The year is 2009 of the Avalorian Imperial Calendar. I am nine years old.
The intervening two years since Lyra's birth had been a whirlwind of obsessive study. I devoured every book on magic, engineering, alchemy, and metallurgy in the castle's extensive library. When those proved insufficient, I convinced my parents to commission texts from the Royal Academy, the mage towers, and even some carefully selected works from the other kingdoms. The plan that had formed in my mind was audacious, revolutionary, and would require resources that would make most kings hesitate.
I entered my mother's solar one crisp autumn morning, a long parchment clutched in my hand like a declaration of war against the impossible. Lyra, now a babbling two-year-old with our family's distinctive chubby cheeks and an alarming talent for finding trouble, was playing on the floor with a collection of wooden blocks she seemed determined to redesign through creative destruction.
"Mama, can we talk?" I asked, using the formal address she had learned to associate with my most serious requests.
She looked up from her intricate embroidery, a needle poised in mid-air, her expression one of amused wariness. "Alarion, you started with 'Mama' instead of 'Mother.' That means you want something significant." She set down her needle and thread, a small, knowing smile on her lips. "Let me see the list."
Her expression shifted from amused indulgence to complete bewilderment, then to something approaching maternal panic as her sapphire eyes scanned the contents. The parchment contained what was essentially a shopping list for reshaping the fundamental nature of magical warfare.
"Alarion, sweetie," she said slowly, her voice carefully controlled, "a mithral hammer costs more than most noble families' annual income. An anvil of green iron is a legendary crafting tool that requires special permits from the capital just to own." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "And a dungeon core? Cream pie, we only have three intact dungeon cores in our entire treasury. Each one represents decades of dangerous raids and countless lives lost to obtain it safely."
She paused, looking at me with a mixture of pride and alarm. "Each dungeon core traditionally represents one mage tower and one archmage. These aren't crafting materials, Leo. They're strategic national assets."
I had prepared for this conversation for weeks. "Mama," I began, settling into the chair across from her, "remember when I made that ramen?"
She nodded, a small smile returning. "How could I forget? Half the kingdom still talks about it."
"I want to make something even more special. Something that will help Papa protect the kingdom. Something that will make our family safer." I paused, letting the words sink in before deploying my trump card. "Something that will protect Lyra when she grows up in a world that's getting more dangerous every year."
At the mention of her name, Lyra chose that exact moment to toddle over and climb into my lap, her chubby arms wrapping around my neck as she babbled something that might have been "buh-buh" in her own creative language. My mother's resolve visibly wavered, her heart melting at the scene.
"But Leo, these materials… The dungeon core especially represents power that even archmages approach with extreme caution."
"I know it's dangerous, Mama. But I've studied everything. I understand mana accumulation, magical resonance, and power distribution." I gestured to the stack of books that were my constant companions. "And I promise, if you get me these things, I'll let you call me 'cream pie' in public for a whole month without complaining."
Her eyes lit up like I had just offered her the crown jewels of the kingdom. "Really? In front of the nobles? And the servants?"
I internally cringed but nodded. A worthy sacrifice. "Really."
"And," I continued, sweetening the deal, "I'll let you pinch my cheeks three times a week."
"Deal!" she said immediately, before her political instincts reasserted themselves. "But Patricia will supervise everything. And Bob will be on standby. I'm also bringing in Master Craftsman Aldric from the royal workshops. If you're going to work with materials this valuable, you'll have proper supervision."
Two weeks later, I stood in a specially prepared workshop in the castle's lower levels, reinforced and fitted with emergency magical barriers. Patricia watched from a designated "safe observation zone." Bob stood near the entrance like a statue of granite. Master Craftsman Aldric, a grizzled dwarf who had been crafting magical items since before my parents were born, examined each piece of equipment with a reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.
"Young Master," he said, his voice a low rumble, "I have crafted items for kings and archmages, but I have never worked with a collection of materials this valuable in one place."
The centerpiece was the dungeon core. It pulsed with an eerie red light inside a mithral cage, radiating raw, untamed mana. It was a living entity, a priceless, irreplaceable artifact, and I was about to use it as a battery.
"Tes," I thought, "begin comprehensive analysis."
"Acknowledged. Preliminary scans indicate the core operates on a quantum magical resonance that converts ambient mana into concentrated energy through dimensional folding. This is… fascinating."
My first attempts at forging were a litany of spectacular failures. Under Tes's precise control, my hands moved with an accuracy that impressed even Master Aldric, but my designs were flawed. The first time I tried to integrate a mana circuit into a mithral chest plate, the metal rejected the energy violently. Sparks exploded across the workshop, and the breastplate cracked with a sound like thunder.
"Well," I said, examining the ruined piece, "that didn't work."
Master Aldric stroked his long, braided beard thoughtfully. "Young Master, you're trying to force a river through a garden hose. The channels can't handle the load."
By the fifth attempt, after burning through several more pieces of priceless mithral, I was starting to understand the fundamental problem. Trying to connect directly to the dungeon core was like trying to harness a tornado with fishing line.
"Master Aldric," I said, setting down a blue platinum engraving quill, "what if we don't connect directly? What if we create a buffer?"
The old dwarf's eyes lit up. "A secondary power matrix that regulates the core's output? Create a smaller, controllable power source that draws from the main one? That's… brilliant."
That breakthrough led to a new approach. The forging process was incredibly complex. I hammered the mithral into shape on the green iron anvil, its magical properties helping to stabilize the volatile metal. The rhythmic ringing of hammer on anvil filled the workshop as Master Aldric guided me, his decades of experience invaluable.
Once the basic armor was forged, I began the engraving. Using the blue platinum quill, I inscribed runic circuits that weren't just decorative, they were three-dimensional magical networks spiraling through the metal, following principles borrowed from both magical theory and electrical engineering. Each rune had to be perfect.
Days turned into weeks. The arm guards, the leg pieces, the helmet each component was a masterwork of magical engineering. Finally, the most delicate part: creating the power core itself. Using techniques that combined crystal-growing and principles from my old world's understanding of energy storage, I carefully extracted a tiny fragment of energy from the dungeon core and crystallized it within its housing in the chest plate. The process was terrifying. Working with raw dungeon core energy was like handling liquid lightning.
But with Tes's precise calculations and Master Aldric's expertise, we succeeded.
The moment the crystallized core fragment settled into place, the entire suit of armor came alive. Runes glowed with a soft blue light, and power flowed through the circuits like luminous blood through veins.
"Power levels stable, Master," Tes reported. "All systems functioning within optimal parameters."
I stepped back to examine my handiwork. It didn't just look impressive, it radiated power. Before I could even consider a test, the workshop doors burst open.
"Alarion Wight," my mother said, using the tone that meant business, "you will come to tea this instant."
As I was ceremoniously dragged from my workshop by maternal decree, I caught one last glimpse of my creation. Mark I, as I had decided to name it, stood in its housing like a sleeping giant, waiting.