The first light of dawn crept over the eastern rooftops of Grannath's textile quarter, illuminating rows of brick workshops with shuttered windows and heavy oak doors. Within the largest hall—once a silent monument to hand‑loom weaving—dozens of Automated Looms Mk I stood at attention like a mechanical army. Each frame was fitted with iron rollers, leather belts, and a compact piston engine, all gleaming in the morning glow. A hush fell as the master weaver, Gideon Hartwick, entered, cloak drawn against the chill, staff in hand. Around him, guild apprentices and journeymen gathered, eyes bright with curiosity and dread.
Gideon paused at the threshold, surveying the looms. Once, the rhythmic clack of wooden shuttles had been his domain; now, steam hissed and brass valves gleamed where his skilled fingers once guided each thread. He inhaled the smell of oil and hot metal, his heart pounding. Beside him, his daughter Maris held her breath. "Father?" she whispered. "Is this… progress?"
Gideon's gaze softened on her. "It can be," he said quietly, "if we master it. But first, we must learn its cost."
At a signal, Magnus Veyron strode into the hall, cloak swirling, eyes alight with triumph. He carried a small brass horn. "Master Hartwick, apprentices, honored guests—observe!" He lifted the horn and blew a crisp note. Gears whirred, belts spun, and the Automated Looms sprang to life in perfect unison. Threads fed through rollers; shuttles shot across beams; yards of cloth emerged flawless and unbroken. A collective gasp rose, followed by murmurs of awe.
Magnus raised his hands. "Ten looms can produce more cloth in an hour than fifty weavers in a day. Precision, consistency, speed—these machines will redefine textile production across Duras." He paced before the looms, voice firm. "But they are tools, not tyrants. I offer free instruction at the new Iron Vanguard Academy, and fair wages for all who learn to operate them."
Gideon folded his arms, lips tight. "Fair wages? What of tradition? What of artistry?"
Magnus met his gaze. "Artistry endures. Hand‑woven lace, tapestry, and couture will always command a premium. But for everyday cloth, these looms will free artisans to pursue finer crafts—and earn more for doing so."
A murmur of approval rippled among the younger weavers. The guild masters, however, exchanged uneasy glances.
That afternoon, Magnus convened a meeting in the ducal council chamber. Sunlight filtered through stained‑glass windows, painting the marble floor in patterns of ruby and sapphire. Around the long table sat Duke Albrecht, Chancellor Renly, Lady Marielle the bridge‑builder, and representatives from the textile, metalworking, and grain guilds. Magnus presented detailed charts showing projected increases in cloth output, price reductions for merchants, and new tax revenues for the duchy.
Chancellor Renly peered at the graphs. "If these projections hold, the duchy's coffers could swell by fifteen percent in a single year."
Lady Marielle nodded. "And improved clothing means healthier soldiers and fewer illnesses among the poor."
The textile guild's representative, Master Hadrian, cleared his throat. "Yet our members fear obsolescence. We must ensure no weaver is cast aside."
Magnus tapped the parchment. "I propose a guild integration plan: ten percent of machine‑wage profits fund guild apprenticeships; another ten percent establishes a relief fund for those who cannot adapt. The rest flows to factory expansion."
Duke Albrecht leaned back. "Generous terms. But who enforces them?"
Magnus inclined his head. "I will chair the Textile Oversight Committee, comprised of guild masters and Iron Vanguard directors. Together, we'll monitor wages, training, and employment levels."
Master Hadrian exchanged glances with his peers. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. We consent—provided our guild retains equal voting power."
Renly smiled. "Then it is settled."
Back in the textile quarter, word of the council's decree spread swiftly. Apprentices gathered in front of the workshop door, hoping to enroll in Magnus's academy. Journeymen discussed lesson schedules and tuition waivers. Meanwhile, a small group of veteran weavers—led by Gideon—huddled in a darkened alley.
"We've given him our grudging approval," Gideon said, voice low. "But I won't let him break our guild's spirit."
Another weaver, Tamsin Grey, glared. "He's already building factories on our lands. He'll choke us out."
Gideon nodded. "We'll watch him. We'll wait for the right moment."
They dispersed into the gathering dusk, determination etched on their faces.
That night, under a silver moon, Magnus returned to the abandoned mill outside Emberhold—his secret testbed. He planned to refine the loom's compact boiler design. As he approached, he noticed footprints in the soft earth: a wide boot, an iron‑toed sole. He frowned, lantern held high.
Inside, the mill's great wheel stood silent. He climbed the ladder to the loft, where his portable forge and workbench waited. On the table lay the partial boiler frame for the next loom prototype. He froze: the frame was twisted, a seam ripped open. The freshly cast cylinder had been scored by a sharp blade.
