12:40 p.m. - At Bench Room, Silverwyn Riverbank, Dawnspire.
The adapter hums. The wheel whispers. Chalk dust hangs in the light.
Ryan flips his notebook open, thumb finding the dog‑eared page. Boxes and arrows crowd the margin. He checks two squares with quick, hard strokes.
Ryan (counting on fingers): "Dynamo—seeded and spinning from the wheel—check. Measurement standards—slump, weights, RUN plates—check."
He writes big so anyone can read: WE USE THE SAME WORDS. WEIGH THE SAME BASKETS. NO GUESS.
Aidan leans in the doorway, ledger under his arm, eyes on the rope notch at the gate.
Aidan (reports): "Crossbows hold. Pens ship. Porters mark slips. The Guild went home to count. Say what you need before the bell."
Ryan taps a clean page and starts a new column, voice steady.
Ryan (plain): "Two big pushes before I ride. One: river and sea ports—doorways for food and stone. Two: paper machine from a real blueprint, not just frames."
Aidan sets his ledger on the bench and plants both hands.
Aidan (short): "Run it."
Ryan sketches the Silverwyn in three lines.
Ryan (simple): "River first. Dredge the bend below the mill—one fathom deeper. Pile a straight wharf of timber, cap with stone. Sheerlegs for lift. Two capstans and four bollards. Fenders from old rope. Slip for shallow barges. We put a small crane on a wagon—swing bags without breaking backs."
He points west on the chalk.
Ryan (plain): "Sea ports—our tide door. We don't own the coast, but we can rent pier time. Buy two flat‑bottom barges, build one lighter. Hire pilots who know the shoals. We run coal, shell, and tiles out; bring grain and salt in. Quiet. No priest lists."
Aidan flips his slate, pencil quick.
Aidan (decisive): "I speak to the river barge guild this hour. Dredge crew—8 hands. I pull 2 from carting and hire 6 cut‑rate. We set sheerlegs, not fancy cranes. I buy hemp for fenders. Tobyn builds legs. Carter runs the slip slope. Bollards—iron caps, oak posts. Budget hits my desk at dusk."
Ryan nods and draws a belt—the paper line.
Ryan (simple): "Paper machine. Not Fourdrinier fancy yet, but close. Hollander beater—oval tub, bedplate, rotating roll with knives. Water wheel drives it. Pulp chest—settle the grit. Headbox—let it flow to a moving belt—wire cloth stretched tight. Couch roll lifts the web. Press rolls squeeze. Drying with warm air through slats. Felt runs as carriers."
He writes the sequence in block letters: RAG—SORT—SOAK—BEAT—SCREEN—FLOW—FORM—PRESS—DRY—SIZE—STAMP.
Ryan (careful): "Deckles for early days; belt once the wire is tight and the hands are trained. Sizing—glue and alum now, move to rosin when we learn resin. Stamp each ream with our mark. No calfskin. No guild rent."
Aidan reads the line like a tally.
Aidan (decisive): "I hire a rag‑master before sunset. Lease the loft by the east run—the one with wind and water. Sariel draws the beater house on paper. Bromar bands two oak press rolls. Murdock builds the first wire frames. I buy felt from the rope‑walk woman—she owes us a jar. Warm air from flue, not flame. Waste water to pits. Names on slips. We keep auditors out of the vat room by calling it 'wet work' and 'boring.'"
Ryan grins, quick and tired.
Ryan (soft): "Good. Next—west harbours. I don't need a palace quay. I need a safe bollard and a man who keeps books honest. If he tries to tithe us to a priest, I walk."
Aidan runs a finger down his slate.
Aidan (short): "I send Joric with a purse and a reed. He finds us pier time. He counts hooks and ropes. He hires three river rats who don't scare easy and makes them porters by dawn."
Ryan's gaze drops to the notebook. He flips to the front page where the long list lives. He checks two small boxes with a flat pen stroke.
Ryan (counting): "47—measurement standards—partial. 88—data store—later. Add one—ports—started. Paper machine—started. Good."
He snaps the book shut and looks up.
Ryan (plain): "I move to Frosthaven once you post those orders. I need the shadow door under my key, per our split. I'll set the beater parts with Murdock, plant the rag buy‑back at Frostlight, and open a clean ledger."
Aidan doesn't like the last bit but he nods anyway.
Aidan (private, to Ryan): "You run wide sometimes. I'll hold the center. If the Guild brings theatre, I bring the herald. If the Temple brings lists, I bring bread and witnesses."
Ryan sticks the pencil behind his ear.
Ryan (soft): "We keep the kids fed. We keep the rules plain. We use the river."
They bump shoulders once. No show. Just work.
Aidan lifts his ledger and heads for the door.
Aidan (decisive): "Two‑person sign. Porter's mark. Stamp it. Move it."
Ryan watches him go, then presses the rope notch one finger tighter and breathes once at the hum.
