For more than a year, I’ve kept my Wattpad cadence to two stories a month. That said, in my schedule, I allow myself the opportunity to write up to four stories, though I never got past a pair. However, I have introduced a new story, or rather a new character, that I’m eager to explore. Elara Finch was created off a picture prompt, and despite being intended an nothing more than a flash in the pan, her character was so compelling that I needed to return. After publishing both Hidden Pulse and Measured Discretion, I realized I had some extra time in the month, so I grabbed the next installment in Residuals Of Wonder and got to work for my third Wattpad story for the month.
There are workshops built for invention, and there are workshops built for endurance. Elara Finch built hers in a narrow seam between trades that preferred not to see her at all. Tanner’s rot and apothecary tinctures share the air, and the walls stand close enough to press sound back toward its source. The ceiling hangs low. The bench bears the polish of careful hands. Nothing here is meant to impress. Everything here is meant to function.
Within those stone confines, metal answers to alignment rather than force. Gears settle when approached with patience. Rhythm carries more authority than noise. Visitors who expect sparks and spectacle often find only quiet precision. In this room, impatience does not earn obedience. It exposes weakness.
On the evening a knock breaks that measured stillness, the space reacts before the door opens. Some arrivals come to assess. Others come to instruct. A few step inside believing mastery is something that can be imposed. The workshop keeps its own rules, and it favors a particular kind of control.
Excerpt of Steadied Pressure
A knock cut through the workshop, and Elara stilled. Her automaton whirled toward the entrance and took an unbidden step. She pressed her palm against its body and eased it back onto the bench. As a second strike echoed inside her workshop, she licked her lips.
She shook her head and grabbed a drop cloth from under her bench and covered her automaton, muting its faint purple hue. With a few adjustments, she concealed her creation under the fabric. She took a deep breath before she walked to the door and opened it.
Garrick Vale loomed over her, like an executioner prepared to carry out his duty. With a clenched fist, Elara stepped out of the doorway, and he ducked beneath the low lintel without waiting for her to offer an invitation.
A crack of thunder echoed outside as he removed his oil-dark gloves and tucked them behind his belt. He pushed his hood off and examined her makeshift and cramped workshop. Garrick walked to the bench and dragged a finger along its surface. He turned toward her as he stared at his fingertip. “Elara Finch, I see you’re still working between rot and tinctures.”
She inclined her head and closed the door, keeping her hands motionless at her sides. “Master Vale, it is good to meet you again.”
With a glance at the cloth-covered pile, Garrick brushed dust from his sleeves. “I was informed that you’ve been salvaging wall cavities now. I told those messengers that such an event was either a bold move or a sign of the desperate seeking their last chance.”
Elara stared at his leather boots and drew several measured breaths as her fingernails bit into her palms, grounding herself.
“I heard you had a client who sought a repair to a memory anchor.” His eyes glided from the covered mound to a different trinket, partially disassembled. He placed a finger just above the gears and internal power source. He rubbed his lips as he turned toward the young woman. “Who adjusted the rhythm cage?”
Elara rushed forward and tossed a small rag over the device. “I did.”
He shook his head as he removed the cloth and resumed his study of the exposed internals. A faint hum emanated from his throat as he studied the remaining gears. “You seem to have slowed its pace.”
“No, I stabilized it,” she said, shaking her head as she clasped her hands behind her back.
He picked up a slender tool without asking and tapped the device’s frame. The sound rang clean and sharp. The pressure tightened. Not from the noise, but from the driving rhythm. As Garrick continued examining the trinket, his movements were efficient but impatient. His fingers snapped, tools struck, and he handled the metal with the assumption that it would obey.
Yet the air thickened, and Elara felt the tension behind her ribs. The cloth over the automaton shifted, and the glow from its power source flared for a moment beneath the canvas.
Garrick rose and smirked, “You’re overcompensating your repairs. When a mechanism resists, you assert control.”
To continue reading the story, click here to head over to Wattpad.