08:30 a.m. - At Iron Ore Mine, Dawnspire
Ryan Mercer squinted against the bright morning sun as he navigated the rugged terrain on the outskirts of Dawnspire. The path wound through rocky outcrops and swathes of wildflowers, leading him toward the local iron ore mine. This was a significant day for Ryan, not only was he about to explore the very heart of iron extraction, but he also hoped to secure a vital resource for Technologia's expanding operations.
As he neared the entrance of the mine, the air filled with a symphony of sounds: the rhythmic clang of pickaxes striking rock, the hoots and yells of miners communicating with one another, and the deep rumble of machinery working tirelessly in the background. Ryan's heart raced with anticipation, this was a world imbued with grit, determination, and potential.
He stepped inside the mine's entrance, his senses assaulted by the earthy aroma of damp rock and the industriousness of laborers. Dim torchlight flickered off the damp stone walls, casting long shadows over the mining carts and tools strewn about. Here, toward the heart of the mountain, men and women were engaged in hard labor, sweat glistening on their brows as they extracted iron ore from the depths below.
Eager to absorb as much information as possible, Ryan took a step back and pulled out a small notebook. He began jotting down observations: the types of tools being used, the seemingly endless stacks of ore, and the layout of the mine itself. He noted the miners' techniques, the way they worked in unison, and the efficient system that had developed despite the harsh conditions.
As he wandered further, he spotted Ellan, the foreman of the mine, overseeing a group of miners hard at work. Ellan was a burly man in his fifties, with a thick beard and hands calloused from years of labor. Ryan approached, aware that this would be a critical meeting for his plans.
"Ellan! Good morning! I'm Ryan Mercer," he introduced himself with a welcoming smile. "I've come to learn about your operations here and to discuss an idea I have that could benefit both you and Technologia."
The foreman turned, his brow furrowing in skepticism as he sized up the newcomer. "Another dreamer, are ye? What've ye got that's worth my time?"
Ryan recognized the challenge behind Ellan's gruff exterior and took a breath to steady his nerves. "I know this place is the backbone of our industry, and I admire the work you and your team put in daily. But I believe there's room for improvement—streamlining the extraction process, for example."
Ellan crossed his arms, considering Ryan's words. "We've done things this way for generations. Our methods are tried and true. What do you want to change?"
A flicker of determination sparked within Ryan. "What if you could speed up transportation of materials and enhance productivity on-site? Imagine using steam power to facilitate the hauling of ore and coal. It would reduce manual labor and expedite processes."
Ellan's expression softened, curiosity edged into his skepticism. "Steam? Our men have been using brute strength all their lives."
"I understand that," Ryan replied, maintaining eye contact. "But using a steam engine can lighten the burden. It allows miners to focus on their skills without exhausting themselves. Plus, it can be more efficient than relying solely on animal or manual labor."
Ellan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You think the men will go for it? They've grown tougher by the day."
Ryan took a step closer. "I believe they'll appreciate it. What's most important is that we keep the quality of work high while using less effort. I want to help not just your output but the livelihood of everyone here. Reducing injuries and fatigue can lead to happier workers and a more robust output."
After a moment of silence, Ellan grunted in acknowledgment. "You've got guts, kid. I'll give you that. But ideas mean little without proof. If you're serious, show me a plan—something substantial."
"I will!" Ryan exclaimed, excitement rising in his chest. "Thank you, Ellan. If you're willing, I can work with my team to create a more detailed proposal about implementing steam technology in the mine. I believe it could revolutionize operations here."
With that, the two men shook hands, sealing their newfound partnership. As Ryan turned to leave, his mind raced with possibilities. This was just the beginning, and with a good plan, he could initiate significant changes that would not only revitalize the mine but also secure the resources he needed for Technologia.
As he stepped out of the mine and back into the light, the sun warmed his face and filled him with renewed purpose. The bustling world around him seemed vibrant with potential, and he knew he was on the precipice of something substantial.
06:15 p.m. - At Foreman's Office, Iron Ore Mine, Dawnspire
Dusk bled through the panes of the foreman's office, The room smelled of damp stone and lamp oil, maps and ledgers lay open across a scarred desk. A tray of ore samples—rich, reddish haematite and duller bands of mixed stone—sat beside a tin of chalk.
Ellan leaned over a parchment mine plan, thick finger tracing a line of tunnels. "Here's your prize if you're set on buying trouble," he grunted. "Old North Drift. Abandoned two winters past when the roof tried to kiss the floor. Good grade when it holds—bad air and water seep when it doesn't."
