Three weeks.
The reply from Lancaster finally arrived, borne by a rider in a dark blue cloak embroidered with gold, his bearing that of a man delivering a royal decree.
For those three weeks, Götthain had existed in a state of suspended breath. Albert's mind was divided: half on the numbers and diagrams for the furnace, the other half stretched taut, waiting for the axe to fall.
He found his father in the study. Baron Friedrich's face was like a tombstone. The letter lay open on the desk, the red wax seal of House Lancaster like a drop of dried blood upon the wood.
"Read it," Friedrich commanded, dispensing with any preamble.
Albert picked it up. The paper was thick, high-quality, and scented—the aroma of expensive ink and condescension. The words were impeccably structured, polite, and cutting as a velvet-wrapped dagger.
Earl Richard vin Lancaster sends his most respectful greetings to his old friend, Baron Friedrich vin Götterbaum…
The lines that followed were a masterclass in conditional support.
… deeply impressed by the vision and acumen displayed in the well-constructed proposal…
… sees potential value in strengthening the bonds between our already close houses…
… willing to provide an initial loan of 75% of the requested capital, repayable within three years, at a moderate rate of interest…
Albert frowned. Seventy-five percent. Not a rejection, but not full endorsement either. It was a biscuit tin being shaken before a starving hound.
Then he reached the clauses. The clauses that froze his blood.
… as a guarantee of trust and to ensure a smooth flow of communication, it is deemed necessary for Albert vin Götterbaum to spend half of each year at Lanser Castle, to study under the direct guidance of the Lancaster household administration…
… strategic decisions regarding the iron enterprise must receive mutual approval, with Lancaster retaining veto rights on budgetary matters above a certain threshold…
… the marriage between Albert vin Götterbaum and Alena vin Lancaster, though long betrothed, is to be expedited following the venture's demonstration of sustainable profit, to further unite the interests of both houses…
Albert looked at his father. "This isn't a partnership. It's an acquisition."
Friedrich nodded, his eyes weary. "He gives us just enough rope to hang ourselves. The loan will bind us to him. Your residency at Lanser makes you a civilized hostage—a guarantee of our good behavior. And the veto?" He let out a short, hollow laugh. "It means we cannot breathe without his permission."
"We cannot accept this," Albert said, his voice flat. But inside, a voice screamed. This was expected. This is how the world works.
"Cannot?" Friedrich stood, walking to the window. "What are our choices? Refuse and watch Steinbach die a slow death next winter as you predicted? Beg from a crown that is already bleeding us dry? This is the only lifeline being offered, Son. Even if it is threaded with barbs."
"But that line is tied around our necks!"
"And it is better to be strangled standing than to drown in the mud!" Friedrich snapped, whirling around. For the first time, Albert saw naked fear in his father's eyes—not the fear of battle, but the fear of total ruin, of the extinction of his line and lands. "You think this is easy for me? To surrender the sovereignty of my only son? To become a debt-slave to that old fox?"
"So we just capitulate?" Albert challenged, heat flaring in his chest. This felt too familiar—being forced to sign a contract with no choice, trapped in a larger system.
"We negotiate," Friedrich hissed. "We whittle down the terms. Reduce your time at Lanser. Limit his veto rights. But Albert," he stepped closer, fixing him with an intense gaze, "you must understand. We have no leverage here. Our only card is that Richard wants something from us."
"Does he want us, or does he want Alena?" Albert asked suddenly, a wild suspicion crystallizing. "He is crippled. Has no other heir. Leaving the Lancaster legacy to a gentle daughter, without a strong husband by her side… it invites predators from within his own family. By binding her to us—to me—he is purchasing a soldier to protect his daughter's inheritance."
A silence fell. Friedrich froze, then slowly nodded, an expression of both grim admiration and bitterness on his face. "By the heavens… So sharp. Yes. That is likely it. He is not just investing in iron. He is investing in you. He is buying a prospective son-in-law with a brain and, by all accounts, a fighter's skill. He is buying protection for his own bloodline."
Albert felt a wave of nausea. He was no longer a person. He was a commodity. A strategic asset. In both his lives, his fate had always been dictated by others—by the job market, by war, by contracts, and now by the political calculus of a wounded Earl.
