Bruden – Kruger Military Shipyard
Sub-Level 4 – Engine Pit "Goliath"Two years after the first steam engine prototype
The city of Bruden breathed steam.
Crisscrossed by a wide, slow river and lined with pale stone buildings, Bruden had once been known for fishing and ferries. Now, it roared with forges, sparks, and the clang of steel. The old docks were gone. In their place stood Kruger Shipworks, the most heavily funded military contractor in the Reich — and the only one tasked with building ships powered not by wind, but by fire.
At the edge of the river, nestled under a black-iron fortress of workshops and chimneys, a narrow elevator cage descended into the earth.
Sub-Level 4 was where the failures lived.
Down here, the air was hot and thick. Chains dangled from rusted hooks. Ladders climbed to catwalks bolted into the walls. Below them sat the Goliath engine — the fifth attempt to create a fully functional propulsion core for a steel-hulled war frigate. It spanned the entire chamber. Gleaming copper pistons, each thicker than a man's torso, lay inert beside gear housings the size of ox carts. Steel conduits snaked along the walls like veins, leading to nowhere.
The engine was exposed — half-disassembled, ribs open — like a carcass being studied mid-autopsy.
Men worked in silence, climbing up scaffolds and catwalks, each one strapped with belts of heavy tools glowing faintly with embedded crystals. Tiny gems—red for heat, green for sealing, blue for cooling—were fused into the heads of their instruments. When struck, the crystals lit up, channeling heat and pressure in precise amounts.
It still wasn't enough.
"Heat expansion's wrong again," muttered Erwin Kael, head of turbine design. His gloved hands gripped a parchment diagram smeared with grease. "Look—if the shaft compresses another millimeter during startup, the right intake's gonna shear clean off."
Across from him, standing on a ladder rung two stories high, Marla Voss grunted. She tightened the final bolt on a reinforced coupling and looked down.
"I told you last week the venting runes on the cooling junction were misaligned. You patched it with copper glue."
Erwin didn't look up. "We didn't have time to reforge the whole mount."
"Then enjoy the next explosion."
From the corner of the catwalk, a voice called out.
"Hey! You two gonna argue or help me weld this damn bracket in place?!"
Tomas Brel, senior welder, crouched at the side of the central boiler casing. His back was hunched, gem-torch in hand. The small ruby embedded in the tool's head pulsed orange as he pressed the nozzle to the metal. Sparks hissed against the rivets. Every few seconds, he adjusted a side dial, modulating the flame's shape using the crystal's resonance. Despite the technology, sweat still poured down his neck.
"I swear," Tomas growled, "the next person who asks me why the seam's cracking gets this torch in their teeth. I told you. Bad steel."
Marla descended the ladder, bootfalls ringing off the grating. "It's not the steel. It's the pressure differential. You're heating the midsection before the struts settle."
"No," Erwin snapped, finally lifting his head. "It's not the struts. It's the rune circuits. They weren't designed for anything this large. We're trying to force human-scale magic into a system meant to move a cathedral."
A long silence followed.
From a higher walkway, a younger engineer stepped into view — Kurt Langen, his goggles fogged and coat smeared with soot. He held a folded parchment under one arm and looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Test team just confirmed the numbers," Kurt said flatly. "Yesterday's dry-fire maxed at forty-three revolutions. Then seized. Again."
Tomas cursed.
Erwin's jaw clenched.
Forty-three. Not even close to what was needed to move a hull that size, let alone push a fully armored warship up a river.
Kurt unfolded the parchment and passed it down. "Gear two warped. And the resonance core on piston three cracked from thermal stress. The gem lattice snapped right through."
"That was a Class-B ruby," Tomas muttered. "Government-issued."
"Then file a request," Marla replied. "And wait six weeks."
Erwin slammed the parchment onto the railing.
"No. This won't work. We're doing this wrong. We're building like it's still two years ago. Like we're patching steam carts. This isn't a boat. It's a floating fortress."
Marla crossed her arms. "You got a better idea?"
Silence again.
Far below, a pair of junior technicians guided a cart toward the open engine belly. The cart rattled — carrying a reinforced cylinder of compressed steam and a pair of glimmering amethyst cores. They were new — fresh from the northern mines. Their glow was steady, undisturbed.
"Let's try the new seal pattern first," Tomas muttered, already crouching again. "I'll reforge the joint using triple-gem weld. But if this one breaks too…"
"It won't," said Kurt, quieter this time. "We're not failing because of design. We're failing because we're inventing something no one's ever done before."
Marla nodded, slowly. "They want frigates. Sailboats with teeth. They want cannons that reload without wind. If we crack this…"
Erwin stepped away from the railing, voice low but firm. "We're not cracking it here."
He turned toward the northern hall.
"We need a second chamber. Deeper. Cooler. Split teams — one for pressure research, one for shaft resilience. I'll take charge of the new forge requisitions."
"Who's telling headquarters?" Tomas asked without looking up.
"I'll tell them," Erwin said. "If we don't get it right within six months… the entire warship contract collapses."
The chamber fell silent again, save for the hiss of a cooling pipe and the dim hum of crystal tools recharging on iron racks.
Above, a red warning lantern clicked on. A bell clanged twice.
Test cycle prep.
The team moved.
