A block too far

The deep, thrumming vibration of the multi-axis mills resonated through the soles of Elias’s boots. It was a comforting, familiar rhythm. Out on the main shop floor his apprentices were running the heavy CNC machinery and laser cutting arrays, tearing bulk lumber down to manageable sizes with violent efficiency. But inside Elias’s sound-dampened sanctum, all of that roaring was muted into a gentle hum.

Elias stood at his workbench, his hands hovering over a length of pale, golden iron-oak. He was crafting a ceremonial staff for an Imperial vizier, a piece that required absolute perfection. Only apprentices on the cusp of becoming journeymen were able to outclass viziers for nitpicking, and three decades of a perfect reputation for his workmanship left Elias with very little desire to have clients start sending pieces back now.

He rested his palms flat against the wood and closed his eyes. Channeling a steady pulse of Vigilance—the emotional aura that gave him his unique abilities—his qi seeped into the timber. His mind’s eye bloomed with an intricate map, a vivid picture of the inner world of that particular piece of wood. He felt the rigid density of the iron-oak, tracing the microscopic tension lines running along the grain. He sensed a hidden, swirling knot three inches down that would crack if subjected to sudden heat. He almost thought he saw glimpses of the finished work, but they remained in a haze, just beyond the edges of his insight.

Opening his eyes, Elias raised his right index finger. He focused his aura, compressing the air at his fingertip until it formed a needle-thin vortex, spinning so fast that it produced a high-pitched whining—music to his ears. Acting as a frictionless rotary tool, the localized pressure bit into the iron-oak. The dense fibers sheared away effortlessly as he carved a beautifully spiralling groove down the length of the future staff.

When he reached the base, he shifted his qi. The spinning vortex flattened into a tight, highly pressurized plane of air that rapidly pulsed back and forth. Using the reciprocating blade of air, he cleaved the excess wood away in one smooth motion. He breathed out a constant stream of air, blowing the sawdust clear of his guiding lines as his magical implement continued to sing to him. His control was absolute. It was no accident they’d appointed him head of the Allerian Woodworkers Guild. More spirals, more passes, and a bit of polish saw the block transformed into a work of art. He even decided to go above and beyond and infuse it with some of his own qi, a little charm that would help its user place it wisely when they walked. Elias quietly admired the staff. A bit ostentatious for his liking, but orders for viziers almost always were.

A heavy chime rang from the wall panel, snapping his concentration like a toothpick. The sanctum door slid open, revealing an Imperial courier holding a smallish bundle wrapped tightly in synth-silk. Elias signed the manifest in silence, reading over the requisition carefully, took the package, and set it at the far end of his workbench. A very old Qiblade. A relic of the founding era waiting for a custom-fitted Aethel-wood presentation chest. He almost rolled his eyes at the waste. He had enough of the deep purple wood available to finish the chest, but just barely, and he wasn’t entirely sure when the Grand Archon might approve a requisition for more.

Elias left the unnaturally heavy bundle wrapped. He still needed to finish his current queue before starting the commission. He'd always believed in finishing one thing before starting another—and also in first-come, first-served. Other crafters had talked to him of emergencies and special circumstances but he'd yet to see anything in his career that he considered a woodworking emergency.

He turned his attention to a delicate lattice-panel meant for a Guild magistrate's chair. He had to work the lattice very carefully in very short intervals to prevent chipping or splintering the wood. He cursed the miner and her whole guild. He was certain the woman had intentionally chosen a highly brittle piece of Gengirian Ebony for the panel. Mining Guilders took every opportunity they could find to make life difficult for their Woodworker Guild cousins. He had advised on several other woods they could use as material—including three less brittle pieces of ebony—but she wouldn't hear of it. It was to be the centerpiece of her new Guild Office Headquarters on Gengiri and it had to be that exact piece of wood. He imagined after feeling it out the first time that she'd had a team of experts find the worst piece of ebony imaginable and then concoct the worst possible use for it. Elias sighed deeply as he summoned his spinning rotary vortex to carve out the negative space.

A few minutes in, the whine of the compressed air pitched sharply. The invisible blade wavered, stuttering in its rotation. The friction spiked and there was a popping sound as the area he'd been cutting split, leaving an ugly web of hairline fractures to mar his work. Elias frowned, quickly dissipating the vortex. He silently cursed all miners everywhere for all of time forward and backward. Fatigue, he rationalized. Or the apprentices are running the heavy routers too hard out there, throwing off the floor's vibration. That was it. Or maybe he'd just applied a bit too much pressure. Masters could still err too, after all.

He set the ruined lattice aside. He was too distracted to conduct the delicate repairs that were now necessary. That could surely wait while he made a simple case for an overblown antique hilt. It was time to start the Imperial commission.

Elias retrieved the last deep purple slab of Aethel-wood from his rack and set it on the bench, mere inches from the wrapped Qiblade. He placed both hands on the dense timber to read the grain, sending his Vigilance into the material.

Nothing happened.

Where there should have been a map of fiber and tension, he was met with nothing. It was a sheer, impenetrable wall of dead space. Elias broke contact. He wiped his hands on his apron and tried again, furrowing his brow in deep concentration.

Static.

Better than nothing but hardly useful. Two more times he tried and still the best he could sense was an uneasy buzzing sensation. Frustrated, Elias left the sanctum. He poured himself a cup of bitter recaf and stood on the catwalk overlooking the main shop floor, watching the automated mills carve massive blocks of a dozen different alien specimens. He let the constant, purposeful roar of the shop ground him.

