The meeting hall in Emberhold's central keep had fallen into a profound stillness, its earlier bustle replaced by a silence as thick and settling as the ash that coated the Expanse beyond its walls. The chamber, once alive with the voices of Alexander Maxwell's council, now held only the faint hiss of the hearth fire as it devoured the last of its logs, casting a dim, wavering glow across the stone floor. High above, the groan of timber beams echoed faintly through the vaulted ceiling, a reminder of the keep's sturdy but still-young construction. The air carried the subtle scents of charred wood and cold stone, mingling with the lingering musk of leather and sweat from the men who had departed hours ago. The banners overhead—crimson and black, bearing the phoenix sigil of the Dominion—hung limp, their edges barely stirring in the absence of the draft that had teased them earlier. Even the wind beyond the keep, that relentless voice of the Ashen Expanse, had quieted, as if the vast, scarred wilderness itself were holding its breath, waiting for the choice that would shape its future.
Alexander Maxwell remained alone, seated at the head of the long oak table, his silhouette framed by the dying firelight. The table's surface, etched with the phoenix sigil in flowing, deliberate lines, gleamed faintly where candlelight flickered across its polished grain. He sat in silence, his fingers tented before him, elbows resting lightly on the table's edge—a posture of contemplation rather than exhaustion. A single parchment lay spread before him—the mining reports, freshly inked and meticulously updated by Silas's careful hand. He had read them three times already, the numbers imprinting themselves on his mind like chisel marks in stone: ore yields, worker fatigue, supply chain strain, Tenebrium output. Cold, rational figures that made decisions seem deceptively simple—until the weight of their consequences settled in.
"Tenebrium brought us strength," he muttered aloud, his voice low and rough, more a murmur to the empty room than a declaration. "It won us a war. Built this city. But strength without restraint… that's just another form of decay." The words hung in the air, unanswered, as he pushed back his chair and rose with deliberate slowness. His boots tapped against the stone floor, a steady, measured rhythm that filled the vast space as he walked the length of the table. Each empty chair he passed summoned a flicker of memory—Elias's sharp debates over supply routes, Gareth's growled assessments of the quarry's limits, Silas's quiet scratching of quill on parchment, Tyrell's silent vigil by the window. Each man carried his own weight, his own perspective, and all had turned to him for the answer that would steer Emberhold forward.
He paused at the far end of the table, his gaze drifting to the tall, narrow window carved into the thick stone wall. Beyond the warped glass, the night sky stretched over the Ashen Expanse in an inky, starless void, its edges tinged with the faint grey of predawn. Somewhere out there, in that uncharted expanse of cracked earth and shadowed ravines, orcs lived—unknown, unseen, perhaps as uncertain of Emberhold's existence as he was of theirs. The thought lingered, a quiet challenge in the stillness. There would be more choices to come, harder ones, with stakes that reached beyond the mines and into the heart of the frontier. But for now, his mind was set on the decision at hand.
His expression remained a mask—no flicker of uncertainty, no tell of the path he would choose. With a final glance at the darkened horizon, Alexander turned and left the hall, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a muted thud.
His chambers were a stark contrast to the grandeur of noble keeps like those in Valefort. Tucked into a corner of the central keep, the room was modest yet functional—its stone walls unadorned save for a single iron sconce, its reinforced door banded with steel, a simple bed of hardwood and wool pushed against one wall. A broad desk dominated the space near the window, its surface a chaotic sprawl of sketches, mechanical parts, and tools. The air carried the sharp tang of ink, the smoky bite of charcoal, and the warm, metallic scent of forged steel—a craftsman's haven rather than a lord's retreat. Here, Alexander shed the title of Lord of the Maxwell Dominion. Here, he was a builder, a thinker, a soldier who had survived the chaos of war long enough to imagine something greater than survival.
He shrugged off his charcoal-grey cloak, letting it fall across the bed in a careless heap, and crossed to the desk. With a flick of his wrist, he lit the brass lamp hanging above, its wick catching with a soft sputter. Pale, golden light spilled across the cluttered surface, illuminating half-drawn mechanisms—gears and levers sketched in precise lines—a tray of measuring sticks worn smooth from use, and scribbled notes scrawled in the margins of old engineering texts scavenged from forgotten ruins. At the desk's center lay a sheet of fresh parchment, its blank expanse a silent invitation. Alexander sat, his chair creaking faintly under his weight, and picked up a compass from the tray. His fingers adjusted the dial with slow, practiced precision, the metal cool against his skin. Then, with smooth, deliberate strokes, he began to draw.
A central beam took shape first, followed by a curved arc, then a pair of opposing prongs. Interlocking gears emerged next, their teeth meshing with mathematical exactness, followed by a sliding scale marked with fine gradations. His hand moved with purpose, the quill scratching softly against the parchment, his mind already leaping beyond the shape to its function. A precision caliper—adjustable, durable, accurate to the fraction of a millimeter. A tool that would revolutionize Emberhold's forges, allowing smiths to reproduce components identically—no more trial and error, no more guesswork. With this, parts could be made to fit, every time, elevating their craft from brute utility to something finer, something lasting.
