Kryos 2, Imperial Year 1643
Thornreach, Northern Boreas – Vlad's Workshop
The crossbow would take seventeen hours.
Vladislav Eisenberg had calculated it before he began – the time to select the wood, shape the stock, temper the limbs, wind the string, forge the crank mechanism. He worked in silence, his hands moving with the precision of a machine, his mind cataloging each step.
First, the stock. He chose a block of yew from his stores, aged for forty years, dried to perfection. He marked the dimensions with a steel scribe, then clamped the wood to his workbench. The drawknife was sharp – he had sharpened it yesterday – and the shavings curled away like ribbons.
Seventeen minutes.
Next, the limbs. He had prepared laminated strips of horn and wood decades ago, pressed and glued and cured under weights. He shaped them now with a rasp and a file, testing the flex with each pass. Too stiff, and the crossbow would be slow. Too soft, and it would lack power. He found the balance by touch, by feel, by a hundred years of practice.
Two hours and eleven minutes.
The string was silk, twisted by hand on a jig of his own design. He had learned to make silk cord from a merchant in the Free Cities, trading a clockwork bird for the knowledge. The string needed to be strong, flexible, and resistant to moisture. He waxed it with beeswax and tallow, then set it aside to cure.
Forty‑three minutes.
The crank mechanism was the most complex. He had designed a compact gear train that multiplied the user's force, allowing a full draw with only a few turns of the handle. The gears were steel, cut by hand, each tooth filed to a precise angle. He assembled them in a brass housing, oiled them with whale fat, and tested the action. Smooth. Silent. Efficient.
Six hours and eight minutes.
He worked through the night. The alchemical bulbs cast a steady yellow light, and the steam engine hummed in the background, powering his lathe and drill press. He did not sleep. He did not eat. He only worked.
By dawn, the crossbow was complete.
He held it in his hands, turning it over, inspecting every joint, every rivet, every curve. The stock was polished to a warm glow. The limbs were wrapped in leather to protect them from the elements. The crank folded into the stock when not in use, hidden by a brass plate engraved with a raven in flight – his father's sigil.
It was a masterpiece. He had made better weapons – the rifles, the pistols – but this was different. This was a gift, not a tool. This was for his father.
He set the crossbow on the workbench and turned to the next task.
Kryos 2, Imperial Year 1643 (continued)
The Workshop – Outfit and Pistols
The crossbow was for his father. The outfit was for himself.
He had been designing it for months – a new identity, a new persona. The assassin with the thunder weapon had become too visible, too recognizable. He needed a different face, a different silhouette, a different legend.
The coat was midnight blue, almost black, cut from wool so fine that it draped like silk. He had sewn it himself, using a treadle sewing machine of his own design – a device that would have revolutionized the textile industry, had he chosen to share it. He did not share.
He tried on the coat. It fit perfectly – snug across the shoulders, flaring at the hips, with deep pockets sewn into the lining. He had reinforced the shoulders with leather patches, hidden under the fabric, to absorb the recoil of his pistols.
The tuxedo was black, with a high collar and silver buttons. He had never worn a tuxedo in his past life – he had been an engineering student, not a ballroom dancer – but he remembered the aesthetic. The sharp lines, the formal elegance, the way it transformed a man into a statement.
The slacks were dark gray, tailored to fit over his boots. The boots themselves were thigh‑high, polished black leather, with steel toe caps and reinforced soles. He had lined them with fur for warmth and added hidden compartments for lockpicks and small blades.
Beneath the tuxedo, he wore a shirt of chainmail – fine links of riveted steel, light enough to move in, strong enough to stop a knife. Beneath the chainmail, a layer of boiled leather, molded to his torso. The combination was not impenetrable, but it would turn aside most blades and arrows.
The mask was his masterpiece.
A beaked mask, like the plague doctors of his former world, but refined. The leather was stiffened and shaped to fit his face, with glass lenses over the eyes – tinted dark, so no one could see his gaze. The beak was hollow, filled with dried herbs and perfumes, to mask the smell of death. A leather strap secured it to his head.
He put on the mask and looked at himself in a polished steel mirror.
A stranger stared back. Tall, slender, dressed in black and blue, with a beak for a face and eyes that reflected no light.
The Raven, he thought. They will call me the Raven.
He removed the mask and set it on the workbench.
The pistols were next.
He had built two of them – matching pairs, chambered for the same .32 caliber cartridge as his earlier prototype. The barrels were four inches long, rifled, with integral suppressors. The grips were walnut, checkered for a firm hold. The triggers were tuned to a two‑pound pull.
He had named them Mercy and Judgment.
He spent the next four hours calibrating the sights, testing the actions, and loading fresh cartridges. Each pistol held six rounds in a detachable magazine – a design so far beyond this world's technology that it might as well have been magic.
He holstered them in a shoulder rig, hidden under the tuxedo jacket. The weight was comfortable, familiar.
Ready, he thought. For whatever comes.
Kryos 3, Imperial Year 1643
The Road to His Parents' Keep
Vlad rode through the snow on a black stallion, a gift from his father decades ago. The horse was old now – thirty years, ancient for a stallion – but it knew the way and did not need direction.