Ryan stood with his hands braced on the desk edge, eyes flicking between the map and the samples. "What's the ore running when it's clean?"
"Cart to cart varies," Ellan said. "When the vein's honest, six carts in ten are good haematite. The rest need sorting. Your men'll learn the difference fast or your furnace will."
Ryan nodded. "And the failure points?"
Ellan tapped three circles on the plan. "Here, rotten props. Here, the sump overflows if you don't bail after a hard rain. And here—choke damp on still days." He looked up, testing. "What do you do about bad air, Mercer?"
"Brattice cloth and air doors," Ryan answered without missing a beat. "Force a draft down one side, pull it back up the other. I can rig a hand-cranked fan first week. If we get Guild coin, I'll put a small boiler and a fan on it—safe pressure, strict watch." He paused. "And pump the sump by schedule, not by panic."
Ellan's moustache twitched. "Not just pretty words, then."
Ryan slid a neat sketch from his satchel. "Tram rails along the main drift—wooden ties, iron strap rails to start. A portable winch at the lip. Haul speed doubles. Fewer backs broken."
Ellan thumbed the corner of the drawing, then set it down. "You'll want ore straight from the face to your shop?"
"Direct carts to Technologia for refining stock," Ryan said. "What we don't use, we sell back to the depot. I know depot quotas still rule. I'm not looking to pick a fight with the garrison."
"Good," Ellan said. "Folk who think they can outfox the depot end up hungry."
Ryan drew a breath. "I want to buy the rights to Old North Drift. I'll take on shoring, air, water, and wages for that section. I'll need a loan from the Dawnspire Merchant Guild—equipment, timbers, wages for a month to start."
Ellan eased into his chair, the wood creaking. "You have collateral, apart from your smile and a clever pen?"
"Steel nibs turning profit, field order to the garrison, and a crossbow line that's passed trials," Ryan said, measured. "Guild has the ledgers. They can audit. And Technologia's name holds at market."
Ellan's gaze weighed him. "Baldric doesn't give coin for dreams. He gives coin for numbers."
"Then I'll bring numbers," Ryan said, sliding a folded sheet over. "Output projections at conservative grade: one cart per hour by week three with six hands and rails, two by week six with the winch. A third of that for Technologia's furnace, two thirds to the depot. Even after crown tithe and Guild fee, the drift pays the note."
Silence, save for the lamplight's soft hiss. Ellan drummed once on the desk. "Price."
Ryan braced for the anchor. "Eight gold for the rights," he said. "Two down, six over twelve months, interest at Guild rate. I take on repairs as a condition precedent. Crown tithe as usual."
Ellan snorted. "You just offered to underprice my headache. Twelve gold. Four down, eight over two years. And I want safety written in, not sung—proper sets and caps, no green lads under rotten timber."
Ryan didn't flinch. "Ten. Three down, seven over eighteen months. I'll bind a safety clause and let the Guild appoint an inspector quarterly. Any failures—work stops until fixed."
Ellan's eyes narrowed. "Twelve is fair coin for a vein that almost bit me."
Ryan held his ground, then added, "I'll hire six from your current crew at a premium—experienced men for the first month. You know who can read the rock. And I'll set aside a fund for injuries. No fight, no dodge."
The foreman stared at him a long moment. Outside, a cart squealed and a shout echoed down the tunnel. At last, Ellan grunted. "Ten and a half. Three down. Seven and a half over eighteen months. Guild rate, plus a small bonus to the crew if you beat your third-month target. And you buy your timbers from old Marn across the river, he's honest and his grandsons need the work."
Ryan worked the math—cash on hand, current orders, the Guild loan he could plausibly secure. He nodded once. "Done. But I want haulage rights on the south track for Technologia carts. We won't block your ore."
"Shared track, right-of-way to main mine carts," Ellan countered. "Your lads wait when my line's full."
"Fair," Ryan said. "I'll schedule off-peak hauls."
Ellan pulled a ledger closer and dipped his pen, then paused. "One more thing. If the Guild balks at your loan, this deal sleeps. I'll not sell the drift to a man who can't prop it up."
"Agreed. Conditioned on Guild approval, inspector sign-off, and a safety plan on file," Ryan said. "I'll have the plan ready before the week is out."
