While Fiora thrived in the roar of battle and Lydia in the murmur of politics, Carrie Valerius lived in the quiet hum of creation.
The youngest of the King's daughters, she was often underestimated — a soft-spoken girl with ink-stained fingers and a gaze that seemed to look past the present and into some far-off vision. But those who dismissed her quickly learned that in Alpheria, even silence could be dangerous.
Carrie's world was the Bright Forge — a sprawling workshop tucked beneath the royal keep, lit by oil lamps and crowded with workbenches, strange tools, and half-finished designs scattered like fallen leaves. Few were allowed inside. Even fewer understood what they saw when they did.
From an early age, Carrie had devoured every scrap of knowledge she could find. She read old scrolls on mechanics and metallurgy, disassembled broken crossbows to understand their workings, and sketched elaborate diagrams for devices that existed only in her mind. Where others saw limitations, she saw possibilities.
Her first success came at thirteen — a lighter, more balanced spearhead forged from a blend of metals that did not dull easily. Soldiers returned from battle praising the new weapon's speed and strength, but none knew the mind behind it belonged to the youngest princess.
By sixteen, she was building more ambitious creations: collapsible shields that could be deployed in seconds; siege ladders that locked into place with a single pull; and, most famously, the sunburst cannon — a weapon that used focused light to ignite pitch-soaked arrows mid-flight, turning them into blazing bolts of fire.
Rumors spread beyond Alpheria's borders. Whispers of "impossible" weapons — tools that turned small armies into unstoppable forces — reached foreign kings and warlords. No one knew the truth: that the mind behind them was a young woman who rarely left her forge.
Carrie's sisters often visited her in the workshop. Fiora came to request modifications for her armor — lighter breastplates, gauntlets with better grip, new sword balances. Lydia came less often, but when she did, it was to suggest "gifts" for foreign envoys — beautifully crafted devices that doubled as subtle threats.
The King, however, was more protective of Carrie than of either of her sisters. He feared that if word of her genius ever reached the wrong ears, she would be hunted, stolen, or killed. So her identity remained hidden, her work attributed to anonymous royal blacksmiths.
But Carrie did not mind the anonymity. She preferred the shadows. To her, glory was nothing compared to the thrill of seeing her ideas take shape, to watching her inventions change the course of a battle before a sword was ever drawn.
One night, while testing a new siege mechanism, she found her father watching from the doorway.
"You could rest, you know," he said, though there was no command in his tone.
Carrie smiled faintly without looking up from her work. "And if I rest, someone else will think of what I do not — and they will use it against us."
The King studied her in silence, pride and worry warring in his eyes.
"You are your sisters' equal," he said at last. "In your own way, perhaps even more dangerous."
Carrie only returned to her work, the rhythmic sound of hammer on metal echoing through the forge like a heartbeat — the steady pulse of Alpheria's hidden strength.