I. The Clinking Thread
Inside the newly refurbished workshops of Emberhold, amidst the hiss of steam and hum of gears, Magnus unveiled a machine that would devastate generations of aristocratic wealth.
It was long. Elegant. Armored in brass. Its central mechanism clicked like a metronome, its levers dancing like fingers of a pianist. Where a dozen weavers once worked bent over shuttles and spindles, now one machine operated with cold precision.
The Steamloom.
It didn't just weave faster—it sang.
Each pass of its thread created a rhythmic melody, an eerie harmony that filled the halls with life. Engineers called it the "Loom That Sings," enchanted by its cadence.
Magnus, however, saw only numbers.
"Three hundred yards of cloth per hour," he said to Tobias. "Where before, one family produced five per day."
Tobias blinked. "That's... terrifying."
Magnus smiled. "Isn't it?"
II. The Threaded Tyrants
For generations, the Velbrant Consortium, a union of highborn textile houses, had monopolized linen and silk. Their coffers fattened on poor workers' backs. Entire villages were enslaved by debt to the loommasters.
Now?
Their warehouses sat full, and no one was buying.
Because Emberhold's new textile line sold finer cloth, in more colors, at half the price—and didn't require a single noble's permission.
Merchant guilds gasped. Peasants cheered.
And the Velbrants?
They called it theft.
III. Sabotage at Midnight
The attack came two weeks later.
Three cloaked saboteurs slipped into Emberhold's industrial quarter. They doused the steam lines with pitch, cracked cogs with hammers, and tried to ignite the boilers.
But they didn't reach the heart of the factory.
Magnus had anticipated them.
Using heat-sensing mirrors and pressure-triggered locks, the building sealed behind them. Magnus arrived moments later, flanked by Iron Vanguard soldiers in exosuits.
"Textile lords," Magnus said, crouching beside one trembling saboteur. "You smell like silk dye."
He ordered one thing: public trial.
And when it came, he did not execute them.
He handed each a copy of the patent for the Steamloom.
"Adapt or perish," Magnus said to the crowd.
"Or do you still believe a noble birth can outspin steel?"
IV. Silk and Iron
One family adapted.
Lady Brielle Velbrant, black sheep of the dynasty, approached Magnus with a proposal:
"I want to lease your loom," she said. "Ten percent of profits, and I'll redesign our factories to meet your specifications."
Tobias looked ready to object—but Magnus extended a hand.
"Done. But not ten. Thirty."
Brielle smirked. "Tyrant."
Magnus's smile was cold. "Industrialist."
V. The Thread of Control
With Brielle's help, Magnus launched a textile revolution.
Serfs were paid in coin, not grain.
Workers operated with ten-hour shifts, not sixteen.
New dye machines colored cloth in royal hues, once reserved for aristocrats.
Fashion houses collapsed.
The price of velvet dropped by eighty percent.
And in court, nobles whispered: "He's destroying the old order, stitch by stitch."
But in the alleys?
Children wore cloaks for the first time.
Old women lined blankets with warmth.
The people loved Magnus.
And that terrified the Crown more than a thousand soldiers.
VI. Court Intrigue
King Alric's spies brought him a bolt of crimson cloth—Magnus's latest product.
"Twice as soft as ours," Lady Vell murmured.
"His reach grows," said the Duke of Harrow. "Even the barons are buying from him now. This... Magnus... he's becoming a symbol."
"A merchant prince," Alric spat. "In my kingdom."
He ordered all royal contracts for cloth suspended. Then issued a ban on industrial looms outside the capital.
But it was too late.
Copies of the Steamloom schematic had already spread.
And in the black markets of three cities, they called it:
"The Revolution Engine."
VII. A Loom and a Letter
In the quiet of his tower, Magnus received a letter.
Sealed in wax. Marked with a phoenix sigil.
Duchess Elara Vexley, ruler of the Northern Reaches, invited him to her estate.
"I hear your machines sing. I wonder, Magnus—can you dance?"
Tobias frowned. "You think it's a trap?"
"No," Magnus said, eyes gleaming. "It's a courtship."
Tobias choked. "Courtship?!"
"She rules iron mines and river ports," Magnus replied. "She wants an alliance."
He turned to the window, watching the lights of Emberhold flicker.
"Let her think she woos me. Let her believe she holds the cards."
He smiled darkly.
"But every loom begins with a single thread."