The morning mist clung to Emberhold's stone walls like gauzy veils, softening the edges of rooftops and winding lanes. Word of Magnus Veyron's midnight mill had spread beyond the village; now even distant travelers spoke of the "steam wizard" who breathed life into rusted iron. At the market square, stalls bustled with merchants hawking produce and trinkets, but conversation always circled back to Magnus.
A group of weavers clustered by the cloth stalls, voices low yet animated.
"He turned the mill with fire and steam," one whispered, fingers wrapped around a woolen shawl. "They say the waterwheel ran without water."
"Magic," muttered another, eyes wide. "He consorts with dark forces."
A third, older woman shook her head. "No magic—just a clever mind. But clever minds can be dangerous."
Magnus strode through the square, hood drawn, cloak brushing cobblestones. He paused at a stall selling metal tools, ran a finger over a wrought-iron chisel, and watched the blacksmith's son—a boy of twelve—admire his handiwork.
"Dreaming of forging your own tools?" Magnus asked, voice warm.
The boy nodded, eyes shining. "I want to make machines like you, sir."
Magnus crouched. "Study metal, learn geometry, and never stop asking why. One day, you might change the world."
The boy's grin widened. Magnus stood, gave a nod, and continued on. These moments—sparking curiosity—were the true measure of his progress.
At the outskirts of Emberhold, a traveling scribe arrived, cart laden with parchment and ink. He set up near the old well and unfurled a broadside titled "The Steam Sovereign: Tales of Magnus Veyron." Crowds gathered as he read aloud:
"In the dead of night, the ancient mill roared to life. Flames birthed motion, and a single man defied nature's laws…"
Villagers gasped. The scribe's words painted Magnus as a mythic figure—hero or harbinger, depending on who listened.
Magnus watched from the shadows, expression unreadable. He knew that rumors could be both ally and enemy. The myth would draw supporters—and enemies. He needed to steer the story.
He approached the scribe. "Good work," he said, voice low.
The scribe jumped, nearly dropping his quill. "Master Veyron! I—"
"Balance your tales," Magnus advised, laying a hand on the broadside. "Emphasize innovation, not sorcery. Show me as a craftsman, not a mage."
The scribe nodded vigorously. "Of course, sir. My next broadside will credit your skill and science."
Magnus slipped a gold coin into the scribe's hand. "Use it well."
As the scribe scurried away, Magnus felt the weight of his growing legend—and the responsibility that came with it.
Back at Castle Grannath, courtiers whispered in corridors. In the grand hall, Chancellor Renly and Maester Kolmar spoke in low tones as Magnus passed.
"They worship him like a saint," Renly muttered.
Kolmar frowned. "Saints fall as quickly as they rise."
Magnus paused, smiled. "And what of saints who build worlds?"
Renly bristled. "We deal in reality, Master Veyron, not miracles."
Magnus inclined his head. "Reality is what we make of it."
He swept past, leaving a hush in his wake. The political winds shifted; he was no longer a mere inventor but a force in court intrigue.
That evening, Magnus returned to Emberhold to host an informal gathering in the abandoned mill. He had rigged the hall with benches and lanterns, inviting local leaders, merchants, and villagers to witness the steam engine's quiet hum.
By lantern light, he addressed the crowd. "You've seen the mill run. Now, imagine this power in every workshop, every forge, every mill across the duchy."
A merchant raised a hand. "Will it cost us more? My margins are thin."
Magnus gestured to the hopper where grain fed the millstones. "The initial investment is higher, but output doubles. You'll earn more in weeks than you would in years."
A farmer frowned. "What about jobs? My workers can't learn machines overnight."
He met the farmer's gaze. "I'll fund apprenticeships. Your workers will become technicians. No one will be left behind."
Murmurs of approval mixed with doubt. Magnus knew he couldn't placate everyone—but he could inspire enough.
After the speech, he mingled, answering questions, listening to fears. Ada Veyron watched from the back, pride and worry in her eyes. Bram stood beside her, arms crossed but head nodding ever so slightly.
As the crowd dispersed, Magnus stayed behind with his parents.
"You handled them well," Ada said softly.
He shrugged. "They need to see their future."
Bram stepped forward. "Just… don't let their fear cloud your vision."
Magnus placed a hand on his father's shoulder. "I won't."
In the weeks that followed, orders arrived from every corner of Duras. Magnus's workshop at the royal foundry hummed day and night. He delegated tasks, reviewed progress, and continued refining designs. He sketched automated looms, steam-driven forges, and compound engines.
One morning, Duke Albrecht summoned him.
In the duke's private study—lined with maps and oil paintings—Albrecht offered a parchment sealed with royal wax.
"It's from the crown," the duke said. "They request you design a steam-driven drawbridge for Grannath."
Magnus's heart leapt. "A royal commission."
Albrecht nodded. "High honor—and high stakes. Succeed, and the crown will fund your work. Fail… and your privileges end."
Magnus accepted the scroll. "I won't fail."
He left with purpose, visions of hydraulic pistons and counterweights dancing in his mind.
That night, Magnus returned to the mill to unwind. The engine stood silent in the moonlight, its pipes gleaming like silver serpents. He traced the steam lines with his fingertips, remembering the thrill of that first midnight test.
He almost didn't notice the figure approaching.
"Father."
Bram Veyron emerged from the shadows, lantern in hand.
"You shouldn't be here," Magnus said.
Bram shook his head. "I needed to see it again."
They stood in silence, listening to the creak of the wheel and the distant hoot of an owl.
"You've built wonders," Bram said. "But wonders can become curses."
Magnus looked up at the boiler's chimney, where steam ghosted into the sky. "Every tool can be misused."
Bram met his gaze. "Promise me—when you build that drawbridge, remember that it spans a moat… not the abyss of your soul."
Magnus's breath caught. He nodded slowly. "I promise."
Bram set down the lantern. "Then I'll trust you."
He left as quietly as he'd come, leaving Magnus alone with the mill's silent machinery.
The next morning, Magnus convened his core team in the royal workshop. He laid out the royal commission: a steam-powered drawbridge that would raise and lower at the turn of a lever.
Thoren scratched his beard. "It's ambitious—but feasible."
Marinus spread fresh parchment. "I'll draft the mechanism tonight."
Magnus studied their faces. "We have two months. Let's get to work."
As the craftsmen dispersed, Magnus lingered, eyes on the unrolled blueprints. The drawbridge would be a masterpiece of engineering—and a symbol of his dominion over metal and steam.
He thought of Emberhold, of his family, of Seraphine's steadying presence. He would honor his promise to them, even as he pushed the boundaries of invention.
He dipped his quill and began to draw.
Whispers of innovation had become roars.
Now—he would make the world listen.