It took less than three days for word to spread through Emberhold, carried on the wind like sparks from a forge. They called it the "Stonehammer"—a name whispered in the shadowed alleys of the tanners' district, shouted over barrels of mead in the forge-quarter taverns, and murmured in the breadlines where workers swapped tales of the machine that never tired. Children climbed the hills east of the city, their bare feet slipping on dew-slick grass, just to hear the rhythmic thunder of iron striking iron, its echo rolling through the valley like a god's heartbeat. Some settlers, lying awake in their stone-and-timber homes, swore they could feel the hammer's pulse through the streets at night, a tremor in the earth that spoke of change.By the fifth day, its presence was no longer a curiosity.It was a promise. Or a threat. Depending on who you asked."You hear the hammer ran all night?" a cooper muttered over his workbench, his hands pausing on a half-shaped barrel stave.
"Aye," his apprentice replied, glancing toward the window, where the distant boom carried on the breeze. "It don't even need a fire."
"Lord Maxwell's trying to make the rest of us obsolete," the cooper grumbled, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of awe as he drove his mallet down.Rumors churned like ash on the wind, growing wilder with each retelling. Some said Alexander had made a deal with mountain spirits, trading secrets for the hammer's relentless rhythm. Others claimed the hammer was forged from Tenebrium itself, its black heart pulsing with a power that would break the land if it struck too hard. A few old smiths, their hands gnarled from decades at the anvil, muttered that it was no machine at all, but a beast bound by Maxwell's will, its hunger fed by the river's endless flow.But while the forge-folk speculated, the city around them moved—faster, more efficiently, as if the hammer's rhythm had set a new pace for Emberhold's heart. Supply shipments arrived from the northern quarry a full day ahead of schedule, the carts' wheels grinding smoothly on newly packed roads. Timber offcuts, once discarded in haphazard piles, were now sorted and graded before they reached the construction yards, stacked in neat rows under canvas tarps. Labor teams redirected from the slowed expansion sites beyond the river forks began reinforcing roads and canal locks within the city walls, their hammers and chisels singing in time with the distant Stonehammer. Emberhold was no longer just surviving, clawing at the ash for scraps of life. It was consolidating, its foundations deepening, its ambition sharpening.And the hammer was the symbol—a beacon of iron and water, its boom a call to something greater.Alexander stood atop a scaffold overlooking the second construction site, a wide slope nestled against the highland bend near the eastern edge of the quarry path. The air was thick with the scent of wet stone and pitch, the ground churned to mud by weeks of labor. The water diversion channel had been completed the previous week, its walls lined with cut-stone wedges and reinforced with pitch-sealed timbers that gleamed like polished bone in the midday sun. Bronze fittings glinted as workers moved in tight formation, hauling gear and assembling the gear-housing for the next wheel, their shouts muffled by the rush of the nearby stream. The scaffold creaked under Alexander's weight, its planks scarred from dropped tools and hurried boots, but it held firm, offering a clear view of the site below.It wasn't just skilled laborers now. Apprentices, some barely old enough to wield a hammer, watched from the sidelines, their eyes wide as engineers barked orders. Older guildmen, once skeptical of the Stonehammer's promise, had taken up roles instructing new recruits, their voices gruff but patient as they explained gear ratios and load distribution. Ideas were spreading faster than stone could be laid, sparked by the machine that had rewritten what a forge could be."Beautiful thing, isn't it?" a voice said behind him, rough but warm.Alexander turned to see Owen, dirt-streaked and sunburnt, wiping his hands on a cloth already black with grime. His tunic was patched at the elbows, his boots caked with clay, but his grin was wide, undimmed by the weeks of toil. "Second site's ahead of schedule," he said, gesturing to the half-built frame below, where workers were hoisting a beam into place. "Hammerhead's already being cast in the high forge—should be ready in a week. If the weather holds, we'll strike by month's end."Alexander nodded, his eyes tracing the channel's curve, the precise angles of the stonework. "And the third?""Gareth's already moved his team south," Owen said, tucking the cloth into his belt. "The ridge forge will be slower—less direct river access, and the ground's rockier than we thought. We'll need to blast a new trench, maybe sink pilings. But we'll manage. It's a damn good design—flexible, like you planned."Alexander allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, a faint warmth in his chest that countered the chill of the highland breeze. "Then it's time to think ahead."As if summoned by those words, Silas approached, his boots crunching on the gravel path that wound up to the scaffold. A scroll case was tucked under one arm, its leather scuffed from constant handling, and ink stained the edge of his sleeve, a dark smear against the gray wool. His eyes were alert, even through the fatigue that shadowed them, his spectacles catching the sunlight as he climbed the last step. "It's spreading," he said without preamble, his voice low but urgent."The hammer?" Owen asked, raising an eyebrow, his grin fading into curiosity."No," Silas said, setting the scroll case on the scaffold's