He worked in silence, the only sounds the faint crackle of the lamp's flame and the steady rhythm of his breathing. He measured angles, redrew lines, adjusted tolerances with a meticulousness that bordered on obsession. The design was small—simple, even—but its implications rippled outward like a pebble tossed into still water, promising efficiency, consistency, and a future where Emberhold's strength lay not just in raw materials but in ingenuity.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the quiet, jolting him from his focus.
He straightened, setting the compass aside. "Enter."
The door creaked open, and two young women stepped inside, their footsteps hesitant on the stone floor. Both wore simple linen uniforms—undyed tunics and skirts stitched with the Dominion's phoenix sigil in red thread at the shoulder. They were newly recruited maids, part of the growing domestic staff needed to maintain the keep as Emberhold swelled with settlers and ambition. The taller of the two, a girl with chestnut hair tied back in a loose braid, carried a wooden tray, while her companion, shorter and freckled, hovered a step behind. They bowed quickly, their movements stiff with the awkwardness of inexperience.
"Your evening meal, Lord Maxwell," the taller one said, her voice soft but steady as she placed the tray on a small table near the fireplace. The offering was modest—dark rye bread, a few strips of dried venison, a handful of sliced root vegetables roasted with herbs, and a clay cup of warm herbal tea, its steam curling faintly in the cool air.
"Thank you," Alexander replied, his tone simple but not unkind.
They hesitated for a moment, their eyes drifting to the strange sketch on his desk—the unfamiliar lines and curves of the caliper drawing curiosity across their faces. Then, with another quick bow, they retreated, the door closing softly behind them.
He ate absently, tearing the bread with one hand while his gaze remained fixed on the blueprint. The tea's bitter warmth steadied him, grounding his thoughts as they churned through possibilities—production timelines, resource allocation, the council's reactions. When the tray was empty, he extinguished the lamp with a quick breath, plunging the room into shadow save for the faint glow of the fireplace. The caliper design lay completed before him—neat, crisp lines marking the beginning of something no one else in this land had yet imagined, a spark of innovation born from the ashes of necessity.
Dawn broke cold and grey over Emberhold, the sky a heavy shroud of clouds that pressed low against the jagged skyline of the Ashen Expanse. The council had reconvened in the meeting hall, summoned by Alexander's quiet command as the first rays of daylight pierced the narrow windows. The men sat in their familiar places around the oak table, the brazier crackling at the room's edge, its heat doing little to dispel the morning chill. The map wall loomed behind them, its parchment marked with trails and quarries, a silent witness to their deliberations. The air was thick with anticipation, each breath fogging faintly as they waited, their eyes fixed on the door.
Alexander entered with his usual quiet stride, a leather folder tucked under one arm. His cloak was gone, replaced by a simple tunic of dark wool, its sleeves rolled to the elbows—a craftsman's garb rather than a lord's. He took his seat without ceremony, the chair scraping briefly against the stone.
No one spoke, the silence holding the room like a drawn breath.
"We will continue mining and using Tenebrium," he said without delay, his voice cutting through the stillness with calm authority. "But our approach will change."
Eyes narrowed around the table. Elias leaned forward, his sharp features tightening with curiosity. "Change how?"
"We will begin a transition," Alexander continued, his tone measured but firm. "No more wasting Tenebrium on low-value goods. No more nails, no more picks, no more cheap hinges forged from our rarest ore. From now on, we shift production toward items of high precision, high impact—tools and mechanisms that no one else can replicate."
Gareth frowned, his broad hands resting heavily on the table, knuckles scarred from years at the quarry. "But weapons and tools—those are our bread and salt. They bring trade. They win battles. You'd have us abandon that?"
"Not forever," Alexander replied, meeting Gareth's gaze evenly. "Soon, every smith in the west will forge blades—crude, common steel flooding the markets. But none will forge what I'm about to show you."
He unfolded the leather case with a slow, deliberate motion and pulled out a single sheet of parchment, setting it gently in the center of the table. The blueprint gleamed under the morning light, its ink still fresh, its lines stark against the cream of the page.
The men leaned in, their shadows stretching across the oak. Silas blinked, his spectacles slipping as he squinted at the unfamiliar design. Elias tilted his head, brow furrowing as he traced the arcs and gears with his eyes. Gareth squinted, his massive frame hunching forward as if proximity might unravel the mystery. Marcus scratched the back of his neck, his dagger still for once, while Tyrell's dark eyes flicked over the parchment with quiet intensity. Even Voss, ever composed, looked uncertain, his gloved fingers pausing mid-tap.
"…What is it?" Owen finally asked, his voice breaking the tense hush, his construction-hardened hands gripping the table's edge.
"A new kind of weapon?" Marcus guessed, leaning closer, his tone half-hopeful.
"A trap?" Tyrell added, his scout's instincts coloring the question with suspicion.
Alexander smiled faintly, a rare curve of his lips that carried no mockery, only quiet confidence. He reached for the blueprint, his fingers brushing its edge with the care of a man handling something precious.
And then he said—