The foundry never slept.
Thaddeus Iron-Hand stood in the observation gallery above the main floor, watching the river of molten iron flow from the crucibles into the casting molds. The heat was oppressive even here, three stories above the furnaces, and the air shimmered with it. Below, dozens of workers moved in choreographed precision, their bodies slick with sweat, their faces hidden behind leather masks. They looked like demons in the firelight, and perhaps they were. Thaddeus had long ago stopped seeing them as men.
They were components of a machine, like the gears and pulleys that drove the bellows, like the chains that lifted the crucibles. They had a function, and as long as they performed that function, they were valuable. When they ceased to be valuable, they were replaced.
It was a harsh philosophy, Thaddeus knew. But it was an honest one. And honesty, in his experience, was the rarest commodity in Ferros.
His mechanical hand—the Iron Hand that had given him his name—rested on the gallery rail. The fingers were articulated steel, driven by a system of gears and springs that responded to the flex of his wrist. It had taken him years to master it, to learn to write and grip and gesture with the same precision he had once possessed with flesh and bone. But he had mastered it, as he mastered everything he set his mind to.
The hand was a reminder. Not of what he had lost, but of what he had become. He had been broken once, crushed by the very machines he now commanded. And he had rebuilt himself, stronger than before. That was the lesson of iron: it could be melted, shaped, tempered, and made into something new. Something better.
"My lord."
Thaddeus turned. His steward, a thin man named Gregor, stood at the entrance to the gallery, his hands clasped before him. Gregor had served the Iron-Hand family for twenty years, and in all that time, Thaddeus had never seen him sweat, never seen him flustered. He was as reliable as clockwork, and just as cold.
"What is it?" Thaddeus asked.
"Lord Valerius Blacksteel has arrived, my lord. He is waiting in your office."
Thaddeus felt a flicker of annoyance. Valerius was a rival, the head of another merchant family, and their relationship was one of barely concealed hostility. They competed for the same contracts, the same mines, the same markets. And lately, Valerius had been winning more often than Thaddeus liked.
"Did he say what he wants?"
"No, my lord. But he brought his daughter."
That was unusual. Valerius's daughter, Seraphine, was a beauty and a schemer, and Thaddeus had no doubt that her presence was calculated. Everything Valerius did was calculated.
"Very well," Thaddeus said. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."
Gregor bowed and withdrew. Thaddeus remained in the gallery for a moment longer, watching the workers below. One of them stumbled, nearly falling into the path of a crucible. Another worker caught him, pulled him back. The work continued without pause.
Thaddeus made a mental note to have the clumsy worker reassigned. Clumsiness was inefficiency, and inefficiency was unacceptable.
He descended the iron staircase that spiraled down from the gallery, his boots ringing on the metal steps. The foundry was a cathedral of industry, a temple to the god of progress. The Church of the Architect taught that the material world was a perfect machine, designed by the Demiurge—whom they called the Architect—and that humanity's purpose was to understand and maintain that machine. Thaddeus did not know if he believed in the Architect, but he believed in machines. Machines were predictable. Machines were rational. Machines did not lie.
His office was on the top floor of the foundry's administrative building, a stark room of iron and glass that overlooked the city of Ferros. The walls were lined with ledgers and blueprints, and a massive desk of polished steel dominated the center of the room. Behind the desk hung a portrait of Thaddeus's father, a stern man with cold eyes who had built the Iron-Hand fortune from nothing. Thaddeus had surpassed him in wealth and influence, but he had never escaped his father's shadow.
Lord Valerius Blacksteel stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a handsome man in his late forties, with dark hair going grey at the temples and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a coat of fine black wool, embroidered with silver thread, and his boots were polished to a mirror shine. He looked every inch the aristocrat, which was ironic, considering he had been born in the same gutters as Thaddeus.