railing, his fingers brushing the ink stain absently. "The idea of it. We've had six submissions for design grants in two days—independent workshops, not just guildmen. A gear-assisted loom from the weavers' quarter, a grain-sorting crank from a miller's apprentice, an automated slag sifter from one of the smelters. Even a draft for a water-cooled ore-screener from a tinker in the south quarter, barely literate but with sketches good enough to build from."Owen gave a low whistle, his hands resting on his hips. "Hells. Didn't think they'd move that fast. Thought the guilds would choke on their own pride first.""Neither did I," Silas replied, a rare note of surprise in his voice. "The engineers are excited—especially the guild-trained ones. For the first time, they're not just fixing broken axles or patching walls. They're inventing, dreaming up things we haven't even asked for."Alexander smiled faintly, his gaze drifting to the workers below, where a young apprentice was sketching the gear-housing on a scrap of parchment, her pencil moving with fierce concentration. "That's what we wanted," he said. "A spark to light the fire."Silas's tone darkened, his fingers tightening on the scroll case. "But not all reactions are good. Some artisans—small smiths, independent carpenters—are worried we'll nationalize again, like during the war. Reclaim their tools, limit what they can make, force them into state workshops. They're whispering about the hammer taking their livelihoods.""We won't," Alexander said firmly, his voice cutting through the murmur of the worksite. "They keep their shops, their trade. But we do need structure."He motioned for Silas and Owen to walk with him as he descended the scaffold, the planks creaking under their weight. The road back to the city was a winding path of packed earth, flanked by fields of stone-cutting sheds, their roofs heavy with slate, and scaffolding hung with drying timber, the wood's grain glowing golden in the sun. Ore carts rumbled past, their iron wheels grinding, pulled by mules whose breath steamed in the cool air. The distant boom of the Stonehammer rolled over the hills, a steady pulse that seemed to guide their steps."We start building the engineering registry," Alexander said, his voice steady, his eyes scanning the horizon where Emberhold's walls rose like a crown against the sky. "Every design gets logged, tracked, reviewed. Independent workshops can apply for funding—if they meet Dominion standards. Quality, efficiency, scalability."Silas scribbled something on the inside of his scroll case, the quill scratching faintly. "Intellectual charter?" he asked, glancing up, his brow furrowed with the weight of logistics."Eventually," Alexander said. "For now, we just need control. Ideas grow fast, like fire in dry grass, but if we don't shape the flow, we'll drown in our own inventions—or worse, they'll be stolen before we can use them."As they neared the central city, Lord Voss joined them at the avenue gate, his cloak swept over one shoulder, boots freshly polished despite the dust that clung to everything. His steel cup was tucked into his belt, its etched spirals catching the light, and he greeted them with a curt nod, his eyes sharp with calculation. "I hear the market square is full of sketch artists trying to 'improve' the hammer," he said, a dry smile tugging at his lips. "One's already offering private schematics for an 'enhanced wheel housing.' Claims it'll double the speed. He's never seen the machine in person—works off tavern gossip.""Let them draw," Alexander said, his tone calm but firm, his gaze fixed on the gate ahead, where guards in leather and iron stood watch, their pikes glinting. "We need curiosity, not just obedience. But we can't let it turn to chaos.""They'll want protection," Voss warned, falling into step beside him, his cloak brushing the ground. "Patents. Ownership. The merchants are already sniffing around, asking who controls the hammer's design. They'll want a cut—or they'll try to sell their own versions to Varenia.""Then we give them a system," Alexander said, his voice unyielding, his steps steady on the cobblestones. "Innovation is strength, but unregulated, it's a dagger pointed in every direction. We fund the best ideas, we protect the makers, but we keep the Dominion's hand on the reins."They paused as the Stonehammer's boom rolled faintly over the rooftops, a deep note that seemed to resonate in the stones beneath their feet. The city was alive around them—merchants haggling in the square, hammers ringing in the forges, children darting through alleys with scraps of charcoal and paper, sketching wheels and gears in the dust.Voss folded his arms, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the high tower at the city's heart, where the phoenix banner of the Dominion caught the morning breeze, its red and gold blazing against the sky. "You think the Kingdom's heard yet?" he asked, his voice low, probing."If not," Alexander said, his gaze following Voss's to the banner, "they will soon. Ships sail, traders talk, and secrets don't stay buried long."Silas added quietly, his quill still for the first time, "And they'll start asking questions—about the hammer, the Tenebrium, the city that shouldn't exist."Alexander stared at the tower, the banner snapping in the wind, its threads worn but unbroken. "Let them," he said, his voice steady, carrying the weight of a man who'd built a city from ash and defiance. "Let them wonder what we've become."And with that, he turned toward the heart of Emberhold—where stone rose, hammers rang, and a city forged in the wasteland began to step into its future, its rhythm set by the relentless boom of the Stonehammer, echoing like a promise across the valley.