Ellan scratched a few lines into the ledger, rough but legible, then tore the leaf and sanded it dry. "A memorandum till we get proper parchment at the Guild," he said, sliding it across. "And I'll write you a recommendation—'Mercer's lads work clean, his sums add up, and he backs his word with work.' Baldric reads that, he'll listen."
Ryan took the page, the ink still warm beneath his fingers. "Thank you," he said, quieter than he meant to.
Ellan stood and offered his hand. Up close, the calluses were like bark. "You brought me a plan, not a poem. Don't make me regret it."
Ryan clasped his hand. "I won't."
They walked out into the gloaming. The yard lanterns had been lit, and the mine mouth breathed its slow, earthy sigh. Ellan nodded to a pair of miners lingering by the cart track. "You'll meet Tolan and Brigg if the Guild signs. Hard heads. Good sense."
Ryan tucked the memorandum into his satchel. "Tell them to expect rails first, props second, and a fan third."
Ellan barked a short laugh. "You put air behind wood? You may live, Mercer."
"Dead men can't spend their wages," Ryan said.
Ellan's grin thinned into approval. "Right, then. Take your papers. I'll have the recommendation ready by dawn. Try not to charm the Guild so hard they forget the interest."
Ryan started down the path toward Dawnspire, the sky gone from copper to blue-black. Behind him, the mine's breath became a murmur. Ahead, the Guild's lamps burned steady. He set his pace to the work to come—maps to copy, costs to sharpen, a safety plan to draft—and felt the weight of the drift's future settle into his hands like a tool that fit.
08:00 p.m. - At Merchant Guild Hall, Dawnspire
The Dawnspire Merchant Guild Hall shone with brass lamps and polished oak. Banners hung from the beams. Ledgers lay open on a long table. The air smelled of wax, ink, and quiet judgment.
At the center sat Baldric Ironhand, broad and steady, rings bright on his thick fingers. To his right, Lady Isolde Thorne, calm and keen, her gaze soft but sharp. To his left, Melanie Farrow, neat as a blade, notes stacked in careful order.
A clerk announced, "Master Ryan Mercer, of Technologia."
Ryan stepped forward with a satchel and a slate. He bowed. "Thank you for hearing me."
Baldric did not rise. "Be seated. Speak plain."
Ryan set the slate on a small easel. He placed a few smooth counting stones on its ledge. "I seek a Guild loan to buy and repair the Old North Drift—an abandoned iron section near Ellan's main mine. I have a memorandum with the foreman." He held up a sheet with Ellan's rough signature and mark. "Terms agreed: ten and a half gold for the rights. Three gold down, seven and a half over eighteen months. Crown tithe and depot rules as usual."
Melanie (folded her arms): "And you want what amount from us?"
"Eight gold," Ryan said. "Three for the down payment. Two for rails, props, air doors, and a winch. Two for wages, training, and a safety fund. One as reserve."
Lady Isolde's eyes warmed. "And how will you make it safe? Old drifts fail because men get tired and timber gets lazy."
Ryan (nodded): He chalked a simple plan on the slate.
- Rails on the main drift (wood ties, strap iron). Fewer backs broken.
- Air doors and brattice cloth to force a draft. A hand-crank fan first, a safe steam fan after, if allowed.
- Pump schedule for the sump. Not by panic—by plan.
- Proper timber sets and caps. No green lads under rotten wood.
- Six experienced miners hired from Ellan's crew at a premium. They know the rock.
He placed stones next to each point. "First month: rails and props. Second: winch and fan. Third: steady haul."
Baldric's brow dipped. "Numbers, boy. You want my ear? Prove that this innovation holds value beyond mere words."
Ryan moved three stones into a row. "Output, conservative. Week three: one cart per hour with six hands. Week six: two carts per hour with the winch. One third goes to Technologia for our forge. Two thirds go to the depot. Even after tithe and Guild fee, the drift pays its note."
He slid a second row of stones. "Collateral: the nib shop and tools, standing orders from the chancery, the garrison's field order for steel nibs, and the crossbow trial sales. Ledgers are open for audit."
Melanie's voice was cool. "I admire ambition, but risk without a plan is folly. What if steel quality falls? What if the river floods? What if a rival undercuts you with cheap copies?"
Ryan answered without hurry. "Steel quality—two sources. Ellan's mine first, a smaller northern vein second as backup. Floods—pump schedule and a raised store for our best stock. Rivals—our Guild Mark will stand for simple tests and steady quality. We print batch numbers on every wrap. We replace faults without pain, and we show the fix."
