After the Vigil of the Fallen festival, Isolde and I returned home from a strange yet intriguing encounter with "Uncle Reginald."

  That night, we talked about everything we’d seen in his workshop. Among the many curiosities, one stood out: the massive mechanical bird he was building. It resembled a raven, though its design and framework suggested it was more of an aerial surveillance device. Interesting. Too interesting to ignore.

  So the next day, we marched back to his workshop with a clear goal: to convince him to take us on as apprentices. Steampunk technology could be a game-changer—a way to outshine the competition. And Reginald? Well, he was the key.

  “You’re back?”

  Reginald’s voice cut through the air right behind us.

  “Aah!”

  We screamed in unison. The shock nearly made me swing at him reflexively, but I held back.

  “Hah! Scared you, didn’t I?” he said, without a hint of remorse. “What’re you doing here?”

  You laugh and don’t even apologize? Rude. Though, honestly… I didn’t entirely mind.

  We steadied ourselves. They say eating bread calms you after a scare, right?

  “We came to learn from you.”

  “What?”

  “We came to—”

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “Then why make me repeat it?”

  Reginald sighed—the kind of exhale that meant his patience was hanging by a thread.

  “I don’t have time to teach kids. Go home.”

  Too blunt. Too fast.

  “Oh, come on,” Isolde chimed in, oozing forced persuasion. “The stuff you make is fascinating. Just let us learn, okay?”

  “No.”

  Without another word, Reginald turned and strode deeper into the workshop. Undeterred (or maybe just stubborn), we trailed him, buzzing our pleas like summer mosquitoes. Annoying? Absolutely. But that didn’t stop us. Reginald, however, was losing patience.

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  “You’ll teach us, right? Please—we want to learn mechanics!”

  “Teach us, please!”

  “Enough. I can’t. It’s too advanced for children. Try again when you’re older.”

  A reasonable answer. Logical, even. But Isolde wasn’t the type to take “no” for an answer—and she proved it in the most predictable way possible. Fake tears welled up, her voice quivered, and with the theatrics of a seasoned actress, she threw herself to the ground, flailing and pounding her fists. Magic. Of course. Or rather, Syrix.

  “Teach us! I want you to teach us!” Her wails echoed through the workshop as if she’d suffered some unforgivable injustice.

  Here we go again…

  Reginald recoiled like he’d stepped in a puddle with dry socks.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, visibly unsettled.

  This was our chance. Without hesitation, I pulled the same trick—a dash of magic, overdramatic fake tears, and a perfectly timed sob.

  “Pleeease teach us! Waaah!”

  Reginald blinked, the panic in his eyes pure adult-trapped-with-crying-children terror.

  We had him.

  —What am I even supposed to do?— Reginald muttered to himself, visibly flustered. Two kids were bawling in front of him, demanding he teach them how to build steam-powered machinery. A pathetic display… but an effective one.

  We’re eight years old. At this age, tantrums are still a socially viable weapon. Why wouldn’t he buy it?

  —Waaah! Please, teach us!— Isolde kept up the act.

  Not one to be outdone, I threw myself to the floor. Execution is everything in these situations. I took a deep breath and dialed up the waterworks, wailing like a banshee.

  —Ugh! Fine, fine! I’ll teach you!

  Finally. I was starting to think we’d need drastic measures.

  —Really?— Isolde went from crumpled on the ground, sobbing, to standing in front of Reginald with a blinding grin. The whiplash alone should’ve tipped off anyone with half a brain.

  —Yes, yes. Just cut the theatrics.

  I wiped my fake tears and plopped into a workshop chair like nothing happened. Isolde, meanwhile, grabbed a hammer with a smile that screamed trouble.

  —Hehe… Great! So… what’s first?

  Reginald frowned.

  —What? What do you mean?

  —You said you’d teach us. Where do we start?

  —Hmm… Do you like reading?

  Damn it. More studying? We’re already grinding through healing magic, and now we’re adding mechanics to the list? Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  —Oh. Uh, sure, I guess,— Isolde replied, enthusiasm draining like a leaky boiler.

  Reginald, blissfully oblivious to our despair, rummaged through a cabinet and pulled out a book. He slapped it onto the table with the gravitas of a man unveiling divine wisdom.

  "Steam Machine Construction." A title so bland it looped back to being impressive.

  —You actually expect us to read all this?— I deadpanned. A little realism never hurt.

  —Well, if you want to learn mechanics, then—

  —Of course we’ll read it.

  No way I’d waste this chance. Steampunk, here we come.

  So we started reading.

  The book was dense—the kind of text that made your eyes glaze over after three sentences. The handwriting was painstakingly precise, like the author had sold their soul for neat penmanship. Diagrams, hyper-specific explanations… a level of detail bordering on unhinged.

  This was going to take way longer than any of us wanted to admit.