The court of Dravoryen had grown restless. Whispers slithered through the stone corridors of the castle and spilled into the taverns of the city below. They all carried the same story:
The mines are failing.
Without iron, the kingdom would be nothing more than a fragile wall of sand, waiting for the tide to sweep it away. Soldiers would have no swords, blacksmiths no hammers, merchants no wares. For a land as small as Dravoryen, the mines were its lifeblood—and the lifeblood was drying up.
Toru learned of this not from Elandor, nor from any official report, but by overhearing two passing nobles as he walked the corridors with Liora.
"Another collapse, I hear. Three miners buried alive," one muttered.
"And the boy-prince wants to train his body instead of ruling," the other sneered. "What future is there for Dravoryen under such hands?"
The words burned in Toru's ears, but instead of snapping back, he breathed deep. Their disdain didn't matter. What mattered was the truth buried in their words. If the mines truly were failing, then all his training, all his dreams of rebuilding the kingdom, would be meaningless.
---
"Elandor," Toru said that evening, standing in the advisor's chamber. "Tomorrow, I want to visit the mines."
Elandor's quill froze mid-scratch. He lifted his head slowly, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Your Highness, the mines are dangerous. Collapses are frequent. And… forgive my bluntness, but your presence will only burden the workers."
"Let him go," Liora said softly from behind Toru. "If he wishes to understand the kingdom, he must see it with his own eyes."
Elandor sighed, tapping the quill against his ledger. "Then at least take Sir Cedric with you. If the ceiling comes crashing down, I'd prefer not to lose my prince on a whim."
The next morning, Toru rode with a small escort to the edge of the hills where the Dravoryen mines yawned like dark mouths in the stone. The air was thick with dust and the faint, bitter tang of iron. Miners moved about with heavy steps, their faces gray with exhaustion.
Toru dismounted and walked forward, ignoring the startled bows. His weak frame still drew skeptical glances, but his eyes scanned the site with unusual intensity.
He noticed the timber supports—straight, vertical beams wedged haphazardly into the walls. Many cracked under the strain, barely holding the ceiling above. The air was suffocating, stagnant. Miners coughed as they hauled ore, their torches burning dimly in the stale atmosphere.
This is insane, Toru thought. No wonder there are collapses. No airflow, no stable structures, no system.
Memories surfaced—training drills during his military service. Makeshift shelters. Emergency shafts. He remembered conversations with an old comrade who worked in construction, and the crude but effective gym setups he'd once built with scrap metal and wood.
He crouched, grabbing a piece of chalk-like stone, and began sketching shapes on the ground. Triangles. Crossbeams. Air tunnels. His escort exchanged glances, unsure whether the prince had lost his mind.
But in Toru's eyes burned something they had never seen before: focus.
---
That evening, Toru gathered Elandor, Liora, and Sir Cedric in a small chamber. He spread his sketches across the table.
"Look at these beams," Toru said, pointing to the drawings. "They're building with vertical supports only. That's why collapses are inevitable. If they used triangular formations—like this—the weight would be distributed evenly. Stronger, safer."
Elandor leaned closer, skeptical but intrigued.
"And ventilation shafts," Toru continued. "They need holes cut at intervals to let air flow through. Right now the miners are suffocating with every breath. If they can breathe easier, they'll work longer without exhaustion."
Cedric crossed his arms, unimpressed. "You speak as though you've mined before, Prince. These men have been doing this for generations. Do you think they've never considered air holes?"
"Then why do they keep dying?" Toru shot back, his voice firm, rational. "Tradition doesn't make a method correct. Only results do."
The room fell silent. Elandor studied Toru with a strange expression, as though weighing the boy in his mind. Finally, the advisor said, "Even if your ideas hold merit, convincing the nobility will be near impossible. They consider the mines their domain. They will laugh at you."
"Then let them laugh," Toru said. "But I'll prove them wrong."
---
The next day, Toru returned to the mines—not with banners or guards, but quietly, with Liora and a handful of willing miners. He explained his designs in simple, direct words, sketching diagrams in the dirt until even the most skeptical miner began to nod.
They worked in an abandoned shaft, one no noble cared about. Timber was cut and arranged in triangular frames. Shafts were carved into the earth, leading to the surface. The miners worked cautiously, half-expecting disaster.
Days passed.
Instead of collapse, the shaft held strong. The air inside was cooler, fresher. The men returned each day less weary, their output higher. When they struck a vein of iron untouched for years, their eyes widened with disbelief.
"The prince's way works," one whispered. "The weak prince… maybe not so weak after all."
Word spread quickly, faster than Toru anticipated. Soon, rumors reached the castle—rumors that the forgotten shaft had become the most productive in the hills, thanks to the prince's strange ideas.
---
It didn't take long for the nobles to storm into the council chamber. Toru sat at the table beside Elandor, Liora at his back. The men bristled with indignation, their robes brushing the marble floor like waves of silk.
"You dare meddle in matters of the mines?" one spat. "Those men belong to our houses. Their labor, their methods, are not for you to change."
"You endanger the kingdom with childish experiments," another sneered. "One collapse under your orders, and you'll drown Dravoryen in lawsuits."
Toru listened calmly, fingers steepled. When their voices died, he spoke evenly.
"You say I endanger the kingdom. But tell me—what is more dangerous? Trying a new method that saves lives, or clinging to tradition while miners die and production dwindles?"
The room stirred. The nobles bristled but offered no answer.
"I will not stand idle while Dravoryen rots," Toru continued, his voice steady, his gaze unflinching. "If that makes me childish, then so be it. But the results will speak for themselves."
Silence followed. Even Cedric, who had doubted Toru before, shifted uncomfortably as if reconsidering the boy's words.
Elandor's eyes narrowed. He said nothing, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
---
That night, Toru stood alone on the balcony of his chambers. The city sprawled beneath him, the torches of miners flickering in the distance. For the first time since awakening in this world, he felt something shift—like the first crack of dawn after a long night.
He had proved something, not only to the miners but to himself. He could change things. He could make a difference.
But as the cool wind brushed his face, Toru knew this was only the beginning.
---
Far Beyond Dravoryen.
Far to the east, in the fortress of Veyland, a messenger knelt before a tall figure draped in crimson.
"Dravoryen stirs again, my lord," the messenger said. "The weak prince… is no longer so weak."
The figure chuckled, a low and dangerous sound. "Then perhaps it is time we remind them of their place."
The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the map of Dravoryen.
And the storm began to gather.