06:10 p.m. - At West Road Gate, Dawnspire.
Snow dusts the road. The city mutters behind the wall.
Aidan checks Ryan's girth strap; Sariel presses a small leather tube into his hand.
Sariel (practical): "Deckle frame drawings. Beater sketch. Two copies. If you drop one in the river, don't drown."
Ryan tucks the tube under his cloak.
Ryan (grin, thin): "If I drown, I respawn annoyed."
Sariel rolls her eyes and ties a red thread around his wrist.
Sariel (low): "If the Temple pries, you are Elric. If the Guild pries, you are Elric. If Sera looks at you, you don't use suffixes."
Ryan laughs.
Ryan (mock‑hurt): "You are no fun."
Aidan lifts two fingers toward the gate watch. The postern cracks open.
Aidan (short): "Ride. Send a bird when you anchor the key at Frosthaven."
Ryan heels the bay and slips into the cold.
08:50 p.m. - At Technologia Chemical Laboratory, Frosthaven.
The hidden room smells of soap, ash, and ink. Lamps throw warm light on clean slate.
Murdock wipes his hands and squints at the tube Sariel tied. He pulls the first sheet, whistles low.
Murdock (tapping the wire cloth sketch): "You want wire woven that tight? We'll be picking it out of our teeth for a month."
Ryan claps his shoulder.
Ryan (plain): "You'll figure it out and curse me the whole time. Do it anyway."
Sariel stacks jars in the corner and flips her slate to a new face.
Sariel (practical): "Sea ports?"
Ryan draws a circle—Frosthaven—and two lines—road and river.
Ryan (simple): "We haul rag in by cart—pay in coin at the door. We float ash and shells when the river opens. We send nibs and paper out in boxes with wax. We keep one boy at the tap to teach handwash. We stay boring to thieves."
Murdock grunts.
Murdock (agreeing): "Boring keeps doors on their hinges."
Ryan sets the portfolio aside and flips the notebook to a clean page. He writes in block letters across the top: BLASTING—FOR QUARRIES ONLY. NOT FOR WAR.
Sariel frowns at the word.
Sariel (flat): "You're about to say something stupid."
Ryan nods, honest.
Ryan (serious): "TNT. Mining. Stone comes faster. Fewer backs break. We do it far from people. We do it small. We publish the rules. If anyone tries to sneak it into war, we burn their names."
Murdock leans on the table, wary but curious.
Murdock (measured): "You build me a fire that bites rock and tell me not to sell it to hotheads. Tall ask."
Ryan draws three boxes and numbers them.
Ryan (careful, slow): "1. Make acids. Sulfuric—chamber with lead lining. Burn sulfur or pyrite for bad smoke. Seed it with nitre to push it along. Catch it wet—weak but honest. Nitric—distill saltpeter with sulfuric. The vapour is the bite; we cool it in glass. 2. Find toluene. It hides in coal gas and tar. Ask the iron boys—when they cook coal for coke, the light oil sits in the top. We skim that. We clean it. 3. Nitrate slow. First to one nitro. Then two. Then three. Keep the pot cool in a water bath. Wooden paddles. No metal. No hammer. No jokes."
Sariel writes rules as he speaks.
Sariel (writing aloud): "Remote site, earthen berms. One hut. One ditch. One bell—hit it when things go wrong. No one lives downwind. Small batches only—50 grams. No carry across town. Wash and neutralise to kill the bite in the waste. Logs neat. Stamps on each stick: BLAST—TECHNOLOGIA—SAFE."
Murdock scratches his beard.
Murdock (practical): "Where?"
Ryan taps the map.
Ryan (plain): "Old quarry east of the dye works—out by the boulder field. We rent the land for two moons. We dig a sump. We post two boys with a horn and a rope that pulls a latch from far. If a jar gets hot, we run the rope. Not hands. Rope."
Sariel underlines ROPE three times.
Sariel (dry): "No martyrs on my ledger."
Ryan nods, jaw tight.
Ryan (soft): "We publish the 'No' list. No nails. No boots with hobnails. No fire near the hut. No smoke in the yard. No heroics."
Murdock stabs a finger at the first box.
Murdock (curious): "Acid. You need lead sheet and towers. You have lead?"
Ryan (counting): "Lead from the highlands—buy from a dwarven factor, pay fair. Bricks from our kiln. Glass retorts from the potter—thick. Nitre from stable floors and old cave walls—start a nitrary if we must. Sulfur from pyrite at the stone mine—we roast and choke on the smoke… we do it outside with a long flue."
Murdock grunts—approval hiding under the grump.
Murdock (short): "I'll build the tower if you keep my lads' lungs out of hell."
Ryan points at the corner.
Ryan (flat): "Masks soaked in weak alkali. Cloth over mouth and nose. Work when the wind runs strong. Pay them extra. Pull them out when their eyes water."
Sariel circles PAY EXTRA.
Sariel (level): "Licenses?"
