The great courtyard of Castle Grannath lay hushed beneath a cold dawn sky. Torches still glowed along the battlements, their flickering light painting long shadows on the cobblestones. At its center, Magnus Veyron's Steam Hammer Mk I stood silent and still, like a slumbering titan of iron. Dozens of nobles, merchants, and military officers formed a wide circle around the platform, their breath misting in the chill air. Behind them, the castle gates stood open—an unspoken invitation to witness the dawn of a new age.
Magnus emerged from the gatehouse, cloak drawn, eyes bright with purpose. He moved to the control podium and laid a hand on the lever, feeling the weight of expectation in every pulse of his heart. Around him, the assembled dignitaries murmured: "Will it hold?" "Can steam truly drive such force?" "Or is this another of Veyron's fool's dreams?" He raised a gauntleted hand. "Your Grace, esteemed guests—observe the future."
He gestured to the boiler tender, who fed a fresh shovelful of coal into the furnace. A hiss and a rumble answered, followed by a deep, steady pulse as steam surged into the pistons. The Hammer's massive arm lifted, the brass fittings gleaming. Then, with a deafening thud, it crashed down on a granite block, reducing it to powder. Dust and fragments flew in all directions; a collective gasp rose from the crowd.
Duke Albrecht, watching from the dais, nodded once—approval and triumph warring on his face. Magnus opened the secondary valve. The Hammer's arm rose again, faster this time, and struck twice more in rapid succession, each blow splintering rock and echoing off the walls. When the dust cleared, only rubble remained. Silence, then a storm of applause and cheers.
Magnus lowered the lever and allowed himself a brief smile. He bowed deeply. "A demonstration of raw force—yet controlled by steam, not muscle. Imagine this power forging armor, shaping cannonballs, driving siegeworks. No fortress can withstand it, and no smith need bend his back."
A murmur ran through the court. Lord Haldric of Redmarch, his gaudy doublet the color of spilt blood, stepped forward. "Master Veyron, impressive… but tell us, at what cost? The smiths of Emberhold will starve if machines replace their craft."
Magnus met his gaze steadily. "Lord Haldric, these machines do not replace men—they elevate them. Skilled operators, engineers, and overseers will command wages far above any smith's meager earnings. I will train them."
Haldric's sneer wavered. "We shall see." He turned and melted back into the throng.
Before the crowd dispersed, Magnus unveiled his second invention: the Automated Loom Mk I. In the textile quarter—just beyond the stables—a row of wooden frames stood silent. Each frame held iron rollers and leather belts connected to a small piston engine. Magnus guided the spectators through the narrow alley, the morning sun glinting off polished steel and brass.
He placed a bolt of raw linen into the first loom, opened the steam valve, and watched as rollers spun the fabric through an intricate weave. Within minutes, a perfect yard of cloth emerged—its threads tight, edges flawless. The weavers gasped; guildmasters paled. No mortal hands could match that speed and precision.
"Think on this," Magnus called over the hiss of steam. "Ten looms like these can clothe a regiment in hours. Guilds will need fewer apprentices—yet each apprentice will command a master's wage, overseeing ten machines at once." He gestured to the looms, their engines still ticking. "Your markets will flourish. Your profits—multiply."
A cluster of weavers approached, their faces etched with fear. "But what of our families?" one asked. "My daughter cannot learn this machine's heart."
Magnus laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "She will learn, I promise. I will open an academy here in Grannath—free to all craftsmen willing to adapt. No one will be left behind."
Across the square, a group of merchants whispered eagerly. Among them, Lady Sabelle of Fairwater, famed for her caravan routes, exchanged glances with her husband. Their nod was subtle—but significant.
By midday, word of both demonstrations had rippled through the duchy. Messengers rode north and south, spreading tales of steam's triumph over stone and cloth. Barons who once dismissed Magnus now sought audiences. At his invitation, five of them arrived at the castle that afternoon: Lord Renard of Westvale, Baroness Isolde of Ravenmoor, Count Alphonse of Greyfen, Lord Cedric of Dunholm, and the young Duke Rowan of Halden.
They gathered in the duke's solar, a paneled room fragrant with incense and polished wood. Magnus stood at the head of the table, blueprints unfurled before him: sketches of iron-clad wagons, proposals for new factory districts, and the charter of a venture he called the Iron Vanguard Company.
He spoke clearly, each word measured. "My lords and ladies, the duchy stands at a crossroads. The old ways—handcraft and manual labor—have served us well. But the world beyond our borders grows swifter, hungrier, more ruthless. To protect our lands, feed our people, and secure our power, we must harness steam. I propose the formation of the Iron Vanguard Company—a consortium of investors, artisans, and the crown. We will build factories, foundries, and workshops. We will train laborers and engineers. And we will share the profits."
Baroness Isolde, eyes bright, leaned forward. "What share do you offer?"
Magnus smiled. "Twenty percent of all profits, after costs, will go to our investors. Another ten percent to the duchy's treasury. The remainder funds expansion and training. You risk nothing—your capital is protected by crown guarantees."
Count Alphonse frowned. "And your share?"
"I lead operations," Magnus said. "I receive ten percent—plus a seat on the ducal council. I ask for land grants to build our first factories in Westvale and Ravenmoor."
Lord Renard tapped his chin. "And if this venture fails?"
Magnus's gaze hardened. "It will not. But if it does, I forfeit my share and my lands. I stand behind every engine, every loom, every boiler."
A silence fell as each noble considered. Then Duke Albrecht entered. "I endorse this charter. Let it be recorded. Magnus Veyron, you are now chartered by the duchy to form the Iron Vanguard Company."
Applause filled the solar. The barons signed the parchment in turn, sealing the company's birth. Magnus dipped his quill last, then pressed his seal beside the duke's. A gear surrounded by flame—his new crest—stamped the document.
As the assembled lords and ladies toasted the company's success, Magnus felt a thrill of triumph—and a flicker of unease. He had bound them to his vision, but power's currency was fickle. Alliances could shift like desert sands.
He raised his goblet. "To the Iron Vanguard!"
"To the Vanguard!" they echoed.
That night, in the forge's glow, Magnus and his core team—Thoren, Marinus, Jakel, and a handful of new recruits—gathered around a roaring hearth. Plans for the first factory's layout sprawled across the table. Maps, timetables, and labor rosters formed a mosaic of ambition.
Marinus traced the future rail lines on the parchment. "If we link Westvale to Ravenmoor by rail, we cut transport time in half."
Thoren hammered a horseshoe-shaped piece of red-hot iron. "And if we place steam pumps along the canal, we can power the factories by water pressure."
Jakel cleaned his soot-blackened hands. "The guildmasters grumble—but they'll adapt. Or they'll die."
Magnus watched them, chest tight with pride and something darker—resolve. He had sparked the first fires of industry, bound nobles to his cause, and named his company. Now came the true test: execution.
He lifted his goblet. "To the future—may we forge it in iron and steam."
They drank. Outside, the castle's torches flared against the night sky, and in distant villages, hearth fires burned brighter with new purpose. The duchy stirred, its heart pounding to a new rhythm—the rhythm of pistons and gears.
And in the silent shadows beyond the castle walls, eyes watched and whispered: "The steam wizard's empire has begun."