Shropshire Foundry was already awake by the time Phillip arrived.
Even from the carriage, he could hear the rhythmic clanging of hammers, the throaty roar of the furnaces, and the hiss of molten metal being poured into molds. Smoke curled upward in long gray ribbons, blending with the late-morning sky.
But Phillip hardly noticed any of it.
His mind was still racing with numbers, diagrams, and half-formed calculations.
He stepped out of the carriage—coat slightly loose, hair disheveled, ink staining both sleeves. Anyone else would have looked like a madman.
To the workers of Imperial Dynamics, he merely looked… busy.
Very busy.
A familiar voice called from across the yard.
"Oi! Phillip!"
Henry Carter jogged toward him, coat half-buttoned, hair a mess, and an expression caught between annoyance and concern.
"You look terrible," Henry announced the moment he reached him.
Phillip blinked. "…Good morning to you too."
