The morning fog clung to the rolling hills of the Duras countryside as Magnus Veyron's carriage rumbled toward Castle Grannath. Sunlight filtered through damp pines, illuminating dew‑glazed ferns. Magnus stared out the window, mind sharpening on the coming audience with Duke Albrecht and his council. Today, he would secure the duke's full support—and perhaps more.
Beside him, Alistair Kane read over the carriage's contents: blueprints, metal samples, and a small working model of the steam hammer's piston assembly. He glanced at Magnus with a mix of pride and anxiety.
"Are you ready?" Alistair asked.
Magnus closed his eyes briefly. "Ready as I'll ever be."
The carriage slowed at the castle gate. Magnus stepped onto cobblestones slick with moss. He adjusted his dark coat, its brass buttons gleaming, and followed Alistair up the rampart to the great hall.
Inside, the vaulted chamber echoed with murmurs. Courtiers in silken doublets and embroidered gowns eyed him curiously. At the high dais, Duke Albrecht sat flanked by Chancellor Renly and a handful of nobles. The duke's expression was inscrutable.
"Master Veyron," Albrecht greeted, voice measured. "I trust your journey was pleasant."
Magnus bowed. "Your Grace."
Alistair set the model on a long oak table. Magnus unrolled the full blueprints beside it. The assembled crowd leaned forward.
"My lord," Magnus began, "I present the next evolution of our steam technology: the Steam Hammer Mk I. It uses compound pistons to amplify force, capable of delivering over two tons of striking power with each cycle." He tapped the working model. "Here, the primary piston drives the secondary arm—see how the lever multiplies the impact?"
A hush fell. Then, a guard placed a small stone block under the model's hammer arm. Magnus engaged the crank. The arm descended with a metallic thud, cracking the stone.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Chancellor Renly stroked his beard. "Remarkable. But to what end?"
Magnus met his gaze. "Forging armor, shaping cannonballs, crushing siege fortifications. This hammer can reduce days of labor to minutes."
One of the nobles scoffed. "And what of the smiths whose livelihoods you destroy?"
Magnus's eyes flicked to Alistair, then back to the scoffing lord. "They will become operators, technicians. Their hands free for more skilled work."
Another noble frowned. "And the cost? Who funds these engines?"
Magnus spread his hands. "The duchy will recoup costs through increased production and lower maintenance. We'll create wealth faster than we expend coin."
Duke Albrecht leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Bold claims. If this hammer performs in the field, I grant you exclusive rights within Duras. But you must deliver a full-scale prototype to the border fortress at Blackford within the month."
Magnus inclined his head. "I accept."
The duke nodded. "Then you have my backing. Chancellor Renly will draft the charter."
Magnus allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. "Thank you, Your Grace."
After the audience, Magnus and Alistair retired to the courtyard. Magnus inhaled the crisp air.
"Exclusive rights," Alistair murmured. "You've secured your future."
Magnus nodded, eyes distant. "Now to build the real thing."
He strode to the stables, where workers loaded steel girders, boilers, and piston cylinders onto wagons. He oversaw every crate, every barrel of coal, every bolt. By midday, the caravan set out for Blackford, with Magnus riding at the head, cloak billowing.
The road to Blackford wound through dense forests and craggy passes. At dusk, they camped beside a roaring river. Magnus studied the blueprints by firelight, marking revisions.
Alistair approached, lantern in hand. "Sir, Marta and Dax report issues with the secondary piston alignment."
Magnus sighed. "We'll correct it at the forge in Blackford."
Alistair hesitated. "Your father… he sent word. He wants you to come home, to Emberhold."
Magnus's jaw tightened. "Tell him I'm busy."
Alistair nodded, uncertain.
At dawn on the twentieth day, Magnus's caravan arrived at the walls of Blackford—an ancient fortress guarding the duchy's border. The commander, Captain Loren, greeted him warily.
"Master Veyron," Loren said, "we've heard tales of your machines. I hope they're more than tales."
Magnus dismounted, extending a hand. "They are."
They toured the courtyard's workshop tent. Magnus directed the workers as they assembled the hammer: mounting the boiler, aligning pistons, reinforcing the base. Captain Loren and his officers watched, arms folded.
By afternoon, the hammer stood complete: a massive steel frame with polished brass fittings, steam pipes coiled like serpents. A handful of soldiers held the stone block, and Magnus took position at the control lever.
He opened the valve. Steam hissed. The piston pulsed. The hammer arm raised, then crashed down with ear-splitting force, shattering the stone. Dust and fragments flew.
Captain Loren whistled. "By the gods."
Magnus closed the valve. "Ready for field tests whenever you are."
Loren nodded. "We'll deploy it in the next siege."
Magnus allowed himself a moment's pride—then turned to the horizon. Blackford sat at the edge of the duchy, but beyond lay the fractured kingdoms of the west.
Conquest beckoned.
That evening, Magnus penned a report to Duke Albrecht: hammer delivered, tests successful, next phase—automated ballistae and steam‑driven forges. He sealed it with the Veyron crest: an anvil overlaid by a gear.
He found Seraphine waiting by the ramparts, starlight in her hair.
"You've done it," she said softly.
Magnus handed her the report. "It's not enough."
She raised an eyebrow. "You always want more."
He took her hand. "There's a world beyond Duras waiting for the steam age."
She let her gaze drift to the distant mountains. "Just promise me one thing."
He looked at her, curious.
She squeezed his hand. "Promise you won't lose yourself in the machines."
He paused, searching her face. "I promise."
She smiled, but her eyes held concern.
The next morning, Magnus rode back to Grannath, mind already racing ahead. The duke's charter awaited his signature. The foundries would hum with activity. The soldiers would march with steam‑powered siege engines.
Yet beneath his ambition lay a whisper of doubt—of his father's words, of Seraphine's fears. But he banished them as weakness.
He would not be swayed.
He would forge the future—and none would stand in his way.