Beside him stood his daughter, Seraphine. She was in her early twenties, with dark hair and darker eyes, and a smile that promised both pleasure and danger. She wore a gown of deep blue silk that clung to her curves, and a necklace of sapphires that probably cost more than most workers earned in a lifetime.
"Thaddeus," Valerius said, turning from the window. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Valerius," Thaddeus replied, moving to his desk. He did not sit. Neither did his guests. This was not a social call. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I've come to make you an offer," Valerius said.
"I'm listening."
Valerius smiled, a thin expression that did not reach his eyes. "As you know, the Council of Ferros is set to vote next month on the new harbor expansion. The contract is worth a fortune—control of the new docks, the warehouses, the shipping lanes. Whoever wins that contract will dominate trade in Ferros for the next decade."
"I'm aware," Thaddeus said. He had been preparing his bid for months, calling in favors, bribing council members, doing everything necessary to secure the contract. It was the kind of opportunity that came once in a generation.
"I'm also bidding for the contract," Valerius said. "And I have the votes to win."
Thaddeus studied him, searching for the lie. But Valerius's expression was calm, confident. He believed what he was saying.
"What do you want?" Thaddeus asked.
"I want to avoid a war," Valerius said. "If we both bid, we'll drive the price up, drain our resources, and weaken ourselves. The Church and the other families will benefit, but we'll both lose. So I'm proposing an alternative."
"Which is?"
"We split the contract," Valerius said. "Fifty-fifty. We form a partnership, pool our resources, and dominate the harbor together. We'll make more money than either of us would alone, and we'll avoid destroying each other in the process."
Thaddeus considered the offer. It was logical, even elegant. A partnership would eliminate the risk of losing the bid, and it would consolidate power in a way that would make both families stronger. But it would also mean sharing control, and Thaddeus had not built his empire by sharing.
"And if I refuse?" he asked.
"Then we go to war," Valerius said simply. "And one of us will be destroyed. Maybe both of us. Is that what you want?"
Thaddeus looked at Seraphine. She had not spoken, but she was watching him with those dark eyes, and he could see the calculation behind them. She was her father's daughter, a player in the great game of Ferros.
"Why bring your daughter?" Thaddeus asked.
Valerius smiled. "Because a partnership is built on trust, and trust is built on bonds. I'm proposing more than a business arrangement, Thaddeus. I'm proposing an alliance. Between our families."
Thaddeus understood immediately. "You want her to marry my son."
"Marcus is a fine young man," Valerius said. "Educated, intelligent, well-mannered. Seraphine could do far worse."
"And what does Seraphine think of this?" Thaddeus asked, looking at the young woman.
Seraphine smiled, a slow, knowing expression. "I think," she said, her voice smooth as silk, "that Marcus and I would make a very interesting match."
Thaddeus doubted that. Marcus was a scholar, a dreamer, a boy who preferred books to business. He had no interest in the family empire, no ambition, no fire. He was, in Thaddeus's estimation, a disappointment. But he was also the heir, and that made him valuable.
"I'll need time to consider," Thaddeus said.
"Of course," Valerius said. "But not too much time. The vote is in a month, and I need to know if we're partners or enemies."
He offered his hand. Thaddeus looked at it for a moment, then shook it. The grip was firm, the hand cold. When Valerius and Seraphine left, Thaddeus stood alone in his office, staring out at the city.
Ferros spread before him like a living organism, a sprawl of iron and stone, smoke and steam. It was a city built on industry, on the sweat and blood of thousands of workers who toiled in the foundries and mines. It was a city of wealth and poverty, of power and desperation, of order maintained by the Church and the merchant-princes.
And it was his city. Or it would be, if he played his cards right.
The door opened, and his daughter, Cassandra, entered. She moved with the grace of a predator, her eyes sharp and assessing. She wore a gown of deep red, and her dark hair was pinned up in an elaborate style. She was beautiful, brilliant, and utterly ruthless. She was everything Marcus was not.