The crossbow was wrapped in oilcloth and tied behind the saddle. His new outfit was packed in a leather bag. The pistols were holstered under his coat, loaded and ready.
He had not visited his parents in over a year. The work had consumed him – the rifles, the assassinations, the constant vigilance. But the work was not all that mattered. He had learned that, slowly, over a hundred and twenty years.
His father had taught him. His mother had taught him.
He nudged the horse into a canter.
Kryos 3, Imperial Year 1643 (evening)
The Keep – Arrival
The keep looked smaller than he remembered. The walls were gray, the towers crumbling, the gates hanging askew on rusted hinges. His parents had never been wealthy, and they had grown poorer with age.
A servant – the only one they still employed – opened the gate. He was an old man, bent and toothless, but his eyes lit up when he saw Vlad.
"Master Vladislav! The lord will be so pleased."
"Is he inside?"
"Aye. And the lady. They were just sitting down to supper."
Vlad dismounted and handed the reins to the servant. He carried the crossbow under his arm and walked through the gate.
The great hall was cold. The fire in the hearth was small, and the tapestries on the walls were faded. But the table was set for three, and a pot of stew steamed over the flames.
His mother stood by the fire, stirring the pot. She was frail now, her hair white, her skin papery. But her eyes were the same – warm, curious, full of love.
"Vladislav," she said. "You came."
"I said I would."
"You said that a year ago."
"I am here now."
She crossed the room and embraced him. She was so thin that he could feel her bones. He held her gently, careful not to hurt her.
"You are too skinny," she said, pulling back. "You do not eat."
"I eat."
"You do not eat enough." She turned to the pot. "Sit. I will feed you."
His father entered from the side corridor, leaning on a cane. His hair was gone, his face lined, his hands gnarled with age. But he smiled when he saw Vlad.
"The prodigal son returns."
"I brought your crossbow."
Marius's eyes lit up. Vlad unwrapped the oilcloth and presented the weapon. His father took it with trembling hands, examining the stock, the limbs, the crank mechanism.
"It is beautiful," Marius whispered. "More beautiful than I imagined."
"It will kill at three hundred paces. The crank allows for a rapid reload. The bolts are in the bag."
Marius looked at his son. "You are a craftsman, Vladislav. A true craftsman."
"I learned from the best."
"You learned from yourself. Do not diminish your skill."
They sat down to supper. The stew was thin, the bread stale, the wine sour. But Vlad ate every bite, and he did not complain.
Kryos 4, Imperial Year 1643
The Keep – A Day of Rest
Vlad spent the morning repairing the keep.
The gate hinges needed oil. The windows needed new shutters. The hearth needed cleaning. He worked silently, efficiently, while his mother watched from a chair by the fire.
"You are like your father," she said. "Always fixing things."
"Father does not fix things. Father breaks things."
"He fixes what he breaks. Eventually." She smiled. "You have his hands. His skill."
Vlad paused in his work. "I have his temper, too. Though I hide it better."
"You hide everything. That is your flaw." She leaned forward. "You do not need to hide from us, Vladislav. We are your parents. We love you. Whatever you have done, wherever you have been, we love you."
Vlad looked at her. He thought about the rifle, the assassinations, the blood. He thought about the bombing, the classroom, the faces of the dead.
"I have done terrible things," he said.
"I know."
"I will do more terrible things."
"I know that too."
"And you still love me?"
His mother stood and crossed the room. She took his hands in hers – thin, cold, trembling.
"You are our son," she said. "Nothing you do will change that."
Vlad felt something crack inside him. A wall he had built a hundred years ago, a barrier of ice and steel, crumbling in the warmth of her words.
He did not weep. He had forgotten how.
But he held her hands, and he did not let go.
Kryos 5, Imperial Year 1643
The Keep – Departure
Two days passed too quickly.
Vlad repaired the roof, sharpened the servants' tools, and left a sack of silver coins on the kitchen table – more than his parents had seen in years. He knew they would not spend it on themselves. They would give it to the poor, the sick, the desperate. That was who they were.
His father walked him to the gate.
"The crossbow is perfect," Marius said. "My friend will be grateful."
"Tell him to use it well."
"I will." Marius hesitated. "The booklet I gave you. The serial killer. Gregor Volkov."
"I have not forgotten."
"Be careful. He is dangerous. He has killed hunters before."
Vlad mounted his horse. "I am not a hunter."
"What are you, then?"
Vlad looked down at his father – old, frail, but still standing. Still fighting.
"I am justice," he said. "For those who have none."
He turned the horse and rode through the gate.
His mother stood at the door, waving. His father raised a hand in farewell.
Vlad did not look back. But he felt their eyes on him, warm and loving, and he carried that warmth with him into the cold.
Kryos 6, Imperial Year 1643
The Road East
Vlad rode toward Valdria, toward the forests where Gregor Volkov was last seen. The crossbow was packed. The pistols were holstered. The new outfit – the coat, the tuxedo, the mask – was ready.
He would not use the rifle for this kill. Volkov was a serial killer, a predator of the weak. He deserved something closer, something more personal.
The Raven would hunt.
And the Raven would not miss.
End of Chapter Ten