Lady Isolde leaned forward. "And the people? Who benefits beyond your ledger?"
"Dawnspire families," Ryan said. "Thirty steady jobs to start, six of them skilled at better pay. We buy timbers from Marn across the river—honest wood, and his grandsons need coin. We set a safety fund for injuries. We train apprentices. If the temple fears steel on holy vellum, we sell reed pens with our nib orders to keep the peace. No one loses face."
A murmur moved around the table.
Baldric tapped a knuckle. "War darkens the road. If the garrison calls your metal, and your carts stop, do you still pay us?"
"Yes," Ryan said. "We keep a reserve purse. We can slow expansion, but we will not miss a payment. And the garrison has already lifted our iron cap at the depot—subject to audit. We can run lean and still serve both."
Melanie's mouth thinned. "And sabotage? Cheap copies already caused returns in the market. If your rivals poison your name, can you stand?"
Ryan met her eyes. "We stand with proof. Open tests. Public ledgers. A counter-mark on every batch. We invite the Guild inspector and even the garrison's audit to walk our floor. If a tool fails, we do not hide it. We fix it in daylight."
Isolde's tone softened, almost pleased. "Clarity has profit."
Baldric grunted. "Terms, then. Guild rate on eight gold. Release in two tranches—five now, three upon inspector's sign-off of rails and air doors. Conditions: quarterly audits, a safety plan on parchment and posted, shared track rights with Ellan's main line, his carts first. Missed payments draw penalties. Two misses, the drift returns to the foreman and your collateral is forfeit."
Ryan nodded. "Accepted."
Melanie added, "One more condition. Show us your first month's haul counts and wage book. If you lie, the loan freezes."
"Agreed," Ryan said.
Lady Isolde smiled. "And one more request—hire two widows from the south quarter for ledger and packing. Skilled hands, and they need the work."
Ryan almost smiled. "I can make room at the desk and at the packing bench."
Baldric leaned back. "Very well." He looked at the clerk. "Draft the bond. Inspector to visit in seven days. Funds to release by noon tomorrow."
The clerk hurried away with parchment and sand.
Ryan placed one last set of stones on the slate—earnings, payments, reserve—each in a neat column. "You will not regret this."
Baldric's rings clicked once on the oak. "Surprise me, boy."
Melanie gathered her notes. "Deliver your numbers on time, and our trust grows. Drift into poetry, and it ends."
Lady Isolde rose with a nod. "Send your men to Marn for timber before the week is out. And try to sleep, Master Mercer. Leaders who do not rest make blunt choices."
The seal pressed, wax cooled, hands clasped. Ryan bowed, took the bond and the conditions, and stepped out into the evening air.
Dawnspire's lamps had begun to glow. The city hummed with talk of war and work. The papers in his hand felt heavier than coin—obligation, and promise.
He turned toward the river, toward quiet, already thinking of rails, fans, timber sets, and names on a payroll. Scene 4 would be waiting by the water: the weight of change, the cost of leading, and the vow not to waste a single breath or life on a lazy plan.
10:00 p.m. - At Silverwyn Riverbank, Dawnspire
The Silverwyn ran dark and steady beneath the moon, carrying the city's lamplight in broken silver lines. Ryan stood on the bank with the Guild bond in his hands. The wax seal was hard under his thumb; the parchment felt heavier than coin. Dawnspire murmured behind him—wheels, voices, a bell from the watchtower. Across the water, the mill wheel turned slow, then stopped, only the river speaking on.
Ryan (softly): "From maker… to mine owner."
He pictured Old North Drift the way Ellan had traced it on the map: ribs of timber, black rock, a narrow throat where air died on still days. He saw faces—Bromar at the furnace, Lira with her brass template, Garret frowning at a stubborn pin, Ellan's hard eyes that softened when talk turned to safety. Then he saw other faces he did not yet know: six miners hired at a premium, two widows at a ledger, the boys hauling timbers, a healer called at midnight.
Ryan (to himself): "Rails first. Props second. Fan third. No brave talk without air behind it."
Bootsteps came over the path. Bromar Ironbeard stopped at his side, hands tucked in his belt, beard catching the moonlight like copper wire.
Bromar (gruff, approving): "There you are, lad. Thought you'd be floatin' face-down in your sums by now."
Ryan (half-smile): "They said yes. Eight gold. Two tranches. Inspector in seven days."