"I saw Lord Valerius leaving," she said. "What did he want?"
"To form a partnership," Thaddeus said. "And to marry his daughter to your brother."
Cassandra's expression did not change, but Thaddeus saw the flicker of calculation in her eyes. "And what did you tell him?"
"That I would consider it."
"You should refuse," Cassandra said. "Valerius is weak. His family is overextended, his debts are mounting, and his influence on the Council is waning. If we go to war with him, we'll win."
"Perhaps," Thaddeus said. "But war is expensive. And uncertain."
"So is partnership," Cassandra said. "Especially with a man like Valerius. He'll smile and shake your hand, and then he'll stab you in the back the moment it's profitable."
Thaddeus knew she was right. Valerius was not to be trusted. But neither was anyone else in Ferros. Trust was a luxury the powerful could not afford.
"What would you have me do?" he asked.
"Destroy him," Cassandra said. "Take the contract, crush his family, and absorb his assets. Show the Council and the other families that the Iron-Hands do not share power. We take it."
Thaddeus studied his daughter. She was twenty-two years old, and already she thought like a merchant-prince. She understood the game, the ruthless calculus of power and profit. She would make a far better heir than Marcus ever would.
But Marcus was the eldest, and tradition dictated that he inherit. Tradition was a chain, one that Thaddeus had worn his entire life. He had built his empire within the rules, playing the game as it was meant to be played. But sometimes, he wondered what he could accomplish if he broke those chains.
"I'll think about it," he said.
Cassandra nodded, but he could see the disappointment in her eyes. She wanted action, decisiveness. She wanted him to be the man he had been in his youth, the man who had clawed his way up from nothing, who had taken what he wanted without hesitation or regret.
But that man had been young and hungry. Thaddeus was older now, wealthier, more powerful. And with power came caution. He had too much to lose.
"There's something else," Cassandra said. "Marcus has been acting strangely."
Thaddeus frowned. "Strangely how?"
"He's been disappearing at odd hours. Sneaking out of the house. And I've seen him with... unusual people."
"What kind of people?"
"Servants, mostly. But not our servants. People from outside the household. And he's been reading forbidden texts. Books on Pneumatic practices."
Thaddeus felt a cold weight settle in his chest. Pneumatic practitioners were heretics, enemies of the Church and the state. If Marcus was involved with them, if he was studying their forbidden arts, it could destroy the family. The Church's Inquisition did not distinguish between the guilty and the innocent. They burned entire families to root out heresy.
"Are you certain?" he asked.
"No," Cassandra admitted. "But I'm suspicious. And I think you should be too."
Thaddeus turned back to the window, his mind racing. Marcus had always been different, always distant. But Thaddeus had assumed it was just youthful idealism, a phase that would pass. He had not considered that his son might be involved in something dangerous.
"Watch him," Thaddeus said. "Carefully. But discreetly. If he is involved with heretics, I need to know. And I need to know before the Church does."
"And if he is?" Cassandra asked.
Thaddeus did not answer immediately. The question hung in the air between them, heavy and terrible. If Marcus was a heretic, the Church would demand his execution. And if Thaddeus refused, they would destroy the entire family.
But Marcus was his son. His blood. And despite everything, despite his disappointment and frustration, Thaddeus loved him.
"We'll deal with that if it comes to it," he said finally.
Cassandra nodded and left. Thaddeus remained at the window, staring out at the city. The foundries burned in the distance, their fires never dimming, their smoke rising into the grey sky. The city was a machine, and he was one of its architects. But machines, he knew, could break. And when they did, they took everything with them.
He looked down at his mechanical hand, at the steel fingers that had replaced flesh and bone. He had rebuilt himself once. He could do it again, if necessary.
But he hoped it would not come to that.
....
That evening, Thaddeus dined with his family in the great hall of the Iron-Hand estate. The hall was a cavernous space of stone and iron, with high ceilings and walls lined with portraits of ancestors. A massive chandelier of wrought iron hung above the long table, its candles casting flickering shadows.
