The return to the family castle after the capital was like descending from a smooth, cold mirror into a warm, muddy puddle. Here, it smelled not of sterility and power, but of hearth smoke, damp plaster, and human sweat. Returning to the ancestral nest after the capital's splendor and the queen's icy verdict was like jumping from an opera house into a sweltering, smoke-and-sweat-smelling forge. And to Valos, the forge now felt far more familiar.
His main trophies were not the protective rings or the agricultural magic voucher, but a hefty stack of parchments, neatly tied with string. Copies of scholarly works copied for him in the capital's royal library for free, requiring only a brief glimpse of the parchment with the royal seal and special authorization. «The magic of bureaucracy. Sometimes the most powerful kind.»
He spread them out on the large table in the family library, in the silence broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace.
«The Etheric Limit of Co-adaptation: Why Our Ships Do Not Fly» by Archmage Gellan.
«The Will of the Principles: Divine Design or Evolutionary Dead End?» by Hierophant Cassius.
«Spacetime Fabric and Its Practical Use (with amendments per Concordat Edict №744).»
«On the Nature and Methods of Interaction with the Distributed Archive Known as the Babylonian Library (a theoretical work).»
«The Etheric Limit of Co-adaptation» was dry as a desert wind. The author, Archmage Gellan, with icy logic, argued the impossibility of a "vulgar technocratic breakthrough." The essence boiled down to a simple, devastating law: any complex magitech created entropic resonance and cognitive load. Simply put, an iron bird stuffed with runes either fell apart on its own or drove its pilot mad trying to control a thousand processes simultaneously.
With numbers and diagrams, the author demonstrated that the technological basis existed. Metal winged ships — illustrations showed something resembling a dreadnought with outstretched, fixed glider wings — using Wind magic and Thermo-forging for propulsion, did exist. Firearms based on the principle of controlled gunpowder — or rather, alchemical — explosions existed. So did hand-held ballistae with magical acceleration. «It's easier to fly oneself than inside some apparatus,» the archmage concluded. And further explained: only a being with powerful will (a Serfkea), a strong body, and developed magic could serve as a "buffer" between technology and chaos. An autonomous fleet was only possible under the control of one incredibly powerful mage, who would themselves become a bottleneck and the primary target. The theory, according to Gellan, "complicated the application of technology for mutual destruction, making conflict localized and costly."
«Convenient,» Valos thought caustically. «It turns out the universe doesn't like simple solutions like 'build a bigger gun.' It prefers complex, convoluted, and personally-oriented ways of killing each other. How lovely.»
«The Will of the Principles» by the churchman was the complete opposite — a torrent of bombastic rhetoric about divine design, balance, and purpose. But between the lines, the same thing could be read: Serfkea was not merely power, it was responsibility. A gift that simultaneously elevated and constrained, binding its bearer to the world and its laws. An evolutionary dead end? Or a fuse deliberately built into reality?
Valos leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His head throbbed with contradictory theories. The universe had once again proven not to be a linear instruction manual, but a tangled puzzle where physics, magic, and metaphysics wove themselves into a tight, inconvenient knot.
He set aside the philosophy and took up the thickest volume: «Spacetime Fabric…». Theories were theories, but he needed tools for survival. Right now. The idea of minor, instantaneous teleportation — even just a few meters — itched in his brain. Seeing how the Witches of Order and the astral parasites moved, he understood that maneuverability was more important than brute force. But that required runes. Complex, precise, demanding understanding. And, more importantly, space in the mind to store them and activate them instantly.
«What can I offer the Old Man?» he pondered, gazing at the shelves. «A high school physics course? The theory of relativity? Surely he already has a whole section on 'Primitive Models of the Universe of the Natives from the Blue Dot.' Chemistry? Perhaps. Organic synthesis, the periodic table… Maybe something will surprise him. But it must be not just a fact. It must be… a new perspective. A principle.»
Thoughts of the demons and the three-month defense gave rise to other ideas. «My enemies are not simply a race of demons. They are those FOUR who stand behind them. And the Tarasque they controlled. To win, I need to know their weaknesses. I need a weapon not against the horde, but against the siege beast. Perhaps… I should ask the Queen for a list of 'special tools' from the Concordat's arsenals. Under the pretext of preparing the defense. Maybe they'll lend something interesting?»
He was not alone in the library. At the opposite end of the hall, behind a globe and a bookshelf containing annals of sheep diseases, sat Lyra. She had settled on the windowsill, legs folded beneath her, eagerly devouring a book with a faded title: «Fundamentals of the Theory of Magnetism: Attraction and Repulsion in Fire and Earth Magic.» Her tail swayed slowly in rhythm, the tip twitching with concentration. Occasionally, she muttered something to herself.
«A cat scholar. She sees the world as a system of levers and fields. Useful. And slightly frightening.»
His thoughts were interrupted by a distant but distinct rumble of voices from the courtyard. Not festive. Angry. Valos approached a narrow window. Below, at the castle gates, a crowd had gathered. Not of soldiers — of peasants. Those very refugees who had signed the onerous contracts. Now they waved their arms, their faces twisted not with hunger, but with malice.
***
Valos stepped onto the balcony, looking out over the sea of discontented faces. Eldrid was already there, his jaw clenched. Leonhard stood beside him, grim as a thundercloud.
— A riot? — Valos asked without preamble.
— Murmuring, for now, — Leonhard replied. — But give them another day with nothing to do and no food…
— There are no tools, — Eldrid stated. — The forges are working at capacity for the army. There's no time or money for purchasing.