"You must speak to Alena," Friedrich said finally, his voice drained. "Before we draft a reply. She needs to know what her father demands. And… you need to know where she stands."
***
Albert found Alena in the library, intently studying an old map of Götthain's territory. When he entered, he saw her bright eyes—full of hope and a touch of apprehension.
"It has come?" she asked, getting straight to the point.
Albert nodded, placing a copy of the letter on the table beside the map. "Read it for yourself."
He watched Alena's face change as her eyes tracked the lines. The light in them dimmed, replaced by a dawning, grim understanding. Her usually pale cheeks grew even whiter. When she reached the parts about the residency at Lanser and the accelerated marriage, her lips trembled.
She set the letter down, her hand clenching atop the paper. "This is… an insult," she whispered, her voice shaking with suppressed fury. "My father… he is treating us like pawns."
"Yes," Albert said simply. He felt odd. His own anger had subsided, replaced by a familiar, analytical coldness—the same as when calculating artillery firing distances.
This was a new battlefield. They needed to map the enemy, identify weak points.
"Do you know why he is doing this?" he asked Alena.
Alena looked at him, tears of anger welling in her eyes. "Because he can. Because we need him."
"More than that," Albert sat across from her. "He is securing Lancaster. Through you. By binding you to someone he thinks he can control, he hopes to ensure your power—and his own through us—remains stable after he is gone."
Alena gasped. She thought of her ambitious cousins, her cynical uncles. She saw the logic of it, and it sickened her further. "So… I am just a… a tool? My marriage is merely a transaction to secure his legacy?"
"Has it not always been?" Albert asked, and it came out more cynical than he intended. "How is this any different from our betrothal? Only the scale is larger. That was about the friendship of two soldiers. This is about the survival of a territory."
The tears finally spilled, running silently down her cheeks. But this was not a cry of despair. It was a cry of disappointment, the final burial of an illusion. "I thought… after our conversations. After the garden and the village… I thought perhaps this could be different. That we could choose. That we could be… true allies."
"We still can," Albert said, his voice low but firm. "But allies fight together on the battlefield that exists, Alena, not the one they wish for. Our battlefield right now is this letter. And the negotiation that will follow."
Alena wiped her tears with a rough motion. "What do you propose?"
"We fight back," said Albert. "But cleverly. My father will send a reply, trying to soften the terms. But we need something more. We need a card."
"What card do we have?" Alena asked, despair creeping in.
Albert looked at her, and an idea began to form—wild, risky, but possibly the only one they had. "We have one thing."
Alena frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Your proposal—this recycled iron project—is brilliant because it is simple. But what if we made it… not simple? What if we made it into something only we could operate?"
"Explain."
"You said your father has money, but his mines are deep and costly. He needs cheap metal. But what happens if that source of cheap metal suddenly depends on a secret known only to Götterheim smiths? On a special technique not recorded anywhere? On a secret charcoal formula from a plant that only grows in one part of our woods, that only Borin knows how to process?"
Alena's eyes widened. "You… you want to lie? To fabricate a false trade secret?"
"Not a lie," Albert countered, his mind racing. "We will make it real. Borin and I, we will experiment. We will create a process that is slightly different, one we guard. We will turn it into myth. A rumor. That Götthain's recycled iron is strong not just because of the material, but because of the touch of its smith and its special charcoal. An expertise that cannot be bought, only accessed through an equal partnership."
He saw understanding dawn in Alena's eyes, a flash of cunning that mirrored the glint in her father's gaze appearing in her brown eyes.
"So… we change the narrative," Alena whispered. "From 'we poor folk need your help' to 'we possess a unique resource that can benefit you, but you must respect us to access it'."
"Exactly," Albert said. "We cannot bargain with strength. But we can bargain with scarcity. With mystery. The Earl Richard I see from this letter is a pragmatic noble. If he believes the key to success lies here, in the hands of Borin who is loyal to us, and cannot simply be transplanted to Lanser lands… he will be more flexible. He will place a higher value on partnership."
