Leaving the warmth of the solar behind, Edric pulled his thick fur-trimmed cloak tight against the biting northern frost as he stepped out onto the cobblestone streets of Galehelm’s artisan district.
At his side walked Matthus, the estate's chief scribe, followed closely by Lira, who clutched her heavy binder of ledgers tightly against her chest. A small squad of four guards trailed a respectful distance behind them, their iron-shod boots clicking rhythmically against the stone.
Matthus adjusted his thick woolen scarf, glancing over at the young lord. "If I may ask, Lord Marquess... why head down to the artisan district so suddenly? And I couldn't help but notice Lady Serah is not among your escort."
"Serah is out conducting perimeter patrols with the new recruits," Edric replied smoothly, keeping his hands tucked into the warm trim of his cloak. "As for our destination, I have a few specific items I need run by a blacksmith."
Matthus stroked his graying beard, a look of mild exasperation crossing his face. "Items, my lord? We already have standing contracts for spearheads and iron fittings. Furthermore, if I may remind you, we still need to clear the budget for the road repairs you ordered. The road construction and building those massive insulated livestock facilities for the cattle Master Javier will be procuring... will be a tremendously costly venture."
"It's a necessary investment, Matthus," Edric said calmly.
"Necessary or not, the treasury is straining," Matthus countered, his tone carrying the stark honesty of an old accountant. "Securing the grain from Crag Keep freed up coin, yes, but if gold continues to flow outward like a raging river with not a single copper flowing back in, and now with a costly journey south to Rosehall on our horizon, even a mountain of gold will eventually run dry."
Edric glanced at the old scribe and offered a dry, faint smirk. "I'm sure you'll find a way to make the numbers work, Matthus. You always do."
Matthus let out a long, suffering sigh, pressing two fingers to his temple in sheer despair. "I am but a humble scribe, my lord. Even esteemed mages cannot conjure gold out of thin air."
While Matthus grumbled, Edric noticed that Lira had been unusually quiet ever since they stepped out of the solar. Usually, she was quick to cross-reference Matthus’s complaints with exact ledger figures, but right now her eyes were fixed strictly on the ground, her jaw set tight.
The lingering shock of Gareth bringing up the Rosehall invitation, and Edric accepting it, clearly still weighed heavily on her.
Edric slowed his pace slightly, turning to look at her. "Something on your mind, Lira?"
Lira flinched, startled. She quickly offered a small, polite bow, clutching her ledgers a little tighter against her chest. "N-No, my lord. Forgive me. Everything is fine."
Edric studied her face for a beat. He could tell there was something bothering her, but pushing it here in the open street wasn't going to get him an answer.
"If you say so," Edric accepted quietly, dropping the subject for now.
A few turns later, they arrived at the outskirts of the district, stopping before a sprawling, soot-stained timber building.
Above the double doors hung a heavy iron sign with the name Cowen Forge, owned and operated by Vilkar Cowen, the self-proclaimed "greatest blacksmith in the North."
Inside the open-air workshop, the air was thick with smoke, heat, and the thunderous, rhythmic ringing of hammers striking hot metal. Dozens of steelworkers and apprentices were hard at work, sparks flying into the dim light.
As Edric’s retinue stepped under the awning, one of the apprentices looked up, froze, and gasped. "The... the Marquess is here!"
The clatter of hammers ground to an abrupt halt. The workers scrambled, dropping their tongs and wiping soot from their brows as they rushed to bow low before their lord.
Edric raised a hand to put them at ease. "Where is the forgemaster?" he asked calmly.
From the back living quarters, a middle-aged man stepped out, wiping his thick, calloused hands on a grease-stained leather apron.
Short, stout, and sporting a magnificent beer belly paired with arms as thick as tree trunks, he swept off his cap with a wide grin.
"Lord Marquess!" the man bellowed cheerfully. "I am Vilkar Cowen! To what do we owe the honor of your visit today, my lord? The new swords and spears you ordered aren't due for another week if I remember."
"Indeed so," Edric answered, stepping forward. "I'm here for something new. I need a specialized piece made, and I wanted to see if you actually have the skill to make it."
Vilkar let out a booming, hearty laugh that rattled the hanging tongs above his head. "Skill? My lord, if it’s made of steel or iron, Vilkar Cowen can forge it! Come, come inside out of the cold!"
Without a second thought, the stout blacksmith clapped a heavy, soot-covered hand squarely onto Edric's shoulder, leading him toward the inner house.
The four guards behind Edric immediately tensed, their hands dropping to their hilt guards at the sight of a commoner laying hands on their lord.