When he returned to his bench, the air in the sanctum felt even heavier, almost as if someone was pressing their fingers so deep into his ears they might blow out his eardrums. He set his jaw. He was a Master Woodworker of the Imperium; he wasn't about to be bested by a future ornament case.

He placed his hands firmly on the Aethel-wood and pushed. Instead of a gentle, probing pulse, he drove a massive, concentrated spike of his aura straight into the material, violently forcing his sight past the static.

The wall broke, which he regretted instantly.

Elias didn't see a vision. He was swallowed by a sensation. It hit him like a physical blow—a tidal wave of suffocating, blinding agony. It was an echoing, third-person despair of a thousand slowly dying souls drowning in mind-shattering pain. Even experiencing it at such a distance was enough for him to momentarily wish for his own death, if only to blank out the horrible feeling that was penetrating deep, through skin and bone and soul.

He tore his hands away, gasping for air, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs. The Aethel-wood clattered to the floor. Elias didn't pick it up. He backed slowly away from the block of wood as if it were a deadly serpent. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to calmly turn off the glow cubes near the door and walk out of the sanctum instead of running screaming from the room in sheer panic. He even held his composure well enough to be sure he locked and secured the door leading back into the room.

Elias did not sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes, his lungs filled with phantom ash, and the oppressive weight of the ancient weapon pressed down on his chest.

When Elias returned to the shop the next morning, he stood before the heavy sanctum door for a long time. Something in him screamed for him to go on an immediate holiday and pass the job off to one of his experienced journeymen, but his pride—and perhaps something even nobler—wouldn't allow him to do so. It was his commission and he would finish it.

He opened the door and stepped through, being careful to shut it behind him.

The Qiblade sat exactly where he’d left it, an ominous lump beneath the synth-silk. Elias retrieved the fallen Aethel-wood. He stared at the block of wood for a moment, considering what he should do. He didn't need to use his foresight. He would do it blind. He had the measurements; he just needed to trust his hands. His aura might assist in the work he did, but it was no crutch. Special powers or not, he was still a Master of his craft.

He raised his right index finger, compressing the air until it began to whine, forming the spinning vortex. He lowered his hand, letting the localized pressure bite into the wood to hollow out the space where the weapon would lie in repose. Things were going fairly well. So well, in fact, that he'd almost let the whole thing go as a wild fantasy when the vortex at the tip of his finger bucked, edging against his fingertip and leaving one hell of a friction burn.

Elias hissed in pain, dropping his concentration. He rubbed his eyes, leaning heavily against the bench. You barely slept. Your control is slipping. Get it together.

He centered his breathing and resumed carving. He formed the reciprocating air-blade to shear the edge of the block. Without warning, the invisible blade warped. It kicked violently, whining like a physical saw hitting a hidden nail. He let out a stream of curses as it gouged a deep wound into the wood. Then, as he continued, the edge of the pressurized air whistled mere millimeters past Elias’s thumb, slicing a thin red line across his knuckle.

Elias stumbled back, cold sweat breaking out across his neck. His hands were shaking violently. He glared at the synth-silk bundle. He could practically feel the relic’s aura pulsating from it now. It was an oppressive, suffocating weight that was steadily fraying his nerves. The ancient hatred in that blade was distracting him, making him sloppy. He momentarily considered removing it from the room while he finished, but dismissed that idea as childish nonsense. Just the final fit, he thought, gritting his teeth. Measure the seating, and you can lock the weapon away. An apprentice can fix the gouge in the sidewall. Good practice for them, anyway.

He picked up the partially-carved block of Aethel-wood, setting it beside the ancient hilt again. He wanted to get the measure of it with his eyes one more time before proceeding—and give himself a moment to regain some composure.

Operating purely on decades of ingrained muscle memory, Elias forgot himself. He placed his hands on the block to read the grain one last time.

His Vigilance pushed into the wood.

The weapon's aura surged. It didn't just block his sight this time; it violently rejected it. The malignant energy latched onto his qi, turning his own magic against him. The air he’d been unconsciously holding in his lungs and hands wildly misfired, and a concussive blast of localized pressure detonated directly beneath his palms.

The Aethel-wood exploded. A jagged, eight-inch shard of the ultra-dense timber blew upward. It sheared cleanly through the leather of his sleeve and buried itself to the bone in his right forearm.

Elias screamed.

He collapsed onto the floor, his vision instantly swimming with gray static. Blood pulsed from the wound in hot, frantic spurts, pooling around him. He grabbed his arm, desperately trying to summon a tourniquet of compressed air, but his qi was completely shattered. He couldn't focus. He was bleeding out, the suffocating ash from his nightmares filling his lungs.

He dragged himself across the floor, slipping in his own blood. He reached the wall panel and smashed his bloody fist against the emergency summon plate.

Seconds later, the heavy sanctum door opened. Kael, his senior apprentice, stood in the entry, his eyes wide with horror as he took in the blood and the ruined wood.

"Master!" Kael yelled, diving into the room. He hooked his arms under Elias’s shoulders, hauling the older man backward toward the relative safety of the loud, brightly lit outer shop.

Elias didn't fight him. As Kael dragged him over the threshold, pulling him away from the suffocating dread of the room and the whispering malice of the blade, Elias reached out with a trembling, blood-soaked hand. He grabbed the heavy iron handle of the sanctum, and with the last of his fading strength, he pulled the door shut.