The Veyron forge sat dark and silent when Magnus arrived before dawn, a single lantern lighting the soot-streaked walls. His father, Bram, stood at the anvil, hammer in hand, eyes fixed on a glowing horseshoe. The rhythmic clang echoed through the empty shop.
Magnus paused at the doorframe. For years, this was his world: the smell of coal, the hiss of steam, and his father's steady guidance. But now, everything had changed.
Bram didn't look up. "You're early."
"I needed to speak with you," Magnus said, setting his cloak aside.
Bram shaped the final blow, then quenched the hot steel in water. Steam hissed. He placed the horseshoe on the rack and turned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Speak."
Magnus retrieved a scrap of parchment from his satchel—the latest blueprint for the steam hammer. "I'm moving forward with this."
Bram's weathered face tightened. "That machine will change the way of war, not just smithing."
Magnus met his gaze. "Change is inevitable."
Bram picked up the parchment, studied the drawing. "I taught you to forge tools, not engines of destruction."
Magnus stepped closer. "It's not destruction. It's progress."
Bram shook his head. "Your progress is killing the livelihoods of men who've worked steel for generations. You undercut them with machines they don't understand."
Magnus's jaw clenched. "They'll learn—or be left behind."
Silence fell. Outside, the first birds heralded morning. Bram's hammer hung heavy in his hand.
"You're my son," he said quietly. "I'm proud of your gifts. But I fear what you're becoming."
Magnus's storm-grey eyes flickered. "I'm becoming what I must."
Bram's voice cracked. "Just… remember the man you were. Don't lose him in the steel and steam."
Magnus turned away, tension coiling in his shoulders. "I won't."
But as he left the forge, the words rang hollow.
That afternoon, Magnus traveled to the Iron Vanguard's nascent foundry—a repurposed barn on the edge of the duchy's border. Inside, workers in soot-streaked leathers poured molten steel into molds for boiler plates and hammer heads. The air smelled of burning coal and ambition.
His protégé, Alistair Kane, approached—young, eager, eyes shining with devotion. "Master Veyron," he said, bowing. "The plates are nearly cast."
Magnus inspected the glowing metal. "Excellent. Once they cool, we drill and reinforce. I want the hammer ready for field tests within the week."
Alistair hesitated. "Sir… my family—my father is a smith in Emberhold. He fears the machines will take his job."
Magnus's gaze hardened. "Your father fears change. He'll adapt—or he'll become obsolete."
Alistair swallowed. "Yes, Master."
Magnus turned to the furnace. "Good. Now fetch me the blueprints for the gear assembly."
As Alistair hurried away, Bram's warning echoed in his mind. He shoved it aside.
Progress required sacrifice.
That evening, Magnus returned home to Emberhold—his birthplace, now a village on the cusp of transformation. The streets were quieter than he remembered. The old blacksmith's shop lay empty; Bram had closed it for the night.
He found his parents in their small cottage, dinner waiting on the table. Ada looked up, eyes wary. Bram stood by the hearth, arms crossed.
Magnus sighed. "I know you're worried."
Ada's voice trembled. "We're frightened."
Bram stepped forward. "Your machines are spreading too fast. People don't understand them."
Magnus sat, running a hand through his hair. "I'm creating jobs—foundries, workshops, engineers."
"Not everyone will learn," Bram said. "Some will starve."
Magnus's expression grew cold. "Then they'll starve."
Ada's lip quivered. "That's not what I raised you to say."
Magnus stood. "I won't apologize for progress." He turned to leave.
Bram grabbed his arm. "You'll break this family if you keep going like this."
Magnus pulled free. "Progress waits for no one." He strode out into the night, leaving his parents in stunned silence.
On the road back to Grannath, Magnus's mare cantered beneath a sky thick with stars. He pondered his father's words: the fear, the caution. He saw their faces—Ada's sadness, Bram's hurt. A twinge of guilt flickered, then vanished.
At the castle gate, he found Seraphine waiting. Her cloak was wrapped tight against the chill.
"You look troubled," she said.
"I'm fine." He dismounted.
She studied him. "Your father is here?"
He nodded. "He disapproves."
She laid a hand on his arm. "He loves you."
Magnus shook her off gently. "Love won't power a kingdom."
She looked away, hurt. "You're losing yourself."
He met her gaze. "I'm finding my destiny."
She stepped back. "Then I can't stop you."
He turned and walked past her into the courtyard, the torchlight casting long shadows.
Inside his turret workshop, Magnus unrolled the steam hammer blueprints on the drafting table. He traced the lines with a sharpened quill, every detail perfect. He would prove his father wrong.
He lifted the lid of a small chest and removed a sealed letter from the crown—an invitation to demonstrate his steam hammer at King Aldric's court in Morvenfall.
He allowed himself a rare smile.
Tomorrow, he would depart for the capital.
Tomorrow, he would show the world what progress truly meant.
And nothing—not fear, not family—would stand in his way.