Edric merely raised a hand to wave them off. He didn't mind the breach of etiquette, though he couldn't help but chuckle internally.
"If Serah were here right now, she’d probably have her steel at the poor man's throat already."
Stepping into Vilkar's private workshop and living space, Edric’s eyes immediately swept over the walls. Arrayed on wooden racks were dozens of finished metalworks: double-edged longswords, heavy war axes, spiked maces, and intricately fitted breastplates.
Even to Edric’s untrained, modern eyes, the craftsmanship was obvious. The steel was free of air pockets, the edges were razor-sharp, and the balance looked immaculate.
Vilkar noticed Edric inspecting the racks and grinned proudly. "See something you like, my lord?"
"They're exceptionally well made," Edric admitted honestly. "I've started training with the sword myself recently."
Vilkar’s eyes went wide with surprise. "A swordsman, aye? Not sticking purely to fancy magecraft like the other highborns?" He let out another thunderous laugh. "Ha! That’s the spirit!"
Vilkar motioned toward a sturdy wooden table in the center of the room. "Sit, sit! Drink with me!"
The blacksmith pulled out a wooden flagon and poured a dark, heavy ale into a wooden mug, offering it alongside a block of stale, hard-crusted bread.
Matthus and Lira immediately shook their heads in polite refusal, but to their utter shock, Edric walked right up to the table and took the mug.
Vilkar raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his beard. "Careful now, Lord Marquess. That northern brew isn't the same as the sweet wine you drink from the capital. It's got a kick."
Edric looked down at the dark, foaming liquid. In his past life as an overworked writer, he had downed his fair share of cheap, high-proof alcohol during late-night writing binges.
How strong could a medieval ale really be? he thought, taking a healthy, confident swig.
The instant the liquid hit his throat, Edric’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. It felt like swallowing liquid fire wrapped in bitter pine sap.
He squeezed his throat, his chest burning, and only through sheer, agonizing willpower did he force himself to swallow instead of spitting it straight across the room.
Seeing the young lord red-faced, fighting for his life to maintain his composure, Vilkar burst into another roar of laughter, slapping his knee. "Bwahaha! Good man! That's a true Northern drink for a true Northman!"
Coughing once to clear his raspy throat, Edric set the mug down, maintaining as much dignified composure as he could muster. "Right. Ahem. Let's get down to business."
"Aye, you're right, my lord," Vilkar agreed, downing a drink himself. "So, what do you need? An ornate sword? A statue?"
Reaching into the inner pocket of his dark coat, Edric pulled out two neatly folded sheets of heavy parchment and laid them flat on the wooden table.
"Nothing of the sort, Vilkar," Edric said smoothly. "I need you to forge what is drawn on these pages."
Curious, Vilkar leaned over the table and picked up the parchment. As his rough fingers unfolded the sheets, the hearty smile slowly faded from his face, replaced by a deep, bewildered frown.
He squinted at the ink drawings, turning the paper slightly.
"What, exactly, am I looking at?" Vilkar muttered. Unable to make heads or tails of it, he laid the blueprints flat on the table for everyone to see.
Lira leaned forward slightly, her eyes scanning the precise, ruler-straight lines and measurements. "What are these...?" she whispered, unable to recognize the shapes.
Matthus cupped his chin, his gray eyebrows knitting together in deep concentration. He pointed a thin finger at the first page, then the second. "This first drawing... it looks almost like a mechanized bow mechanism? And the second... a long, hollow iron pipe with a handle fitted at the top?"
Edric looked up, a faint, sharp smile spreading across his lips as he looked at his stunned scribes and the bewildered blacksmith.
"Precisely."
Edric leaned over the table, tapping his finger against the first blueprint, the long stock with a trigger mechanism and a bow mounted horizontally at the front.
"Archers take years, sometimes decades, of relentless training to master a warbow," Edric began, his voice calm. "Their shoulders warp, their bones shift, and if they die on the battlefield, they are nearly impossible to replace quickly."
He pointed to the trigger box and the groove where the bolt would rest. "This holds the tension for you. You pull back the drawstring, clip it to the iron fittings, load it with a bolt, aim down the stock, and pull this lever."
Vilkar stayed quiet as he studied the blueprint.
"With this, it would only take a couple of weeks, maybe days, to master. Even a child could take down a man."
Matthus gasped, his eyes widening as the strategic implication hit him like a physical blow. "My lord... if this works, the combat efficiency of our new five hundred recruits won't just double. We could turn common conscripts into a lethal garrison in a matter of days!"