Valos looked at the crowd, then at his own hands, then back at the crowd. A switch clicked in his mind. A pragmatic solution. Not heroic. Simply… using available resources.
He stepped forward, to the most visible spot. The murmur died down, replaced by wary silence.
— You signed contracts for work! There is work! Walls, houses, roads! But there are no hammers!
A rumble went through the crowd. Exactly.
— So, — Valos continued, — we will work without them. I will teach you. Not to dig with your hands. Not to carry stones on your backs.
He raised his hand, concentrating. Not on complex synthesis. On the simplest, most basic thing. Light (Sna). Pure will toward form, toward a barrier. A stream of dim, translucent radiance burst from his palm. It spread through the air, forming a crude but distinct rectangle — a magical barrier. A simple shield.
— This, — Valos said, striking the barrier with his fist, — can be made into a shovel. — He altered the mental image. The barrier bent, transforming into a rough approximation of a shovel. — It can be made into a lever. A wheelbarrow. A brace. It doesn't require mana unless it's struck by magic or very, very hard. It only requires will. Concentration. Which of you wants to eat tonight? Which of you wants your family to sleep under a roof before winter? This isn't perfect. But it will buy us time for the smiths to forge real iron.
At first, everyone watched with disbelief. Then one, the most desperate or the hungriest — a young man with burned hands — stepped forward. Then another. Ten minutes later, Valos, with the face of a weary yoga instructor for the especially gifted, was showing a group of men how to form a "magical shovel" and "magical stretchers" in the air. The results were crooked, the barriers trembled and collapsed, but it worked. It was inefficient, slow, but it was work. And it distracted from thoughts of rebellion.
***
That evening, four gathered in Eldrid's study: Eldrid, Valos, Corvus, and, by default, Lyra, who had stationed herself by the door. They were joined by Thorgrim, for whom a chair was provided so he could speak as an equal. He sat on it as if it were a throne, his braided beard resting on his knees.
— The terms regarding the mithril have been met, — the dwarf rumbled, thumping his own mug of ale against the armrest. — The ingots are in your vault. The weapons and armor are in the arsenal. The walls stand. We have done our part.
— And done it excellently, — Eldrid nodded. — The House of Tropan remembers.
— Remembering is good, — Valos interjected, his voice calm. — But the world is changing. Necromancers, demons… We need not only iron. We need knowledge. The skill to make it, repair it, improve it.
Thorgrim frowned, his stony eyes narrowing.
— What are you getting at, human?
— An exchange of expertise. Let some of your masters stay. Not for long. A month. Teach our smiths the basics of working with mithril, the fundamentals of sturdy masonry, the subtleties of tempering. So that we can maintain what you have built and… develop.
Silence fell in the room. Dwarves guarded their secrets jealously. The request was bold.
Thorgrim stroked his beard for a long time, calculation flickering in his gaze.
— Experience… for experience, — he said at last. — My smiths teach your people. And your… brewers teach mine. That barley swill of yours… it has potential. With the right approach.
Eldrid, catching Valos's glance, gave a barely perceptible nod. Beer for metallurgical secrets. A fair trade.
— Agreed, — said the Count.
Thorgrim rose heavily from his chair, approached the table, and standing on the floor, came up to their chests. He was not fazed. He firmly shook Eldrid's hand, then Valos's. His grip was such that bones creaked.
— To cooperation. And to good beer.
***
After Thorgrim's departure, Eldrid led Valos and Corvus to a windowless stone hall in the lower part of the castle — a training room. Here there were no elegant rapiers or archery targets. Here there were bare walls of rough stone, covered with chips and dents, and heavy cast-iron spheres of various sizes.
— Willpower, — Eldrid said, his voice echoing in the empty hall. — This is not magic. This is you yourself. Will made flesh. It cannot be learned from a book. It can only be forged. Like a sword. Blow by blow.
He approached the wall, taking a stance. His back, usually slightly stooped from the burden of years and cares, straightened, becoming monolithic.
— My father trained this way. I trained this way. — His gaze slid to Corvus, standing at attention. — And he trained this way.
Eldrid clenched his fist. Then, with a short, sharp exhale, he delivered a straight punch to the stonework.
There was not a dull thud, but a crunch. Not loud, but distinct. When the Count withdrew his hand, a fresh, fine spiderweb of cracks surrounded a barely perceptible depression on the grey stone. The skin on his knuckles was scraped, but not broken bloody. This was not brute force. This was willpower. Will focused at the point of impact, turning the fist into a hammer and the body into an anvil.
— Your turn, — Eldrid said, stepping back. — Until you feel the stone yield. Until you learn to channel not anger, but resolve. Every day. Until your hands forget how to be soft.
Valos looked at his own untouched, relatively clean palm. Then at the wall, marked with the traces of generations of Tropans. He recalled Corvus's strike that had split the fire hurricane. The price he had paid for overexertion.
He swallowed. Inside, everything tightened into a cold, heavy lump. «Guys, what if I just really, really want this wall to fall apart on its own? No? That won't work? Damn.»
He assumed an uncertain stance, clenched his fist, trying to imagine his will flowing, like blood, to his knuckles. It felt stupid. Absurd. Painful.
He threw the first punch. The stone answered with a dull, bone-deep pain that shot through his entire forearm.
From the shadow by the entrance, where she had slipped in unnoticed, came a soft, feline sound. Not a laugh. Rather, a short, sympathetic «mew.»
Valos closed his eyes for a second. «Three months until the demons. The stone does not yield. And I must become a hammer. Excellent. Just excellent.»
He drew back his hand for the second strike.