The midday sun glinted off the polished marble of the Empress's Grand Plaza as Calder Vesh strode through its gilded arches, Arika perched on his shoulder like a sentinel of brass and glass. Courtiers in silken robes gossiped beneath banners of violet and gold. He felt their eyes—some curious, many suspicious—whispering of the boy Duke whose inventions had saved his keep and now sought favor at court.
His heart beat in careful rhythm. He had come at the Empress's summons: to present his plans for reforging the empire's defenses, to prove his Vision could serve her throne. Yet he knew Rhain's agents watched from hidden eaves, ready to strike and undo every fragile alliance he'd worked for.
Calder inhaled the scent of jasmine and hot stone, recalling Master Soren's warning: in court, magic was a blade best sheathed until the moment it bled. He approached the dais where Lady Aurelia, his host, awaited—her white robes embroidered with phoenix-feathers, her expression courteous but cool.
"Duke Vesh," she said, voice smooth as fine porcelain. "Your reputation precedes you. Speak, and may your words match your deeds."
Calder bowed, clearing his throat. "Your Majesty, honored court—our world stands on a knife's edge. Rhain's Iron Cohort may have retreated, but his mechanized network extends to every city gate and palace wall. I propose a line of steam-cannons—mobile, rune-etched, fueled by Ember-Core briquettes—that can lay waste to clockwork hordes before they breach our defenses."
Murmurs rippled through the plaza. Some leaned forward, enthralled by the promise; others scowled, unmoved. Calder's gaze swept the crowd, noting Viscount Varo lurking near a marble column, lips curved in that same smug smirk.
"Demonstration?" Lady Aurelia asked, arching an eyebrow.
Calder nodded. He raised his gauntlet and traced a quick rune in the air. Nearby servants wheeled into view two compact steam-cannons—polished copper and brass, runes glowing faintly along each barrel. With a thought, Calder activated the Ember-Core briquettes buried in their chambers. The cannons hissed to life, steam venting in controlled bursts.
He signaled, and the cannons pivoted in unison toward a row of inert clockwork mannequins set up as targets. A crimson glyph flared on Calder's palm. He tapped the rune-beam trigger. In an instant, molten volleys erupted, each shot annihilating a mannequin in a blossom of molten metal and magic. A hush fell—then applause as debris rained harmlessly away.
Before he could bow, a sudden tremor shattered the calm. Gears ground in the distance—too mechanical for natural quake. From every arch and balustrade, mechanical soldiers poured like ants from a nest: Iron Cohort automatons, their eyes glowing malevolent red, sabers gleaming with oil-dark steel. Panic rippled through the crowd.
Calder's breath caught. They've turned the plaza into a slaughterhouse. He spotted Lady Aurelia stepping back in alarm, courtiers scattering like frightened birds, and the Empress herself rising from her throne, eyes wide.
Acting on instinct, Calder raised a hand. "Stand firm!" he shouted, then thrust both gauntleted fists forward. A wave of illusion ran across the plaza—shimmering afterimages of defenders, shifting columns of ghostly knights, and phantom walls that gave no purchase to the intruders. For a heartbeat, the automatons recoiled, their gears stuttering as they attempted to strike shadows.
He did not pause. Calder whistled sharply. Beneath ornate grates, hidden steam-cannon detachments—installed at his urging—roared to life. Brass barrels swiveled into position, and with thunderous reports, molten rounds punched through automaton ranks. Gears and pistons flew in twisted arcs. A cheer rose from the remaining guards as they rallied behind the shattered illusions, cutting down exposed intruders with runed swords.
Yet the threat was far from over. From the balustrade above slipped a squad of saboteur-engineers, carrying alchemical canisters. A blast of corrosive gas hissed out, twisting toward the Empress and her council. Calder's heart dropped. If they die here, every alliance I forged shatters.
He bolted forward, calling on the Ember Core. His gauntlet flared, and in that radiant flare he cast a protective dome of searing heat around the Empress's dais, vaporizing the gas midair. Rings of orange light danced as the dome expanded, then retracted into nothing. The Empress stood unharmed, robes untouched.
Across the plaza, the lead saboteurs staggered back, blinded and burning. Calder seized the moment. He leaped onto a fallen automaton, using its own momentum to vault toward the column where Varo lurked. The Viscount drew a sword inscribed with his father's crest and lunged, blade aimed at Calder's unarmored side.
Time slowed for Calder. Memories flashed: the betrayal in the Throne Room of his past life, the bitter taste of poison on his lips. He bent, shifting the Ember Gauntlet behind him. When Varo's sword sliced through the air, Calder spun, slamming his gauntlet into the hilt. Sparks flew; steel sheared. The sword clanged to the marble.
Varo hissed, drawing a dagger. Calder met him toe-to-toe, heart roaring in his ears. Beneath the plaza's chaos, their duel became a dance of suppressed fury—steel against ember, arrogance against resolve. Calder feinted low, then burst upward in a fluid strike that sent Varo reeling into a fountain basin, water splashing like crystal beads.
Above them, the mechanized soldiers lay silent in heaps of molten slag. The court guards had rallied like iron himself. Lady Aurelia approached, eyes wide with astonishment. The Empress descended the dais, her presence a wave of authority that stilled the plaza's tremors.
"Calder Vesh," she said, voice ringing clear. "Your brilliance has saved us all. You have earned my gratitude—and your deeds will not be forgotten."
Calder's chest tightened. He bowed deeply, every muscle trembling with relief and pride. Around him, the surviving courtiers murmured in reverent tones. He glanced at the fallen Varo, bound in runic chains, and then at Arika circling overhead. The balance had shifted.
But as the Empress's guards led the saboteur-engineers away, Calder's gaze drifted to the distant city gates, where smoke curled in thin lines. This was only a single strike in a grander war. He smelled burned oil and magic in the air and realized that the court now knew the price of dissent—and the force Calder could wield. He had revealed his hand, and nothing would ever be the same.
In the hush that followed, hearts pounding and banners fluttering, Calder Vesh stood at the center of the plaza—victor, hero, and unwitting herald of a conflict that would span continents, sky, and realms beyond. The riot of automatons had been crushed here, but the war for Veloriën's soul had only just begun.