Revelations: Introductions

Introductions
"Annabel… what can I say?"
"'Thank you' is a possibility, you know."
The man responded with a loud laugh, then jumped up from his workbench and pulled the girl close to give her a tight hug with his left arm.
The source of his joy was clutched tightly in his right hand: a distorted length of wood that was special in no way, apart from a pitted and tarnished plaque that had been fixed onto it. It was after the man had examined this piece of metal under a couple of magnifying lenses that he had exclaimed his gratitude; the girl, thoroughly embarrassed by the embrace, wished she'd had the foresight to stand a few steps further back. Perhaps even behind the workroom's door.
The door in question was eased open at that moment by a woman who looked like an older version of the girl: her mother.
"Judging by the commotion I could hear all the way from the dining room, I take it you've received your birthday present?" She asked smilingly.
The man loosened his hug and replied, "Our daughter is well on the way to joining her parents as fellow historians! Only our child would think of looking through junk dredged from the Northern Wastelands for a birthday present!"
The happiness he felt in that instant couldn't be expressed in mere words, so he simply beamed. After a moment, he spoke with a voice ringing with sincerity.
"No man could wish for a better family."

The maid bustled out of the room with the remains of breakfast on a tray, leaving the two women alone in the grey bedroom. One was standing, upright but balling her hands, while the other sat, looking over a sheaf of papers.
The elder, seated woman waited for the door to click shut before continuing where she had left off.
"I don't care how long it's been since you last painted - you have far more important affairs to deal with."
"Yes, Mother."
"Really, Mary, if you want to secure your place in society, you must keep your priorities in mind."
"Yes, Mother."
"Making acquaintances is much more productive than making paintings."
"Yes, Mother."
"And remember, her uncle is part of the Justice Ministry, so try to make a good impression."
"Yes, Mother."

The small house had large plumes of smoke pouring out of its wide chimney. But the fire that produced it was not in the untouched master bedroom, nor in the seldom-used kitchen; the front room looked to be a likely candidate, but the hearth had only a few embers remaining, although they could re-ignite if the leaning stacks of books nearby decided to give in to gravity.
The home of the great fire that was belching the smoke out was in fact a workshop built centrally to the house, as if all the other rooms were mere afterthoughts to this one.
The mistress of this great inferno stood squarely in front of her blazing slave, her clothing not made of cloth or leather, but papers covered with intricate designs.
Not a bead of sweat formed on her brow as she pushed blackened iron pots into the fire and pulled others out; when some of them had reached the end of whatever process was going on inside, she would pour their charred powdered contents into copper pans filled with a thick, amber liquid.
She ignored them as they were left to cool behind her, giving off a thin steam that softened the glow of the flame and blurred the shadow of the woman as it fell across the various worktables, the bookshelves, the rough stone floor, and occasionally the small circular windows built high up on the walls, which framed the deep dark blue of the night sky outside.

The cavern walls were slick after millennia's worth of neglect. The original miners had followed this mineral-rich seam into the mountain and exploited it as much as they could, for as long as they could: they were long gone. But their efforts had turned a solitary seam into a network, interspersed with awe-inspiring, ore-filled caverns.
Inside the largest cavern of all, the walls glowed as if with an inner fire. In fact, it was external: this cavern was so huge that a metropolis had grown here. Its original name had been forgotten long ago: in the stories told to mountain children warming by the hearth it was called Necropolis, City of the Dead. Pyrocropolis, City of Fire, would have been truer just now, as the citadel in the heart of the city was aflame. There was no one there to douse them. No one there to run for help or in fear.
The City of the Dead was going through its death-throes.
Many miles above, on the surface, the Peoples' President of the Mountain Republic had just downed a toast in the Great Hall of the Capital. He was also about to die: he had been poisoned, and his life would be cut short in a few agonising minutes.
The President and the citadel; two symbols - one about to be burnt by blazing flames, one by a raging fever. From the ashes of both would rise a conflict that would heal an age-old division.
The Capital and Necropolis; two cities - their histories intertwined in a way only known by the Ancestors, who had founded both cities as the backbone of an empire. But those days had long passed out of the books of history and into the books of legend: the story of the Great Civil War that had ripped the cities apart in the first place was itself woven with myths of heroes and villains, of angels and demons.
Little did the city folk of the surface know that history was about to… reflect itself.