.

Then she could complain all she liked.

The following night, when they were finally allowed to sleep, Kivvy pretended.

She lay still on the thin mat that was supposed to be her bed, slowing her breath, keeping her body motionless in the dim, stale air of the barracks. Around her, the other goblins did the same—some truly asleep, others staring blankly at the ceiling, too exhausted to think of anything beyond the next day’s work. Their overseer clearly believed they wouldn’t try to run. Why would they? Where was there to go?

The Sovereignty controlled half the continent. That was the truth they had been raised with, drilled into them until it became fact, until they couldn’t even imagine another world outside of it. And beyond that? The steppes. That was the only other thing they knew. Dry, empty lands, filled with bandits and savages. That was what they had been told. That was what they had to believe.

But Kivvy didn’t. Not anymore.

When the last of the footfalls faded outside their barracks, when the night stretched long and silent, she slid off the mat, moving carefully, her every movement slow and deliberate. The floor was cold beneath her feet as she padded toward her neighbor. She reached out, shaking the other goblin’s shoulder with a careful hand.

The girl stirred, her big blue eyes blinking drowsily in the dark.

“Want to escape?” Kivvy whispered.

The other goblin stared at her, confused. Then, with the weary certainty of someone who had long since abandoned hope, she turned over.

“There is no escape,” she mumbled.

“Yes, there is.” Kivvy leaned in, keeping her voice low. “And I’m going to leave.”

The other goblin sighed. “Where would you even go? There is only this life.”

Kivvy had once thought that, too. That she would wake where she was told, sleep where she was told, work where she was told. That her life belonged to the Sovereignty, that it would never be hers to claim.

But she had been free before. She had tasted something else, something better.

“To the east,” she said, determination tightening her voice. “To the steppes.”

That got a reaction. The girl’s body tensed, just for a second.

“There’s nothing but bandits in the east,” she whispered back.

Kivvy huffed. “What if I told you there were massive walled cities? Places filled with powerful warriors, where goblins could live how they wanted. No masters. No overseers. No collars.”

The other girl scoffed. “That’s just a fantasy.”

“Then I guess I lived one,” Kivvy said. “Before I was taken, I traveled with the most powerful warrior I’d ever seen. And a monster.”

She could feel the goblin’s hesitation, even in the dark. Could hear the pause in her breath, the way she was trying not to let herself believe.

“I wasn’t forced. I wasn’t beaten. I wasn’t owned.” Kivvy’s voice was barely a whisper, but there was fire in it now, heat curling in her chest. “I was protected. I complained about stupid things. I made things that mattered. And I want that life back.”

The other goblin had turned back toward her now. Kivvy could see her eyes, shining faintly in the dark, betraying the hope she was trying so desperately to bury.

Kivvy leaned in. “The monster gave me ideas,” she said, a grin creeping onto her lips. “She taught me how to make weapons. Powerful ones. We can use them to escape. We can go east. Screw the Sovereignty. Screw this miserable life.”

Her fingers curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. Her voice was a low, fierce whisper. “I was free once. And I will be free again.”

That did something.

The other goblin didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her. The disbelief was still there, the fear of false hope, of dreaming too big.

But Kivvy could see it. That flicker. That spark. That tiny, desperate ember of maybe—the kind of hope that the Sovereignty had spent so much effort trying to snuff out.

And Kivvy knew then. That was all she needed.

She spent the next few nights moving carefully, speaking in hushed tones, making sure her words reached the right ears.

Recruiting.

Learning names.

Figuring out who would listen, who would dare to hope.

Turned out they all would. Every single one of them. That was good.

Better than good.

She spent the following days working in the shadows, gathering them in ones and twos, speaking in whispers behind stacks of broken artifice, behind machines too rusted or shattered to be of use. And when she was certain they were ready, she began to teach.

The first thing they learned was how to build.

She called it the scrap gun—a rough, ugly thing that looked like it belonged in a junk pile, nothing more than a useless bit of discarded metal. But in the right hands, with the right knowledge, it became something far deadlier. A pistol, powered by aether, small enough to conceal, strong enough to kill.

She taught them how to craft them from broken parts, how to make them look worthless, how to hide them among the wreckage of their daily work. She taught them how to chip shards from aether crystals, carefully, precisely. How to store them, how to keep them charged in small increments so no one would notice.

It wasn’t enough to just have weapons. They had to be hidden.

She told them where to stash them—inside hollowed-out machine casings, beneath loose floorboards, between rusted pipes no one ever checked.

She worked tirelessly, never drawing attention, never making a single mistake that might tip their masters off.

The overseer never suspected.

The nexus arbiter—the one who had once watched them so closely—had been showing up less and less. That was a small mercy. If it had still been paying attention, if it had been watching as he once had, she might have had to kill it first and she wasn’t sure she could.

But for now, she worked. And she waited.

Because soon, soon, the pieces would be in place.

And then?

Then they would be free.