Fire of the Naphthaleers

Hiss. The oil seethes in the massive copper vat. Bubble. Pop. Bubble. Viscous black spheres rupture on the surface, releasing vapors that claw at the lungs. Frank wipes the stinging sweat from his brow with a rag stained by sulfur and grit. His face is a mask of soot, his eyes two burning embers reflecting the furnace's crimson glow. «... The heat is rising... The mixture demands precision... One mistake and this cellar becomes a tomb ...» Scrape. He draws a long iron ladle, churning the liquid with a steady, rhythmic hand. The weight of the metal aches in his young arms. «... One more flask, and the evening shift is done ...» He glances at the hourglass on the stone shelf. The sand bleeds away like time itself. «... This shipment must reach the walls before dusk... The catapults do not wait for laggards ...» CRASH. The heavy timber door slams against the stone wall. Albert enters. Dust coats his greying beard. His turban is askew, battered as if by a gale. His eyes dart to the corners of the lab, refusing to meet the boiling vat. Thud. Thud. His footsteps are heavy, uneven, shattering the silence thick with the scent of death. — Frank. Stop. The boy freezes. T…