"Sabotage," he whispered.
Footsteps echoed below. Thoren appeared, face grim. "They've been here."
Magnus set down his lantern and examined the damage. "They want to stop progress."
Thoren's jaw clenched. "Shall we find them?"
Magnus shook his head. "No. Let them think they succeed. Tomorrow, I announce a security detail. They'll call for my leadership—and I'll have it."
He stood, eyes cold. "Prepare the repairs. And double the watch."
The next morning, news of the mill break‑in spread through Emberhold and Grannath. Magnus held a press gathering in the castle courtyard, beside the original Automated Loom Mk I. Reporters, merchants, and guild representatives assembled, curious.
Magnus spoke, voice steady. "Last night, unknown saboteurs attempted to destroy our prototype boiler. I assure you, the damage is minor and repairs are underway. But this act of fear and ignorance endangers our entire community. To protect our workshops, I propose the creation of the Ducal Safety Guard—a corps of trained stewards under my direction, tasked with safeguarding Iron Vanguard facilities and guild properties alike."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Master Hadrian bristled. "You would command armed guards over guild workshops?"
Magnus inclined his head. "Only where machines operate. The guards will be recruited from guild members—paid positions, uniforms bearing both the guild and Vanguard crests."
Hadrian hesitated, then nodded. "If it ensures safety."
The duke stepped forward. "I support this initiative. Let it be established."
Applause followed. Magnus allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
By midday, emissaries arrived from Westvale and Ravenmoor, bearing petitions to join the Iron Vanguard consortium. Their lords praised Magnus's leadership and pledged funds. Baroness Isolde wrote of textile guilds eager for training; Lord Renard promised coal supplies for the foundry. Each letter solidified Magnus's growing network of patronage.
In his private study, he reviewed the correspondence with Marinus. "The guilds will need us more than ever. We'll schedule academy sessions next week and begin factory construction the week after."
Marinus nodded, eyes bright. "We've also received word from the capital—envoys from the Royal Council request a full report on our looms. They may grant us additional patents."
Magnus's grin was sharp as a gear's tooth. "Excellent. Expand our legal reach. I want every duchy and county under our license."
That evening, Gideon Hartwick arrived at the academy's gates, accompanied by Tamsin and two other guild masters. They presented Magnus with a formal petition: detailed terms for guild oversight, limitations on factory expansion within Emberhold's jurisdiction, and a requirement that all machines bear a guild seal alongside the Vanguard crest.
Magnus received the parchment in his lantern‑lit office. He studied it, expression unreadable. Then he invited Gideon to sit.
"Your concerns are valid," Magnus said. "I propose a compromise: for every new factory in Emberhold, the guild will receive a ten‑percent stake in its profits, plus oversight rights over apprentice selection. In return, I ask the guild to waive any patent fees for local use."
Gideon's eyes widened. "You'd share profits?"
Magnus inclined his head. "Partnership, not subjugation. We rise together, or we fall together."
Gideon studied the terms, then extended his hand. "Agreed."
Outside, Tamsin whispered to the others. "He's smarter than we thought."
In the weeks that followed, the Iron Vanguard Academy opened its doors. Classrooms filled with eager craftsmen; dormitories housed students; workshops rang with hammer and engine. The guild‑funded stake brought in additional resources, and the first automated loom factory rose on the east bank of the river. Steam plumes drifted skyward, visible from miles around—a symbol of industry's promise.
Yet beneath the triumph lay a current of tension. Guild masters who had agreed in council grumbled privately: profit shares were insufficient; oversight boards were stacked with Vanguard loyalists; local artisans found themselves outcompeted for apprenticeships.
In the duke's private chambers, Magnus received Lady Marielle and Chancellor Renly. They reported growing discontent among traditionalists and rumors of a plot to discredit him at the upcoming Grand Symposium.
Renly sighed. "They fear your influence. They'll stop at nothing."
Marielle placed a hand on Magnus's arm. "Trust no one outside this room."
Magnus nodded, gaze distant. "I'll attend the symposium, present our advances, and secure royal endorsement. Then no court can ignore us."
On the eve of his departure, Magnus walked the factory district alone. Lanterns glowed in windows; steam hissed from vents; silhouettes of workers moved behind glass. He paused on a small bridge overlooking the river, where the reflection of smokestacks danced in the water.
He thought of his father's forge, now silent; of his mother's worried eyes; of Seraphine's farewell kiss. He felt the weight of expectation—and the flicker of doubt.
But as a fresh plume of steam rose against the starlit sky, he clenched his fist.
Progress demanded sacrifice.
Power demanded vision.
He would forge ahead—no matter the cost.