The three days passed in a blur of scorched copper and sleepless desperation. The north tower had become a literal pressure cooker of innovation. Olivier's hands were a map of minor burns and silver-nitrate stains, and Elara looked like a ghost haunting her own skin.
They had moved beyond the simple glow of a bulb. To survive Julian's "inspection," Olivier knew he didn't need a light; he needed a deterrent.
"The voltage drop is too high," Olivier hissed, his voice raspy from inhaling lead fumes. He was hunched over a long, polished wooden trestle. Mounted upon it were two parallel rails of heavy iron, buffed until they shone like mirrors. Between them sat a small, puck-shaped projectile made of conductive brass.
He was building a railgun. Or, at least, the 14th-century equivalent of one.
"I can't hold it much longer, Olivier," Elara whispered. She was sitting at the center of a circle of glass jars—the expanded "battery" bank. Her hands were pressed against the primary copper leads. The air around her hummed so loudly it vibrated the fillings in Olivier's teeth. "The hum... it wants to get out. It's pushing against my chest."
"Just ten more seconds," Olivier muttered, adjusting a series of leather-wrapped switches. "I need the capacitors at peak saturation. If the magnetic field isn't strong enough, the projectile will just weld itself to the rails."
He looked at the end of the trestle. It pointed toward a thick oak target across the room—a shield reinforced with steel plate.
"Now!" Olivier shouted.
He slammed the final switch home.
There was no boom of gunpowder. Instead, there was a terrifying, high-pitched thrum—the sound of the air being torn apart. A streak of blue-white light hissed between the rails, followed by a crack like a whip.
The brass puck didn't just hit the shield; it vanished into it. A split second later, the back of the oak shield exploded in a shower of splinters and molten metal. The projectile had punched through two inches of wood and half an inch of steel, finally embedding itself deep into the stone wall of the tower.
Silence returned, heavy and smelling of burnt ozone.
Elara slumped over, gasping for air. The blue glow in the jars faded to a dull, stagnant grey.
Olivier walked to the wall, poking a finger into the smoking hole in the masonry. He felt a grim, cold satisfaction. It wasn't perfect—the rails were slightly warped from the heat, and the power draw had nearly fainted his only 'generator'—but it was an answer.
"Your Highness..."
Gaston stood in the doorway, his face the color of parchment. "The banners. On the horizon. Prince Julian's attaché has reached the outer bridge."
Olivier wiped his hands on a grease-stained rag and reached for his royal doublet. "Showtime."
The courtyard of Ashbourne was a stage set for an execution.
Commander Hugo had his men lined up in a formal honor guard, though their eyes kept darting nervously toward the north tower. At the center of the square stood the "inspection" party.
Prince Julian had sent his most clinical subordinate: Count Valerius, a man with a face like a hawk and a reputation for finding heresy in the way a man breathed. Beside him stood Father Malachi of the Church of Saint Lumen, a high-ranking tithe-collector whose robes were so heavily embroidered with gold they clinked when he moved.
"Prince Olivier," Valerius said, offering a shallow, insulting bow. "You look... disheveled. One would think you've been working in a coal mine rather than governing a province."
"Efficiency over elegance, Count," Olivier replied, stepping forward. He smelled of vinegar and burnt hair, a stark contrast to the Count's scent of lavender and expensive snuff. "I assume my brother sent you to see if I've finally lost my mind."
"He sent us to ensure you haven't lost your soul," Father Malachi interrupted, his eyes scanning the courtyard. "We have heard reports of 'unnatural lights' and the harboring of a Soulbound. These are grave charges, Your Highness. The Inquisition is already sharpening the stakes."
"Is that so?" Olivier gestured toward the north tower. "Then let's not keep the Inquisition waiting. I have something to show you. Something that will make your 'Sun-Wheel' look like a damp matchstick."
The Count and the Priest exchanged a glance of amused pity. To them, Olivier was a fallen prince playing with toys in the mud. They followed him up the winding stairs, Hugo and a few select guards trailing behind, hands tight on their swords.
When they reached the top chamber, the air was still shimmering with heat. Elara sat in the corner, hooded and silent, her hands hidden in her sleeves. The rail-device sat on the table, covered by a heavy black cloth.
"So," Valerius sneered, looking at the clutter of jars and wires. "This is your great heresy? A room full of trash and a frightened girl?"
"This," Olivier said, gripping the edge of the black cloth, "is the end of the age of knights."
He whipped the cloth away. The polished iron rails caught the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the narrow windows.
"Father Malachi," Olivier said, turning to the priest. "The Church teaches that only the Light-Bringers can command the forces of the heavens, correct?"
"It is a gift bestowed by the Creator upon the righteous," Malachi said stiffly.
"Then I must be very righteous," Olivier smirked. He turned to the device. "Elara. Primary charge. Fifty percent."
Elara raised her hands. The jars began to glow.
The Count stepped back, his hand instinctively going to his sword. Hugo's men whispered prayers. The sound—that low-frequency vibration—began to shake the floorboards.
"What is this devilry?" Malachi barked, holding up his gold Sun-Wheel as if it were a shield. "Cease this at once!"
"I'm merely conducting an experiment, Father," Olivier said, his voice rising over the hum. "You see, Julian thinks power is about how many men you can pay to die for you. You think power is about how many people you can convince to fear the dark."
He pointed to a heavy iron anvil at the far end of the room.
"I think power is about the velocity of a projectile."
Olivier adjusted the aim. He didn't look at the anvil; he looked directly at Count Valerius.
"Tell my brother that Ashbourne is no longer a dumping ground for his 'useless' siblings. Tell him that if he sends an army, I won't meet them in the field with swords. I will strike them from a mile away with the very light you claim to worship."
Olivier flipped the switch.
The crack was louder this time, a thunderclap contained within four walls. The brass slug struck the anvil with such force that the iron block—three hundred pounds of solid metal—was knocked off its pedestal and sent skidding across the stone floor, a massive, glowing crater melted into its side.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Count Valerius was trembling. A small cut on his cheek, caused by a flying splinter of brass, was dripping blood onto his white collar. Father Malachi had dropped his Sun-Wheel; it lay forgotten on the floor.
Olivier stepped toward them, his eyes cold and grey as a winter sea.
"The light is no longer a mystery, Father. It's a weapon. And I own the forge."
He leaned in closer to the Count. "Go back to Julian. Tell him I'm not hiding my 'toys.' Tell him I'm mass-producing them. If he wants Ashbourne, tell him to come himself. But remind him... lightning doesn't care about the color of your crown."
Valerius didn't wait for a formal dismissal. He turned and fled down the stairs, his boots clattering in a panicked rhythm. Malachi followed, tripping over his own robes in his haste to leave the 'haunted' tower.
Hugo Llorente remained. He looked at the smoking anvil, then at the girl, and finally at Olivier.
"You've started a war, Your Highness," Hugo said, his voice thick with a new kind of respect—or perhaps, a new kind of terror. "The Church will not ignore this. They will call a Crusade."
"Let them," Olivier said, reaching out to steady Elara as she slumped from the effort. He looked at his scarred hands, then out the window at the misty horizon of Cinderfall.
"They've had the light for a thousand years and did nothing but build cathedrals with it. I've had it for three days, and I've already moved an anvil."
He looked at the Commander. "Hugo, get the smiths. Tell them the 'devil's iron' is ready for casting. We're going to need a lot more copper."
The Fourth Prince turned away from the window. The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the room. In the old world, the coming of night meant fear.
But as Olivier looked at his capacitors, he knew that in Ashbourne, the night was just another source of potential.
"Next time," he whispered to the empty room, "we build a turbine."