His wife, Elara, sat at the far end of the table. She was a beautiful woman, with blonde hair and green eyes, and the bearing of the noblewoman she had been before their marriage. Their union had been political, a bridge between the Ironbound Republics and the Valdric Compact, and it had served its purpose. But there was no warmth between them, no love. Only mutual respect and a shared commitment to the family's interests.
Marcus sat to Thaddeus's left, picking at his food. He looked tired, distracted, and Thaddeus wondered if Cassandra's suspicions were correct. Cassandra herself sat across from Marcus, watching him with the intensity of a hawk watching a mouse.
"How was your day, Marcus?" Thaddeus asked, breaking the silence.
Marcus looked up, startled. "It was fine, Father."
"What did you do?"
"I... I was in the library. Reading."
"Reading what?"
Marcus hesitated. "Philosophy. History."
"Anything useful?"
"I find all knowledge useful, Father."
Thaddeus suppressed a sigh. This was the problem with Marcus. He had no sense of practicality, no understanding that knowledge was only valuable if it could be applied. Philosophy and history did not build empires. Iron and gold did.
"Lord Valerius came to see me today," Thaddeus said. "He wants to form a partnership. And he wants you to marry his daughter."
Marcus's fork clattered to his plate. "What?"
"It's a good match," Thaddeus said. "Seraphine is beautiful, intelligent, and well-connected. The alliance would strengthen both families."
"I don't want to marry her," Marcus said.
"What you want is irrelevant," Thaddeus said. "This is about the family. About securing our future."
"I won't do it," Marcus said, his voice rising. "You can't force me."
"I can," Thaddeus said coldly. "And I will, if necessary."
Marcus stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "I'm not a piece in your game, Father. I'm a person. And I have a right to choose my own life."
"You're my son," Thaddeus said. "And you have a duty to this family. A duty you seem determined to ignore."
"Maybe I don't want to be part of this family," Marcus said. "Maybe I don't want to spend my life chasing gold and crushing people beneath me."
Thaddeus felt his anger rising, a cold fury that burned in his chest. "You ungrateful—"
"Enough," Elara said, her voice cutting through the tension. "Both of you."
Thaddeus and Marcus both turned to her. She rarely spoke during these dinners, preferring to observe in silence. But when she did speak, her words carried weight.
"Marcus," she said gently. "Sit down."
Marcus hesitated, then obeyed. Elara turned to Thaddeus.
"You cannot force him to marry," she said. "It will only breed resentment. And resentment destroys families."
"This family will be destroyed if we don't secure our position," Thaddeus said.
"And it will be destroyed if you drive your son away," Elara replied. "Give him time. Let him think about it. And in the meantime, consider other options."
Thaddeus wanted to argue, but he knew she was right. Forcing Marcus would only make things worse. And he could not afford to lose his heir, no matter how disappointing that heir might be.
"Very well," he said. "But Marcus, you will think about this. Seriously. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father," Marcus said quietly.
The rest of the dinner passed in silence. When it was over, Marcus fled to his room, and Cassandra retired to hers. Elara lingered, standing by the window, looking out at the city.
"You're too hard on him," she said.
"I'm preparing him for the world," Thaddeus replied.
"You're breaking him," Elara said. "And one day, he'll shatter."
Thaddeus did not respond. He left the hall and returned to his office, where he worked late into the night, reviewing contracts and ledgers, planning strategies and contingencies. The work was familiar, comforting. Numbers did not lie. Numbers did not disappoint.
But as he worked, he could not shake the image of Marcus's face, the anger and pain in his son's eyes. And he wondered, not for the first time, if he had made a mistake. If, in building his empire, he had lost something more important.
He looked at his mechanical hand, at the cold steel that had replaced warm flesh. And he wondered if he had become a machine himself.