Vilkar, however, didn't react with immediate praise. His cheerful, drunk-artisan persona vanished in an instant, his eyes growing as sharp and cold as a freshly quenched blade as he stared down at the drawing.
He traced the horizontal steel limbs with a thick, calloused thumb.
"I see the logic, Lord Marquess," Vilkar said softly, his booming voice dropping an octave into pure, professional gravity. "It’s a terrifying concept. But there's a reason archers take years to master the bow."
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Men need time to build up the muscles to draw a heavy bowstring. With this contraption, the draw weight would be absurd. And it’s too cumbersome to re-arm in the middle of a fight compared to a normal bow."
"Which brings us to the second part of the drawing," Edric replied smoothly.
He pulled the second sheet forward, pointing to a strange, hinged iron mechanism with two prongs at the end.
Edric explained, mimicking the movement with his hands. "You hook these two prongs over the bowstring, rest the fork against the iron pins on the stock, and pull the handle back. It cocks the weapon in three seconds flat, with almost no strain on the arms."
Edric leaned closer. "Though it would be slower than a skilled archer's rhythm, it requires far less training to master."
Vilkar blinked, his hand tracking the fulcrum point as his eyes darted back and forth across the page. A low whistle escaped his beard. "Ahh, I see, I see. That's why you said even a child could use it."
"Precisely," Edric answered, before shifting his hand to the second blueprint. "Now, for this one."
Vilkar looked up from the weapon, frowning at the iron pipe schematic. "And what is this? Some kind of condensed battering ram?"
"It’s a manual suction water pump," Edric answered. "Right now, if our people want water, we have to dig out a deep well or divert water from a river. It’s slow, dangerous, and inefficient. But as we know, there is water beneath the ground."
Matthus looked at the blueprint again. "So you drive this long, hollow pipe deep underground to reach the water table?"
"Correct," Edric answered, tracing the internal piston up and down. "When you pull this handle, the piston rises, creating a vacuum inside the sealed iron pipe. The lower valve opens, pulling water up from deep beneath the earth. When you push the handle down, the lower valve snaps shut, preventing the water from falling back, while the upper valve opens to push the liquid out of the spout."
Edric looked around the table, his golden eyes locking onto each of them in turn. "With this, we can dramatically reduce the labor of drawing water, and we can provide access even in places far from rivers or other bodies of water."
Silence fell over the small workshop.
The heavy clanking of hammers from the outer forge seemed to fade into the background as Matthus, Lira, and Vilkar stared at the two pieces of paper.
To Edric, these were basic concepts from high school physics and history textbooks. But to the people standing in this room, they were looking at innovations that could revolutionize their military and agrarian life.
Vilkar slowly lifted his head, looking at Edric not as a spoiled, noble Marquess, but with a profound, almost reverent awe.
"Lord Marquess..." Vilkar breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "This... this is—"
"Can you make it?" Edric interrupted smoothly, leaning back and resting his hands over the pommel of his belt.
His golden eyes locked onto the blacksmith, cutting off the man's amazement before it could spin into endless questioning. "Are you up to the task?"
Vilkar went deathly silent. His sharp, steel-gray eyes scanned the young lord sitting across from him, taking in every detail.
The blacksmith had met Edric Artos before, when the boy was nothing more than a loud, gaudy, spoiled-rotten brat who smelled of expensive perfume and threw tantrums over the polish on his carriage fittings.
But the person sitting in front of him today was a complete stranger.
Vilkar, being a master of metal, had immediately noticed the broadened shoulders, the firmer posture, and the faint, fresh calluses forming on the boy's palms from actual sword training.
The young lord's aura was completely different. The restless, arrogant vanity was gone, replaced by a quiet, suffocating gravity. He carried himself with the cold, calculating focus of a true ruler.
A slow, fierce grin spread across Vilkar's soot-stained face. He slammed a heavy, calloused fist directly over his chest, the dull thud echoing off the stone walls.
"I am a Cowen, my lord!" Vilkar declared proudly, his chest puffing out. "If it's made of iron or steel, I can forge it! Give me three days, and I’ll have a working prototype ready!"
"Good," Edric replied, a faint, satisfied smile touching his lips. He stood up from the table, smoothing down the front of his dark tunic.
"Have the prototypes delivered directly to the Artos estate the moment they are finished. Keep this strictly within your forge. If word of either design leaks to the other houses, I will hold you personally responsible."
"Understood, Lord Marquess!" Vilkar nodded vigorously. "Not a word leaves this room."
Edric turned toward the door, gesturing for Matthus and Lira to follow. "I'm looking forward to results, Vilkar."