The skylines of Aurum Citadel glittered with towers of glass and brass, an empire built by the Laurentius dynasty—innovators, magnates, and tyrants in equal measure. Charlotte Laurentius, the youngest heir, had never fit within the shining cage they called home.
She sat cross-legged on a catwalk above the main workshop, her fingers blackened with soot and copper filings. Far below, engineers in crisp uniforms scurried around colossal engines whose pistons heaved like the bellows of giants. But Charlotte didn't care for their measured precision. She loved the spark—when metal became something alive.
"Lady Charlotte," droned her father's steward over the comm crystal at her collar, "your father requires your presence in the Great Hall. Immediately."
She groaned. "Tell him I'm in the middle of a calibration test."
A pause crackled through the line, then: "The test can wait. Your father's patience cannot."
With a resigned sigh, Charlotte climbed down, her boots thudding on the iron rungs. As she passed the rows of mechanized looms and assembly lines, workers averted their eyes. She had overheard their whispers often enough: the prodigy, the disappointment. The girl who should have been content to inherit her family's fortune, but instead snuck out at night to help street tinkers and invent contraband devices.
In the Great Hall, a vaulted chamber lined with portraits of Laurentius ancestors, her father stood by the hearth. Augustus Laurentius was a tall, iron-haired man in a suit of midnight-blue silk. His gaze was a ledger's tally, measuring and never forgiving.
"Charlotte," he said without turning, "do you know why I summoned you?"
"Because I keep breaking your precious rules," she muttered, brushing soot off her hands.
He turned then, eyes glacial. "Because you keep endangering the integrity of this House. You gave schematics for the auto-suture to the miners' union—technology reserved for Laurentius clients."
"They needed it," she shot back. "Three men died last week. If you'd seen—"
"I do not care what you saw," he snapped. "You are a Laurentius. Your duty is to this dynasty, not to the rabble."
Heat flared in her chest, sharper than any forge. "Then perhaps this dynasty is unworthy of my duty."
For a moment, silence smothered the hall. Then her father inclined his head, as if noting an unfortunate but trivial error. "You will cease your meddling. Or you will be disinherited."
Charlotte lifted her chin, hands curling into fists. She felt the fire of her defiance blaze so bright that for an instant, she believed it could melt even his coldness.
"Do as you must," she said quietly. "I will too."
When she left the hall, the air smelled of oil and old embers. She knew she would never return as the daughter he wanted. She would forge her own destiny—one spark at a time.
Shall I continue to Chapter 10: Elaine—Wind's Grace?