The forge fire crackled like a beast slumbering in its den.
Sparks leapt as the hammer struck iron, echoing through the low-stone walls of the Veyron smithy. Ten-year-old Magnus Veyron crouched nearby, soot streaked across his cheek, arms crossed over grease-stained overalls. His storm-grey eyes flicked from the bellows to the glowing steel on the anvil. Most children of Emberhold were asleep at this hour. He was not most children.
"Blow harder, lad," Bram Veyron barked, sweat dripping from his temple.
Magnus obeyed, pressing the bellows lever in sharp, rhythmic pumps. The fire roared in response, bathing his father's face in flickering orange light. He watched every detail with precise attention—not just how the iron glowed, but how it changed: the flux of heat, the subtle shifts in color, the dance between metal and flame.
"Now," Bram grunted, "I'll shape it before it cools."
With two strikes, the glowing billet was flattened, curved, and beveled. It would become a sickle for the harvest. Nothing fancy. But to Magnus, each strike revealed secrets.
"You're watching like a hawk again," Bram said, placing the steel aside to cool. "What're you scheming in that skull of yours?"
Magnus wiped his hands and gave a small, unreadable smile. "I want to try something."
"Something foolish, I wager."
"Something clever."
Before Bram could object, Magnus darted to the forge wall, retrieved flint, steel, and a tiny heap of sawdust and dried moss. Carefully, he arranged the tinder in a small clay bowl. Then he held the flint in one hand, steel in the other, and struck.
Sparks danced, but nothing caught.
Bram chuckled. "You've been watching me do that since you were five. Still can't make a fire properly?"
Magnus ignored the jab. He adjusted the angle—slightly shallower this time—then struck again. A perfect line of sparks arced into the tinder. One ember glowed, clinging to life.
Magnus cupped his hands and breathed gently.
The ember flared, then caught.
A small flame leapt to life.
Bram blinked. "Well, I'll be damned."
Magnus turned, face illuminated by the fire he'd birthed. "Force. Angle. Oxygen. That's all it takes."
Bram folded his arms. "You don't talk like a child."
"I don't think like one."
Outside, the village of Emberhold slumbered under a blanket of early autumn mist. Smoke curled from a handful of chimneys, and the fields lay silent beyond the fences. But in the Veyron forge, something new stirred. Not just flame. Not just invention.
Ambition.
They sat at the small kitchen table later that night, with stew thick on the fire and warm bread on the plates. Magnus poked at his food, gaze distant.
His mother, Ada, watched him closely. She'd been doing that more lately.
"You were in the forge again after sunset," she said gently.
"He lit his own fire," Bram added, puffing his chest with mixed pride and wariness. "First real flame. Quick with his hands."
Ada stirred her stew, eyes still on Magnus. "And now you're thinking of building another one of your contraptions."
"I am," Magnus admitted, unfazed. "The waterwheel in the south mill leaks pressure and under-turns in the dry season. I can improve it."
"You're ten," Ada said, more sad than angry.
"Machines don't care how old their builder is," Magnus replied.
A long silence stretched between them.
"You've got your father's fire," she said at last. "But fire, unchecked, burns down barns. And kings."
Magnus looked up, eyes hard. "Then I'll learn how to control it."
By the time Magnus was twelve, the south mill ran more efficiently than ever. He had replaced the rotted water paddles with new ones cut at precise lengths. Added gear teeth. Reinforced the axle. The entire village reaped the benefit in grain and flour.
But it wasn't enough.
Efficiency was only the first step. What he craved—what he burned for—was progress.
In the abandoned stone tower on the outskirts of Emberhold, Magnus built his first working piston. It was laughably crude—just a boiled copper pot sealed with wax and a wooden plunger—but when the water inside hissed and expanded, it forced the rod upward.
He grinned like a madman.
"This… is control."
Word spread. As all things did.
By age thirteen, the Duke of Mornval, Albrecht Duras, summoned him to Castle Grannath. It was the first time Magnus had ever set foot outside Emberhold. He wore a tailored jacket three sizes too big, borrowed from the tailor's son. His boots pinched.
He didn't care.
The great stone keep of Grannath loomed like a beast carved from the mountain. Inside, velvet draped the halls and stained glass poured color on marble. Magnus saw wealth. He saw power. But he didn't kneel.
The duke sat on a raised dais, flanked by knights in polished armor and advisers with silver-threaded robes. His eyes were sharp. Too sharp for a man known to drink twice a day.
"So you're the smith's pup," Albrecht said, voice oily.
"I'm Magnus Veyron," he replied, "and I've come to change the way your world works."
There were gasps. A snort of laughter from a steward.
But the duke merely leaned forward, intrigued.
"Show me."
The audience chamber turned laboratory. With scraps, Magnus constructed a demonstration: a small wooden beam pressurized by a copper coil. It hissed. It pushed.
The lever moved without human touch.
Gasps turned to silence.
The duke's eyes narrowed. "What do you want in return?"
Magnus paused. "Resources. Materials. A workspace. And time."
Albrecht chuckled. "You're a bold pup. You think I'll give you coin and steel just because your toy twitches?"
Magnus didn't blink. "Give me one month, and I'll build something that crushes stone with steam alone."
Silence again.
Then: "A wager, then. One month. You fail, and you work for my smiths as an apprentice. You succeed… and I'll give you a laboratory in the tower wing."
Magnus bowed. "Agreed."
The next four weeks became legend.
He worked in the old grain storage hall, now emptied and echoing with potential. With borrowed hands and scrap metal, he forged rivets, cogs, pistons. When the others slept, he studied. When they doubted, he calculated.
His father came once, bringing tools. His mother came once, bringing food. Neither stayed long. They saw what the court did not: the shift in his eyes. The absence of warmth.
On the 30th day, the court gathered to see his final work.
He called it the Steam Hammer.
A towering steel column on a pivot arm, fed by a crude boiler, capable of flattening stone blocks with a hiss and a blow.
He fed the boiler. The pressure climbed.
The hammer struck.
The stone shattered.
The audience went silent. Then erupted in cheers.
The duke only stared.
And then he clapped.
"Welcome to Grannath, Master Veyron."
That night, Magnus stood alone atop the ramparts of Castle Grannath. Below, the fires of the city glimmered like stars. The wind tousled his dark hair. In his hands, he held a single gear from the hammer. Not as a trophy.
As a promise.
"This is only the beginning," he whispered.
"I won't just reshape tools. I'll reshape the world."