Tomas climbed up to brace the new seam. Marla hauled a toolkit to the right side of the engine. Kurt began recalibrating the intake sensor gauges.
No one spoke of success.
No one spoke of failure.
Just steel, and steam, and the knowledge that somewhere above this chamber — above Bruden's black chimneys and silver river — the Reich was watching.
The chamber had gone quiet.
For once, no hammers struck steel. No gem torches hissed. No voices shouted from gantries above. Everyone was watching.
The engine — no longer a carcass, but a machine — sat fully sealed and bolted into place. Its ribs had been closed, its veins aligned, its breath trapped in copper lungs.
Goliath was complete.
Red sigils shimmered along the reinforced boiler line. Two crystal capacitors, each pulsing with embedded amethyst, powered the heat-channeling runes along the core. The pistons gleamed with fresh welds, their joints polished and inspected over fifty times in the last three days alone. A new reinforced turbine assembly — forged in the northern district and lowered into place by pulley teams working for thirteen hours straight — glinted with copper and steel teeth.
Above, the ceiling lights dimmed as the auxiliary power re-routed to the test console.
Standing at the main control platform was Marla Voss, her gloves tight around the ignition lever. Her jaw was locked, eyes narrowed.
To her right, Tomas Brel had his hand on the safety valve. Erwin Kael stood behind them, flanked by two silent military officers sent by the Ministry of Warfare.
To her left, Kurt Langen adjusted the pressure dials. A clipboard trembled slightly in his hand.
"Temperature steady," Kurt reported. "Amethyst cores aligned. Pressure holding at 210."
"Confirm turbine coupling engagement," Marla said.
"Engaged. Gear locked."
"Then we begin." Her voice didn't shake. Not today.
Tomas exhaled and opened the main feed valve. A deep metallic hiss echoed through the chamber as scalding water entered the boiler. Pipes creaked. Runes shimmered. A faint vibration passed through the gantries.
Erwin stepped forward. "Begin pressurization. Ramp to full within thirty seconds."
Marla nodded once. "Understood."
The chamber lights flickered.
Somewhere inside the Goliath, water screamed as it turned to steam.
Pipes trembled. Joints groaned. The heat inside the engine grew visible — distortion waves rising from the turbine casing like desert air.
At the far side of the chamber, an old brass bell rang once.
"Pressure at 350," Kurt called. "Climbing!"
"Good," Marla whispered. Her hand hovered over the ignition switch.
A long pause.
Then:
"Five seconds to rotation," Tomas said.
"Four."
"Three."
"Two…"
Marla grabbed the lever and slammed it forward.
A massive clang shook the chamber.
For a heartbeat, everything seemed to stop. The pipes. The air. The noise. Then—
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.
The pistons moved.
Slow at first. Then faster.
The turbine screamed to life.
Steam roared through the intake. Pressure gauges spiked. The gear housing turned, slow and monstrous, grinding against the drive teeth with thunderous rhythm. Exhaust vents flared open. Bright orange sigils pulsed down the spine of the engine like veins carrying fire.
"Forty revolutions!" Kurt shouted. "No instability!"
"Fifty-five!"
Marla adjusted a dial. "Stabilizing turbine velocity!"
The machine roared like a living thing.
Steam belched from the exhaust stack. The chamber floor vibrated. Chains swayed overhead. Men shouted — not in panic, but in awe.
Sixty revolutions. Then seventy. Then eighty.
"She's holding!" Tomas shouted. "She's actually holding!"
The military officer at Erwin's side leaned in. "What are we seeing?"
Erwin didn't look away. "Success."
The Goliath engine ran for twenty-three minutes.
Every minute logged. Every temperature spike recorded. Every pulse of pressure accounted for. When Marla finally pulled the shutoff lever, the turbine didn't seize. It coasted to a halt, groaning like a beast being put to rest, not put down.
Silence followed.
Steam hissed gently from cooling pipes.
Someone clapped. Then another.
Then the room erupted — cheers, fist pumps, men embracing across scaffolds. Gem tools clattered to the floor as engineers dropped to their knees or leaned against railings, laughing in disbelief.
Tomas slumped to the ground and wiped his face with both hands.
"Two years…" he breathed. "We finally did it…"
Marla stood still, gloves still on the lever.
Kurt dropped his clipboard and walked over, dazed. "We… we can move a warship with this. We can move anything."
The two military observers stepped forward, stone-faced. One reached into his coat and retrieved a small brass communicator.
"This is Command. Bruden Engine Test complete. Goliath ignition successful. Confirmed velocity exceeds warship propulsion requirement. Begin preparations for hull integration."
The voice on the other end crackled. "Understood. Directive passed to Naval Command. Phase Two begins immediately."
Erwin finally exhaled. His eyes were still locked on the turbine. "We'll need to reinforce the frame… but yes. It works."
The officers turned to leave, but one paused.
"You'll be contacted within the week," he said. "Expect additional funding. And a visit from the Führer himself."
The engineers froze.
Marla blinked. "He's… coming here?"
"If your engine will move a fleet," the officer said, "then yes. He will want to see it move."
The door shut behind them.
No one spoke for several seconds.
Then Marla laughed — just once — then again, louder, wiping grease from her face.
"Let him come," she said, stepping down from the platform. "We'll be ready."