The sun had barely crested the eastern ridge when Magnus Veyron arrived at the south mill. Mist clung to the river, curling around the wooden paddles as they turned sluggishly in the shallow flow. He dismounted his horse—an elegant grey mare borrowed from the duke's stables—and strode toward the millrace, cloak swirling behind him.
Behind the mill, the abandoned overshot wheel lay silent, its paddles warped and rotted. Magnus had improved this wheel once, but now he saw new potential: not just waterpower, but steam.
He laid a hand on the weathered beam. "You serve well, old friend, but it's time for something better."
A farmhand approached, lantern in hand. "Master Veyron—early again." His voice carried deference laced with awe.
"Dax," Magnus said, "fetch me the copper kettle from the smithy and a length of iron pipe. And bring two barrels of charcoal."
The farmhand hesitated, then nodded. "Right away."
Magnus turned back to the wheel. His mind raced through calculations: volume, pressure, temperature. He pictured a small boiler hidden behind the mill, its piston driving a secondary shaft that would reinforce the waterwheel's rotation. A hybrid system—steam supplementing water—would ensure constant power, even in drought.
The kettle arrived by midday, along with pipe and charcoal. Dax and a fellow laborer, Marta, worked under Magnus's direction, clearing space and shoring up the mill's foundation. Magnus supervised every rivet, every joint, every weld.
By late afternoon, the boiler was assembled: a repurposed copper kettle with a reinforced neck, sealed with pitch and leather gaskets, fed by an iron pipe to a miniature cylinder. A hand‑cranked lever stood ready to control steam flow.
Magnus filled the kettle with water, packed charcoal beneath it, and lit the fire. Smoke curled from the makeshift chimney. He crouched, studying the gauge he'd fashioned from a bit of glass tubing and water.
"Watch the pressure," he instructed Dax. "Keep the fire steady—too hot, and the seals will blow. Too cool, and we stall."
As the fire crackled, steam hissed into the cylinder. The piston trembled, then rose, pushing the lever. The secondary shaft turned, and the great waterwheel lurched to life with renewed vigor.
Marta let out a whoop. "It's moving—Magnus, it's actually moving!"
Magnus's lips quirked. "Not just moving." He increased the steam. The piston pumped faster, and the waterwheel spun smoothly, its paddles biting deeper into the river.
The millstones below ground groaned as grain poured between them. Flour sifted into sacks with relentless efficiency.
"Double output," Magnus murmured. "Even in low water."
He released the lever. The piston halted. The waterwheel slowed but never stopped.
Dax and Marta exchanged wide‑eyed glances.
Magnus wiped sweat from his brow. "Clean up. We leave at dawn."
That night, he returned to Castle Grannath with two sacks of the mill's finest flour—a gift for Duke Albrecht—and a heart full of triumph. In the grand hall, the duke sampled the bread, breaking crust and tasting crumb.
"Magnus," Albrecht said between chews, "this is the finest bread I've had in years." He looked up, eyes narrowing. "But I'm more interested in how you produced it."
Magnus bowed. "With steam."
A murmur rippled through the assembled nobles.
"You harnessed steam?" the chancellor demanded.
Magnus nodded. "A small prototype. It bolsters the waterwheel, ensuring constant power. No drought can stop production."
Albrecht tapped the table. "Impressive. We'll implement this in all ducal mills. You'll oversee the rollout."
Magnus inclined his head. "Of course."
But inside, his mind raced. The prototype was crude. He needed a proper foundry, skilled laborers, and secrecy. He would deliver the mills—but on his terms.
At dawn two days later, Magnus slipped away from court once more, this time to the old dyeworks on the river's bend. He intended to test a second steam valve there, using the larger vats to channel exhaust steam and drive weaving looms.
The dyeworks were silent, the vats empty. Magnus climbed the rickety ladder to the loft above, where the master weaver once stored linen. He measured beams, noted the floor's integrity, and sketched quick diagrams in his notebook.
Below, two looms stood idle—antiquated foot‑treadle models. He pictured them replaced by steam‑driven rollers, capable of turning yards of cloth in hours rather than days.
He set to work, scrounging wood and metal, forging gears and cogs in the mobile forge he'd installed behind the building. The roar of his portable furnace echoed across the river.
By midday, the first steam‑driven loom sat assembled: a squat wooden frame with iron rollers, belt‑driven by a small piston engine. He poured water into the boiler, lit the charcoal, and watched as steam hissed into life.
The belt turned. The rollers spun. A bolt of plain linen fed through, emerging on the other side as a perfectly even, unbroken length.
Marta—who'd followed him from the mill—clapped her hands. "Magnus, it works!"
He let the loom run for an hour, adjusting tension, calibrating speed. Then he shut it down.
"We leave no trace," he told Marta. "Pack it up."
She frowned. "Why hide it?"
Magnus met her gaze. "Because the world isn't ready. Yet."
Back at the castle, whispers of "the steam wizard" reached every corridor. Merchants clamored for his machines. Craftsmen feared for their livelihoods. Nobles eyed him with a mixture of greed and suspicion.
One evening, Magnus found Seraphine in the library, poring over a map of Duras.
"You're spreading like wildfire," she said. "The mills, the looms… next you'll power the forges themselves."
He closed the door. "That's the plan."
She sighed. "And what then?"
Magnus stepped to the window, looking out at the lanterns flickering in the courtyard. "Then I change everything."
She joined him. "Your mother warned you: unchecked ambition can burn everything you hold dear."
He turned to her, face soft in the lamplight. "What I hold dear is progress."
Her eyes glimmered with something he didn't recognize. "Just… don't let the fire consume you."
Weeks passed in a blur of invention and construction. Under Magnus's direction, ducal smithies began forging reinforced boilers. Carpenters built engine houses. Workers laid pipes and belts. The clang of hammers and hiss of steam became the new heartbeat of the duchy.
Magnus supervised each site, moving from mill to dyeworks to forge, refining designs and silencing doubters. He sketched new blueprints at every stop—compound engines, rotary drills, mechanical pumps.
By the end of the quarter, every major mill in the duchy boasted a steam booster. Looms turned day and night. Production soared. The duke's coffers swelled.
At a celebratory feast, Albrecht stood toasting Magnus before the assembled court. "To the man who tamed steam and revived our lands!"
Magnus raised his goblet. "To steam—may it serve us all."
He caught Seraphine's eye across the hall. She gave a small, uncertain smile.
Behind them, in the shadows, Chancellor Renly's lips curved into a frown.
That night, Magnus returned to the turret room. The dawn light slipped beneath the door as he unrolled his latest blueprint: a scaled design for a steam hammer powerful enough to crush boulders.
He traced the lines with a steady hand. Soon, he'd wager this design against the crown itself.
A soft knock sounded. Dax entered, carrying a stack of parchment.
"Master Veyron, the duke's steward sent these."
Magnus accepted them: letters from neighboring barons requesting his engines, a petition from Emberhold's elders begging for preferential rates, and an unsigned note:
"Stop. You meddle with forces you cannot contain."
He crumpled the note and tossed it into the brazier. The paper curled and turned to ash.
He turned back to his designs, eyes alight.
"Containment is for the weak," he whispered. "I'll harness the storm."
And with that, he set his quill to paper—blueprints for a new era.