The dawn sky was bruised purple when Magnus Veyron slipped from his cramped quarters in Castle Grannath's old tower wing. A sliver of moon still clung to the horizon, and a chill breeze whispered through the empty corridors. Magnus moved with purpose, cloak pulled tight around his lean frame, boots silent on the flagstones. He carried nothing but a satchel of charcoal sticks and scrap parchment—the tools of his true craft.
He reached the abandoned turret room before the first guard made rounds. Once, this chamber had housed crossbowmen; now, it sat empty, its narrow windows offering a view of the rising sun. Magnus set his satchel on the dusty floor, knelt by the window ledge, and unrolled a sheet of parchment.
On it lay his latest vision: a steam piston engine unlike any the realm had seen. Cylinders, valves, and flywheels danced across the page in precise inked lines. Marginal notes detailed pressure tolerances and material strengths. Even at a glance, the drawing exuded potential—and danger.
He took a charcoal stick and began to refine the valve mechanism, adjusting the curvature of the inlet port by mere millimeters. To anyone else, the change was imperceptible. To him, it was the difference between sputtering failure and relentless, hissing power.
A soft creak echoed behind him. Magnus froze, heart thudding.
"Magnus?"
He turned. Lady Seraphine, the duke's niece, stood in the doorway—her auburn hair loose, her robes edged in mourning black. Her face was pale in the dawn light, eyes concerned.
"You should not be here," he said, rolling up the parchment with deliberate calm.
She stepped forward, inspecting the scroll. "You design in secret now?"
He shrugged. "Better to work without interruptions."
She closed the distance, peering at the sketches. "A piston engine. Ambitious." Her tone held a mixture of admiration and reproach. "My uncle will want to see this soon."
Magnus slid the parchment into his satchel. "Not until it's ready."
Seraphine studied him. "You're changing everything too fast. The court already whispers that you'll replace the smiths, the carpenters… even the knights."
He smiled thinly. "Let them whisper. They'll learn to work with me—or step aside."
Her gaze softened. "Just… be careful. Power is like steam: useful when contained, deadly when it bursts."
He nodded once, dismissing her warning. She lingered a heartbeat, then turned and vanished into the corridor.
Magnus exhaled. Seraphine saw too much—maybe even too much of him. He needed a workspace beyond prying eyes. But for now, the turret would do.
At breakfast in the great hall, the court buzzed with speculation. Magnus sat at a side table, porridge and honey before him, eyes on the servants. He sketched absentmindedly on a scrap napkin: the outline of a rotary loom.
Across the room, Duke Albrecht presided over nobles and merchants. His gaze flicked to Magnus now and then, calculating. Beside him sat Chancellor Renly, quill in hand, ready to record any decree.
A messenger arrived with a sealed scroll. The duke slit it open.
"Imperial envoy," he announced. "Arrives in three days to inspect Grannath's defenses."
A murmur ran through the hall. The envoy was rumored to represent the king himself. Magnus felt a spark of opportunity—and dread. If he could present his engines as indispensable to the duchy's security, he'd secure funding beyond the duke's coffers. But if they judged him too radical, he could lose everything.
He finished his porridge and rose. "Your Grace," he said, bowing.
Albrecht looked up. "Yes, Veyron?"
"I request permission to use the old stables as a workshop. I can demonstrate my piston engine there for the envoy."
The duke steepled his fingers. "The stables are occupied by the cavalry."
"I can relocate them to the lower yard. It's more secure and cleaner."
Silence. Then Albrecht leaned back. "Very well. But if you inconvenience the cavalry, I'll hold you personally responsible."
Magnus inclined his head. "Understood."
That afternoon, Magnus surveyed the old stables: a cavernous space of timber beams and stone floors. Damp patches dotted the walls, and the air smelled of hay and horses. He envisioned clearing one end for his engine, stacking barrels of coal and water along the walls, rigging pipes to the chimney.
He set to work, enlisting two laborers from the duke's smiths. They eyed him warily, muscles tensing when he directed them. But he spoke with such clarity—each task broken into exact steps—that they followed without question.
Over the next two days, he worked from dawn to dusk. He repurposed iron girders, forged new brackets, and sealed the chimney with fresh mortar. When the piston cylinder arrived—cast in the ducal foundry under his supervision—he fitted it to the base with careful taps of the hammer.
At night, he returned to the turret to refine the blueprints: integrating a governor mechanism to regulate speed, adding safety valves to release excess pressure. The parchment grew crowded with notes in his precise hand.
On the third morning, as mist curled around the stable eaves, Magnus readied the engine for its first full test. A handful of guards, the duke's engineers, and Seraphine stood by as he poured water into the boiler and fed coal to the fire.
He cranked the valve open. Steam hissed. The piston shuddered, then moved in a smooth, rhythmic dance. The flywheel turned, faster and faster, until it gleamed like a silver disc in motion.
A murmur rippled through the onlookers.
Magnus allowed himself a small smile. "This is only fifty percent of its potential output."
The chief engineer, a grizzled veteran named Harrin, frowned. "At full pressure, the cylinder might burst."
Magnus shook his head. "Not with these alloys." He tapped the metal. "High-carbon steel, reinforced with chromium. It can withstand triple the standard ducal grade."
Harrin's eyes widened. Seraphine watched him with interest.
The duke arrived, flanked by his steward and the envoy's advance party. He nodded to Magnus. "Proceed."
Magnus opened the valve further. The piston roared. The flywheel spun. Nearby, a tethered cart lurched as its belt turned, wheels churning mud in the courtyard.
The envoy's aide gasped. "Remarkable."
Albrecht's lips curved in a thin smile. "Master Veyron, you have my permission to present this to His Majesty's envoy."
Magnus dipped his head. "Thank you, Your Grace."
That night, Magnus returned to the turret, where a single candle burned beside his blueprints. He unrolled the drawing and traced the lines with his fingertip.
He felt Seraphine's presence before he saw her. She leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.
"You did well today."
He glanced at her. "Tomorrow, I leave for Mornval. The envoy expects a full demonstration at court."
She pushed off the wall. "You're going alone?"
"I need no guard." He gathered the parchment. "Just time and materials."
Her brow furrowed. "Time is short. The duke grows impatient. The envoy's visit will decide your fate here—and perhaps beyond."
He stepped closer. "If I succeed in Mornval, I'll secure backing from the crown. Then this duchy—and all of western Duras—will be my proving ground."
She studied him, eyes troubled. "Don't lose yourself, Magnus. Power can twist a man's soul."
He caught her gaze. "I intend to twist the world."
She nodded once, as if accepting a truth she feared. "Be safe."
He watched her go, then turned back to his blueprints. The lines blurred as his mind leapt ahead: factories belching smoke, mills turning ceaselessly, armies armed with steam-powered artillery. The future was forged in iron and flame—and he would hold the hammer.
"At dawn," he whispered. "I reshape my destiny."