"This is incredibly risky," Alena said. "If he sniffs out the deception…"
"That is why it must be no deception," Albert insisted. "It must be real. Borin must actually create something—a unique tempering method, a specific charcoal blend—that produces iron that is measurably better. Even if only slightly. That will be our proof. And it will be a valid reason to argue against my mandatory stay at Lanser—the expertise is here, and I must be here to oversee it, to learn it."
Alena was silent for a long time, considering. "You would involve Borin in this conspiracy."
"I would involve him in an opportunity," Albert corrected. "A chance to become indispensable. To become a master, not just a laborer. To make Lancaster dependent on his skill, not just their money."
He saw the fire in Alena's eyes had now transformed—from anger to a burning resolve. "I will write another letter to my father," she said. "But not as a pleading daughter. As a… potential partner. I will speak of the innovative spirit in Götthain. Of 'ancient secrets' of the local smiths that Albert and Borin have revived. I will make him curious."
"And in the meantime," Albert said, rising, "I will go to the workshop. We have much work to do."
***
Borin was clearing ashes when Albert entered with an expression that made the smith halt immediately.
"Trouble?" Borin grunted.
"Opportunity," Albert countered. "But it requires your genius."
He explained, honestly and bluntly, about Lancaster's demands and their plan. Borin listened, his face like a mask of wrought iron. When Albert finished, the man stood silent, staring into the cold forge.
"So," Borin said at last, his voice gravelly. "The Earl wants to make us his tributary stream. And My Lord want us to play at being wizards, with magic potions to harden iron."
"We will not play, Borin. We will become the wizards. You and I. We will discover a way—a real way—to make this recycled iron stronger, more durable, than anyone else thinks possible. Whatever it takes. A different clay mix for the molds? A special hammering technique? A type of charcoal from a specific tree, burned a specific way? You know the iron. I have… theories from broad reading. Let us experiment."
Borin looked at him, and in his deep black eyes, Albert saw a fire. The fire of a craftsman's pride that did not wish to deceive. The desperation of a man watching his workshop die. And finally, a wild, defiant spark of that same pride.
"Wizards," Borin muttered, and a small smile—a rare thing—touched the corner of his rough lips. "Aye. Why not? Those city folk with their big furnaces look down on us in the countryside. But my grandfather… he always said there was secret in the song of the hammer. In the way the wind blew on a certain day of a pour."
It couldn't be magic, more like esoteric tricks born of long experience.
He turned, his eyes alight. "There is one thing. A stone. A certain stone from the riverbed, very hard. My grandfather always ground it and mixed a little into the molding clay. Said it gave the iron spirit. I always thought it was an old man's nonsense. But…"
"But we can try," Albert interjected, his heart beating faster. "We test. Regular iron, iron with the 'spirit stone'. We compare. We document. We make the process intricate, ritualistic. A secret."
Borin nodded, his enthusiasm now kindled. "And the charcoal… that black mountain oak burns hot, but there's a certain moss that grows on its bark on the north side. Burning it with the wood… it changes the smoke. Changes the character. That was also considered superstition. But I've seen iron made from a burn like that… its color was different. Blacker, not gray."
They spent the rest of that day and the next in a frenzy of obsession.
They became alchemists. Borin, with his generational knowledge and practical instinct. Albert, with hazy memories of basic metallurgical processes from his past life—about carbon, about impurities, about tempering—which he translated into the language of this world, into terms of "metal spirits" and "breath of the fire."
For days they failed. Repeatedly. The iron cracked. The iron grew brittle as glass. The iron remained soft.
But on a trial he lost count of, with a specific mix of powdered river stone and charcoal from moss-burned oak, something happened.
The small blade they forged—a simple dagger—was not just strong. When Borin tested it by flexing it, it sprang back to true with a distinct, clear ring. He sharpened it on a whetstone. The edge held its keenness longer, and it bore a faint, watery pattern on its surface, like frozen ripples.
Damn, isn't this Damascus steel? Or something similar? Good grief...
They looked at each other. In the dark, smoky workshop, with the strange, gleaming blade between them, a conspiracy was born. Not of desperation anymore. But of a weapon.