But once heated, the liquid hardened—like stone. Failure.
"The sulfur reacted too quickly," Olivia's father said flatly.
We tried again, the second attempt. The proportions were adjusted, the order refined. This time, the liquid popped inside the lab glass, releasing thick green smoke.
Olivia coughed. "Too acidic!"
Her father wiped the sweat from his brow. "We're getting close… but it's still not right."
The third attempt drove us to frustration. The liquid seemed stable… until it turned black, clumped up, and solidified before its time. Another failure.
"I'm tired," I muttered, holding my head.
"Me too," Olivia chimed in. "We didn't even go anywhere today…"
"This weapon's too complicated," I whispered. "Or maybe… we're just too ordinary."
Suddenly, Olivia's mother stood up. She took a small bottle from a different shelf—its color clearer than regular sulfur. She sniffed the contents, then compared it carefully.
"You used eastern sulfur," she said sharply. "But this formula only works with western sulfur. Its composition is more stable."
Olivia's father widened his eyes. "Of course… how did I miss that…"
We began again. Northern dew extract. Western sulfur. Fire-earth essence. The three ingredients were blended carefully, stirred slowly, then heated at a low temperature.
The liquid began to tremble—not from failure, but from life.
Its color turned deep crimson. It didn't burn, didn't harden. It stayed still… as if waiting for a command.
We looked at one another. I could feel the energy humming in the air.
Olivia's father took a metal tong and let a single drop fall onto the test stone.
One second. Two.
A silent blast. The stone shattered flawlessly, but there was no sound—only pressure. We were pushed slightly back, and as the smoke cleared, the stone had vanished like dust.
"We…" Olivia covered her mouth.
I stared at the liquid inside the bottle. "We did it."
Her father stepped closer, his gaze deeper than before. "With this… we can take our revenge."
Her mother placed a hand on his shoulder. "With this, we can stop them."
Olivia's father gave a slow nod. He looked back and forth between Olivia and me.
"Whatever happens after this, you must remember… this isn't just about science. It's about taking a side."
Olivia lowered her head. "We side with the oppressed."
I clenched my fist. "And we won't surrender to those who hide behind noble emblems."
Olivia's father held the bottle up to the light. Its red hue shimmered like blood.
Then he spoke, his voice low but resolute:
"At last… we've crafted a weapon of mass destruction."
On the third day after our escape, we arrived at that hillside—the former weapons testing site, a harsh but hidden place, far from the grip of the southern rulers. There was no welcome, only cold winds and hardened earth beneath our boots. Yet it was from this silence that we began a new life.
The four of us—Olivia, her father, her mother, and I—had brought little with us, except the belief that the only way to survive was to build something of our own. A place no longer dependent on anyone's mercy.
Before the first building stood, we gave it a name: Skjoldeinheim. It means, "the shelter." The name was carved into a large stone planted at the mouth of the valley, more a declaration than a symbol. To us, this place was not only a refuge from outside attacks, but from the injustice that had driven us north.
Our early days were filled with tireless work: measuring, chopping wood, building frames. Time passed quickly under the cold that forced us to move or freeze. Within a week, we had erected permanent tents. In two, simple house structures began to rise.
But buildings alone couldn't earn trust. The people in the south—oppressed by nobles exiled from the east and west—remained in their nearly ruined villages. They preferred living in the shadow of oppression over risking their lives on unfamiliar land.
That was when the Phantom Terror was born.
By mid-month, we began moving in secret. Our targets: places the nobles sought to control. We planted low-yield explosives in strategic locations. Not to kill—never for that—but just enough to shake the ground. Market centers. Meeting halls. Small offices. We made sure there were no casualties, only shattered symbols of authority.
Newspapers started reporting the strange blasts. No suspects, no clear motives. The people blamed the nobles. The nobles blamed their political enemies. But what truly happened: the people grew afraid. Not knowing who was responsible meant not knowing how to defend themselves.
Amid the chaos, we spread a vague message: the north is safe. Those sharp enough caught the meaning. The first villagers began arriving, hesitant, bringing their families. By the end of the third week, houses started dotting the slopes. Tents turned into stone and wood. Dozens of families now called Skjoldeinheim home.
As the first month drew to a close, the small settlement had transformed. From a strange land into a new hope. From four people to dozens. From silence to a rising hum of life. Smoke rose from chimneys, children played, and people began to speak of the future.
We stood once again on the hill where it all began, looking out at the valley we had shaped. Homes stood in rows, earthen paths had formed naturally, and laughter rang more often than sighs of worry.
Olivia hugged herself against the cold, then smiled softly. "Look, Father, Mother, Albertt… isn't this place better than where we came from? I think this might be one of the best parts of my life."
I looked down, taking in every detail. "You're right. They live far better here than they ever did there."
Her father laughed—for the first time, freely. "Hahaha! It's all thanks to you, kids. I'm grateful to you both."
Her mother nodded, eyes glistening. "That's right. You are the best of us. Without you, we wouldn't have made it this far."
We looked at each other… then laughed. Warmly. Our fatigue didn't fade, but for the first time—we didn't feel alone.