Ryan (plain): "We write the Crown. 'Blasting for stone, not war.' We ask Aemond for ward chalk on the transport crates. We show the safety paper. We bring Baldric when we blast so he can tell the loud mouths we're not hiding knives."
Murdock snorts.
Murdock (half-laugh): "Invite the man who curses your name to your table. You grew up fast."
Ryan shrugs.
Ryan (soft): "I grew up on a pyre. I buy boring now, with paperwork."
He flips to a new page. Writes: RESOURCE RUN — AURELTHORN — ERYNDRAL RIM.
Ryan (steady): "We survey. Marn takes the western farms—lists limestone, shell, clean sand. Peter takes the stables—saltpeter beds, manure, straw. Jory goes north—pyrite nodules, black rock that burns. Mira buys cloth for masks. Sariel keeps receipts—all of them public on the board."
Sariel nods, satisfied.
Sariel (practical): "I'll draw map squares. We colour by 'has' and 'need.' We publish the legend for the slow readers."
Ryan circles another word and looks at the two of them.
Ryan (plain): "Umbrathorax."
Murdock kicks a stool leg, nervous habit.
Murdock (hard): "You leave that damned shadow in the trees."
Ryan flicks the notebook edge with a thumb.
Ryan (soft): "I have a rule—'Safe from Legendary Beasts.' I want to know if it protects me alone, or me and those who stand near. I won't take a soul into that test. I go alone, at dawn rise. I carry a rope and a horn and a recorder. I bait with a dragon roar and meat. I stand in a ditch and see if the world breaks or bends."
Sariel's mouth goes thin.
Sariel (flat): "I refuse to list your fool death as 'research.'"
Ryan's eyes don't flinch.
Ryan (calm): "I don't die. The rules cheat for me. I need to know how the cheat breaks at the edges. If it keeps only my skin safe, I don't drag men to work where that thing hunts. If it makes a ring—if those near me stand—I can put that ring between the beast and the line when we cut a road. I test once. I write rules. Then I leave it alone."
Murdock looks at the floor and then back up.
Murdock (measured): "If you're set to do it, I'll make you a fork on a pole to prod beef away from your feet. And a hook to snag anything that falls. And a horn that can be heard from the rope‑walk to the dye works."
Sariel doesn't argue to stop him; she knows the look. She picks up a pencil and starts to make the checklist she can live with.
Sariel (clipped): "You test at the Eryndral fringe, not the heart. You stand with your back to cut stone, not saplings. You wear a line and tie off to a buried post. You mark the ground in 10 pace rings. You drop meat at 20. You stand at 40. You run when I pull the rope twice."
Ryan's mouth twitches, not a smile.
Ryan (soft): "You'll be hiding with the horn."
Sariel doesn't blink.
Sariel (flat): "I'll be hiding with the horn."
Murdock finishes his list and slaps it on the table like a challenge: pole fork, hook, horn, rope, stakes, chalk, beef, shovel, water flask, paper.
Ryan writes one more line in his notebook: AFTER—DRAGONLESS FOREST—FIND SNOWBALL.
Ryan (plain): "After the beater runs and the first batch cures, after the blasting hut stands empty and the rules hang on the door, I ride. Drakensvale. Quiet. Private. Gagin causeway or a fisher's path below the lanterns. I take no banners. I take coin and a simple name. I get Snowball back."
Sariel looks at him for a long breath.
Sariel (low): "You go alone?"
Ryan (soft): "I go quieter that way. Safe from Spotlight will blur me. I talk like a factor. I buy pier time. I put on a bad coat. I bring our moose home."
Murdock rubs his hands on a rag and barks a laugh that is mostly worry.
Murdock (gruff): "Bring the coat that makes everyone blind. Bring the coin that makes everyone see."
Ryan closes the notebook and taps the cover with two fingers.
Ryan (quiet): "We do the rules. We feed the small. Then we go get our own."
Sariel slides her slate across, the boxes neat, the words simple.
Sariel (reading): "Tonight—letters to the Crown and the river pilot. Tomorrow—hire rag‑master, lease loft, order wire and felt. Two days—Hollander bedplate on the floor. Four days—first pulp beat. Seven days—first sheets dry with stamp. Ten days—acid tower bricks laid. Fourteen days—first blast test, 50 grams. Fifteen days—Elric goes to the Eryndral fringe at dawn like an idiot we love."
Murdock snorts. Ryan smiles, small and real.
Ryan (soft): "We'll figure this out."
Sariel rolls her eyes.
Sariel (dry): "Every impossible problem is just a puzzle waiting for the right algorithm. Yes, yes. Go eat."
Ryan pulls the door, lets the cold push in, and breathes it like a cure. The city outside is hurt and hungry; the plan inside is warm and sharp.
He tucks the notebook into his coat and steps into the night. The lamps hiss. Somewhere, a horn talks to the river. The line between brave and stupid looks thin and honest in this light. He follows it toward morning.