Bromar (snorts): "Aye, and an audit every quarter, I'll wager."
Ryan nodded and passed him the parchment. Bromar scanned it, lips moving over the lines.
Bromar (measured): "Rails, air doors, sump pump—listed proper. Shared track—main carts first. Miss two payments and the drift returns. Fair terms. Hard terms."
Ryan (quiet): "I asked for hard terms. It forces me to keep the promise."
Bromar (side-eye): "Promises are wind if wood is rotten. You'll need props. Marn's yard first thing. He cuts straight."
Ryan (nodded): "Lady Isolde already asked me to give his grandsons the work."
They watched the water in silence. A cold breeze came up, carrying a hint of pine pitch and coal smoke from the forges upriver.
Ryan (low): "If I get this wrong, men bleed. If I get it right, men go home with coin and ten fingers."
Bromar (softening): "You put the fear in the proper place. Good. Keep it there. I'll come see the drift. Walk it with Ellan. If the roof speaks, I want to hear it before it shouts."
A guild runner padded down the path, breath frosting in the air.
Runner (bowing): "Master Mercer. A note from the Hall." He handed over a folded slip with the stag seal and scurried back to the road.
Ryan broke the seal. Two short lines in a steady hand:
"Funds release at noon. Inspector in seven days at dawn. —B.I."
Below, in neat script:
"Send for the south-quarter widows by morning. I will vouch for them. —I.T."
Ryan (relieved): "It's real."
Bromar (taps the note): "Then set your feet. Write the safety plan tonight. Post it tomorrow. I'll add my mark."
Ryan opened his notebook. The page waited, clean and pale in the moonlight. He wrote simple lines, each one a promise he could keep.
Rails on main drift (strap iron on wood ties).
Proper timber sets and caps every nine feet (inspect daily).
Air doors and brattice cloth. Hand-crank fan Day 3. Steam fan after sign-off.
Sump pump schedule (morning and evening, no excuses).
Six experienced miners from Ellan's crew (premium pay first month).
Safety fund posted at the door (healer's name and rate).
Shared track rules posted. Main carts first. Our carts at off-peak.
Inspector welcome. Ledger open. No hiding fixes.
Hire two widows for ledgers and packing (train, pay fair).
Ryan (firm): "I'll keep the list short so no one forgets it."
Bromar (pleased): "Short and sharp. Like a good chisel."
A soft splash broke the quiet. Across the river, a lantern bobbed and then disappeared behind the millhouse. Ryan let the city's noise slip in again—laughter in the distance, a cart wheel on stone, someone singing off-key. The world kept moving, war at the borders or no.
Ryan's jaw set as he stared at the water.
Ryan (to himself): "Technologia isn't a poem. It's a process."
Bromar (aside, fond): "Hnh. You're startin' to sound like a proper foreman."
Ryan laughed once—short, honest. Then the mirth fell away, replaced by focus.
Ryan (counting on his fingers): "Tomorrow—Marn's yard at dawn. Then the south quarter for the widows. Then Ellan—walk the drift. Air doors order by noon. Rails by evening. Pump schedule posted. By fifth day, we test the fan… behind the air doors, not in front."
Bromar (mock stern): "And you eat."
Ryan (obedient): "And I eat."
Footsteps scraped behind them. A cloaked figure paused at the bend, watched a breath or two, then moved on. Bromar's eyes narrowed until the footfalls faded.
Bromar (low): "Word of your loan will run faster than the river. Stoneveil will hear. Varena too. Keep your doors barred and your ledgers straight."
Ryan (calm): "We'll make sabotage hard. Two locks, night watch, and double-counts on the lots before inspection."
Bromar (satisfied): "Good. We fight in daylight—with proof. Not whispers."
Ryan closed the notebook and tucked it into his jacket. The river wind drew tears from his eyes, and he blinked them away.
Ryan (softly): "Make it well. Prove it works. Pack it right. Stand behind it."
He added a new line under his breath, one for the mine alone.
Ryan (vow): "Dig honest. Breathe easy. Go home alive."
Bromar (warm): "Aye. That's the one."
They turned back toward the city. The lamps along the quay made a path of gold into the streets.
Ryan (resolved): "Tomorrow starts the rails."
Bromar (clapping his shoulder): "And the air."
They walked on, steps steady, plans unfolding between them. Behind the sound of their boots, the Silverwyn kept its promise—always moving, never rushing, strong enough to carry the city's weight.