The scent of ink, parchment, and old coins greeted Fornos Dag as he stepped into the upper floors of the Dag Estate's southern annex—his father's private accounting hall.
The light was subdued, filtered through mana-glass slats designed to cut glare and heat. Brass-cased ledger-scrolls lined the walls like war trophies. Stacks of soul-penned contracts hummed faintly on a spell-forged desk. Magic quills floated above the surface like predators over water, scribbling annotations in precise, furious strokes.
Voss Dag didn't look up immediately. His eyes flicked across a line of contract-scrolls with the kind of ruthless attention that could frighten treasurers and collapse entire markets. He wore his usual grey-and-gold ledger robes, but his collar was slightly creased—a detail Fornos noticed immediately.
"Back already?" Voss said after a beat.
Mary entered just behind Fornos, balancing a tray of candied ginger and fresh-steeped tea. Her presence warmed the chill that still clung to Fornos's coat. She looked radiant in her quiet disapproval.
"You haven't eaten in three days," she said flatly. "Sit."
Fornos blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"You don't need to make heads or tails of everything you hear," Mary said sweetly as she placed the tray on the side table. "Just obey."
Fornos gave her a grateful glance but said nothing. He poured himself a cup—hands slower than usual, muscles sluggish, posture slightly collapsed. Weeks of tension still coiled beneath his skin like dormant flame.
"How did the auction go?" Voss asked, finally glancing up.
Fornos stared at the ceiling for a moment before answering. "The seller died. Blueprint was stolen. Entire city locked down. I negotiated with assassins, then published a surveillance weapon to the public for free."
"Huh," Voss mused. "This sounds like a repeat of the Madars Auction."
Mary coughed pointedly. "Don't encourage him."
"I assume this is the restrained version of events?" she asked Fornos.
"Very," he replied, sipping the tea. It was ginger and licorice root—restorative and sharp, like the mood.
Voss finally dismissed the floating quills with a flick of his finger. The scribes drifted into their glyph cases with a soft hiss.
"And now?" he asked.
"Park is returning to Varnhollow with the relay designs," Fornos answered. "Our engineers will begin replication by next month."
Mary lowered herself into the chair beside him. "And you?"
Fornos leaned back and looked at the brass lantern above.
"I take a break," he said. "Before I forget what that word means."
"You mean 'eight hours of desk work instead of the standard fifteen,'" Mary said, raising an eyebrow.
"The route-changing system we use isn't eligible to be run by proxy," Fornos replied.
"Yet you've been managing it by sending encoded letters," Voss noted dryly.
"Doesn't count," Fornos muttered. "Also, I've been thinking of making advancements on the Eastern Union."
Mary gave him a tired glare. "For the love of Mereal, stop making that expression. It makes you look ugly."
"I'm already halfway down that road," Fornos said with a smirk, touching the scar near his lip.
"You do realize women would line up to marry you if you just made up your mind," Voss said, steepling his fingers.
"Maybe."
"You should consider it. You're already nineteen," Mary said, half-joking, half-maternal.
"My dear mother," Fornos intoned, "people marry even at ninety. What's the rush?"
"Well, I want to see my grandchildren," Voss said, not missing a beat.
"And I need someone to keep you grounded," Mary added. "Otherwise, you'll turn the southern region into a hellhole run on sarcasm and siege engines."
"I would make a beautiful hellhole," Fornos said with pride.
Mary laughed despite herself. "Arrogant gremlin."
"Sharp-tongued saint."
Their brief banter faded into comfortable silence.
Varnhollow, Nightfall
Iron clouds pressed low against the ridgelines, their bellies flickering with distant stormlight.
Park descended the winding cliff path into the western barracks quarter. Slung over his back was a runed case bound in ward-chains—inside, the crystal relay blueprint Fornos had secured.
At the base of the path stood Konos, arms crossed, one foot tapping on broken stone. His expression flickered somewhere between exhaustion and relief.
"You didn't die," Konos muttered as Park reached him.
Park signed:
No one worthwhile did.
Konos let out a short grunt. "That's the closest thing to optimism I've ever seen you sign."
They entered the old blacksmith hall, now repurposed as a planning site for future relay production. The stone floors had been cleared of slag and dust. Golem-parts sat on wheeled racks, while relay crystals blinked from energy-tablets, humming in anticipation.
Martin glanced up from his diagrams as Park laid the case before him.
He nodded once, then carefully unlatched the seals and began spreading the design blueprints out on a rust-stained drafting table.
"Amazing," Martin whispered. "It's like... mana harmonics and vibration theory smashed into a single codex. I didn't think this was even possible."
"It wasn't," Konos said. "Not until that mad bastard decided it should be."
Park raised a brow.
Konos continued, muttering more to himself than anyone else. "This kid's dragging the world forward by the collar. Doesn't even know if the floor's finished under his feet."
Outside, thunder rolled down the valley like a tired warhorn.
Konos looked out the open archway, eyes narrowed.
"World's about to change," he muttered.
Park, without looking up, signed:
He already started it.