Lunrik eyed the calibration chair Borgrum indicated with considerable trepidation. It looked less like a piece of diagnostic equipment and more like something designed for controlled demolition. Heavy iron restraints hung loosely at the sides, wires thicker than Lunrik's thumb snaked towards humming capacitors, and the emitters aimed at the seat seemed repurposed from heavy-duty mining drills. Borgrum's definition of 'proper resonance diagnostics' clearly involved more brute force than Gyra's subtle fields.
"Is this… necessary?" Lunrik asked, stalling slightly. "Master Gyra already confirmed the incompatibility."
"Gyra confirmed the effect," Borgrum retorted impatiently, already adjusting heavy levers on a nearby console that sparked intermittently. "I need to understand the mechanism. The precise harmonic frequency of the antagonism. The depth of its penetration into your resonance field. The nature of your defensive reaction." He grinned again, that unnerving gap-toothed expression. "Think of it as… mapping the battlefield before designing the weapon."
Flint Gearspark hurried over, carrying a complex helmet fitted with numerous sensor nodes and wires. "Calibration helm, Master!"
"Good lad," Borgrum grunted. "Fit it to the werewolf. Securely."
Flint approached Lunrik hesitantly. "Uh… apologies for the… crudeness, Subject Gamma-Three," he stammered. "Master Borgrum prefers direct neural resonance feedback over ambient field readings. More… visceral data." He gently placed the heavy helmet on Lunrik's head, tightening straps, connecting wires that trailed back to Borgrum's console. It felt heavy, claustrophobic.
"Right," Borgrum declared, throwing a large switch. The emitters around the chair hummed to life, not with Gyra's subtle vibration, but with a palpable pressure, a focused energy that made the air around Lunrik feel thick and heavy. "Baseline established. Resonance signature… unstable, as expected, but coherent." He watched the smoked-glass screen intently. "Now, introducing simulated counter-harmonic, derived from the hunter power cell resonance…"
He slowly turned a large dial. Lunrik felt it instantly – the scraping dissonance, the feeling of wrongness, but amplified, focused, drilling directly into his skull via the helmet. The Stigma on his hand burned fiercely. Alaric's ghost roared in protest within his mind, dredging up visceral memories of Velryn's betrayal, Kaedor's killing blow. Pain flared behind his eyes.
"Subject exhibiting strong negative reaction," Flint reported, monitoring his own readouts nervously. "Neural stress levels climbing rapidly! Harmonic field showing signs of chaotic cascade!"
"Hold steady, werewolf!" Borgrum commanded, his eyes glued to the main screen, ignoring Flint's panic. "We need the peak disruption frequency! The core of the scream!"
Lunrik gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to rip the helmet off, to lash out. The conflicting energies felt like they were physically tearing at his insides. He could feel the curse responding, gathering itself like a cornered beast, preparing to unleash that raw, chaotic defensive energy Borgrum wanted to capture. He focused, trying to ride the edge of the reaction without letting it consume him.
"Almost there…" Borgrum muttered, making minute adjustments to the dial. "Peak dissonance frequency identified at… thirty-seven kilocycles, phased harmonic variance… There!"
At that precise moment, the antagonistic pressure reached an unbearable peak. With an involuntary cry torn from his throat, Lunrik felt his own energy erupt outwards – not a physical blast, but a wave of pure, uncontrolled harmonic fury, the 'scream' Borgrum sought. It slammed outwards against the simulated hunter frequency, against the emitters, against the very fabric of the workshop.
The emitters sparked violently. Lights flickered overhead. The calibration helmet went momentarily dead, then flared with painful static against his temples. The main screen above Borgrum's console dissolved into a shower of distorted pixels before going black. An overloaded capacitor bank somewhere in the workshop exploded with a deafening BANG, showering the area with sparks and smoke.
"Flux overload!" Flint shrieked, diving under a workbench.
Borgrum roared curses, wrestling with the main power lever, finally managing to slam it down, cutting the energy flow to the calibration rig. Silence descended abruptly, broken only by the hiss of extinguishing sparks, the settling dust, and Lunrik's ragged gasping in the now powerless chair.
Slowly, Borgrum turned from the sparking console, wiping soot from his face, his expression a mixture of fury, frustration, and grudging awe. He stared at Lunrik, who was trembling, drained, the echo of the harmonic scream still vibrating through him.
"By my Great-Grandfather's beard," Borgrum breathed, his voice raspy. "The raw power… Uncontrolled, yes, but… magnificent harmonic disruption." He looked at the damaged console, the fried screen. "Costly data acquisition, though."
Flint cautiously emerged from under the workbench, brushing soot off his goggles. "Master! Did we… did we capture the cascade signature before the system overload?"
Borgrum checked a smaller, hardened backup recorder unit, blowing dust off its casing. He peered at the small display, then broke into a wide, triumphant grin. "Aye, lad! We got it! Full spectrum! Pure, untamed Banehallow counter-resonance!" He slapped the recorder unit proudly. "The template for the Disruptor! Gyra with her gentle fields would never have pushed hard enough to capture this!"
He looked back at Lunrik, his earlier suspicion replaced by something akin to grudging camaraderie forged in shared (if involuntary) experimental peril. "You held together, werewolf. Better than my equipment did." He chuckled darkly. "Now comes the real work: refining that chaotic energy, focusing it, building an emitter that can handle the backlash without vaporizing itself, or the user."
He began barking orders at Flint again, energized by the successful data capture despite the collateral damage. "Flint, assess damage to the main console! Reroute power from the secondary forge generator! And start modelling that multi-phase harmonic distributor based on the captured scream frequency! We need six micro-focusing lenses, Class Gamma…"
Lunrik slowly removed the now-inert helmet, his head pounding, his energy utterly depleted. He had survived Borgrum's 'proper' diagnostics. He had provided the raw, dangerous template they needed. He felt violated, exhausted, but also strangely vindicated. His curse, his Banehallow blood, wasn't just a weakness to be hidden or studied; it was a source of raw power, capable of disrupting the very technology designed to destroy it.
As Borgrum and Flint dove into the complex challenge of designing the Resonance Disruptor core, Lunrik felt a subtle shift within himself. He was still a prisoner, still a pawn in dwarven games. But he was also becoming something else: an active participant, his unique, dangerous nature not just a liability, but potentially the key to fighting back against an enemy that threatened them all. The sparks of the unconventional, ignited in Borgrum's chaotic forge, had revealed the raw power lurking within the curse, waiting to be shaped. The question was, could it be controlled? And at what cost?