Marchioness Sorina
Lady of virtue and majesty
In you nobility and reason are equal, like the compass that traces without error the perfect circle. Your lineage, steady on the line of honor, casts shadow and example to those of us who walk the path of merit.
Doina, your daughter, is a reflection of that celestial order just in word, clear in judgment, beautiful in measure.
I do not come to ask for more than I can sustain; only to offer constant labor, a worthy house and a name without stain. My request is simple that you allow me to aspire to your favor, and with time, if God grants it, unite my days with those of your daughter.
With respect and sincere devotion.
Pudiente
Letter to Doina
My lady Doina
Your image has me captive like a number that will not resolve. I have counted the hours since I saw you, and they all lead me to you.
In your voice I find a measure sweeter than music; in your hands, the just weight that tips the balance of my calm.
If love were a number, you would be the one that gives value to all the others. If it were a merchant's art, I would know how to trade my goods for a single one of your looks.
Allow me to seek you as one seeks the perfect proportion between warmth and rest; may my desire, quiet and steadfast, find its account in your embrace.
Pudiente
In the castle office.
The office was an enormous room of stone and wood, heavily decorated. The table, so huge it seemed a horizontal wall, was covered with half-empty goblets, martial figurines and dry quills. The king, a giant of almost two meters, rested on his private throne with a sullen expression. At one side, the one-eyed counselor waited in silence, hands crossed behind his back.
An attendant entered, bowed and placed a sealed envelope on the table. With a brusque gesture, the king dismissed him and tore the seal.
― King ― A letter… ― He murmured, and began to read it aloud, his grave tone bouncing off the bare walls.
The weapon's description made the King frown: rotating ducts, "continuous discharge," "storm of projectiles." He shook his head in disbelief.
― King ― A machine that throws stones like never-ending rain? Nonsense! ― He grunted, but did not stop reading.
When he reached the request, he struck the table with his palm.
― King ― Slaves instead of executions! How dare they tell a king how he should punish? ― The counselor stepped closer, placing on the table the pile of letters he held in his hands.
― The counselor ― Your Majesty… if you accept, you will seem magnanimous. The nobles will see that you are not a blind executioner, but a savior of their lineages. That will grant you respect and shield you from intrigues. And the weapon… even if it is half real, it deserves that we test it. ―
The king snorted, poured himself wine, drank it in one gulp and threw the goblet to the floor.
― King ― It sickens me that they try to dictate anything to me! But… very well, so be it. Make the Grand Master Smith study these plans. If the machine works, I want it on my walls. ―
The counselor carefully gathered the attached parchments, which showed cuts and meticulous diagrams. He turned toward the door, striding quickly, then stopped.
― The counselor ― Your Majesty… the handwriting is not the marchioness's. The plans are signed by someone else. A certain… Huntneo.
The king reclined, letting out a dry laugh.
― King ― Huntneo? What a ridiculous name… but if these scribbles bear fruit, I don't care if a ghost or a man wrote them. ―
The counselor bowed his head and hurried out. The king, alone again in his cavernous office, drummed his fingers on the table and repeated to himself, as if savoring the name.
― King ― Huntneo… ―
To His Majesty's attention
With due reverence I dare to present to you a new war artifact that, if adopted, will grant your army an unmatched advantage over any enemy.
It is an engine of multiple launch ducts, arranged around an axis that rotates with perfect regularity. Each duct houses a polished stone projectile, calibrated so that its flight is true. The rotary motion allows that, after one duct fires, the next immediately comes into position, thus guaranteeing a continuous discharge.
The heart of this cannon is simple and effective: a fire mage supplies the energy that ignites and expels the stones violently, one after another, until the weapon is emptied of projectiles. Where once a war machine delivered a single isolated blow, this weapon sustains a prolonged storm of impacts, breaking walls, disordering ranks and sowing panic.
Detailed schematics showing the rotation mechanism and how the ducts fit into the main cylinder are found in the attached pages.
This invention belongs to you, Majesty, exclusively. No one but you will have the right to possess or reproduce it.
As humble compensation for this gift, I request that particular clemency be granted so that the sons of the late Marquis Tervain and the other young nobles guilty of the recent riot are not executed, but rather delivered as slaves to their mothers. Let the weight of shame crush them day after day, and let the collars they wear be removable only by your direct command. Thus the realm will remember that it is the King, and only the King, who decides over the life, liberty and humiliation of his subjects.
Signed, Hunt Neo
The counselor crossed the palace halls without stopping, the plans clutched under his arm. He arrived at the Grand Master Smith's workshop, pushed the door with brusqueness and dropped the roll of parchments on the soot-darkened table.
― The counselor ― Orders from the king. Recreate this. ― He said without looking.
And without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heels and disappeared, as if the forge offended his lungs.
The master, hardened by years of iron and courtly disdain, did not even frown. With coal-black hands he unrolled the plans and bent over them under the reddish light of the forge. His eyes traced the lines, the cuts and the final signature.
He stood still, swallowed, and murmured to himself with a bitter exhale.
— Grand Master Smith ― Hunt Neo… the former disciple of my own disciple. Durman, scoundrel… how did they let this boy be taken from you? ― The sound of the hammer striking the anvil again.