Spellforged Scion

Morning came cold and iron-grey.

Caedrion rose before the bells, his mind restless, body refusing the comfort of bed.

Aelindria stirred as he dressed by the pale light, but said nothing, only reached out once, her fingers brushing his hand in quiet blessing.

He pressed his lips to her knuckles, then left before the warmth of her presence made him falter.

Dawnhaven's streets were already stirring.

Smoke rose from the forges, the hammering of apprentices carried faintly in the air, and the scent of iron and oil cut through the frost.

Where once the city had been no more than a keep and market square, now whole districts had been bent toward his vision: furnaces, workshops, smelters, rows of chimneys like new battlements.

Industry had taken root within the walls, as vital as bread.

Baelius was waiting for him at the central forge, a tall figure in a soot-stained apron, his sharp features shadowed by the glow of embers.

His eyes, pale as spent ash, lifted at Caedrion's approach.

"My lord," he said with a bow that was more habit than necessity. "You've come early."

"We're late," Caedrion corrected. "Months stolen, months wasted. It's time to begin."

He drew a folio from beneath his cloak, pages already scrawled with sketches, notes, and corrections.

Baelius accepted them reverently, scanning the neat lines of Caedrion's hand: coils, sigils, a core meant to house energy without bleeding it.

"You've been thinking on this long," Baelius said, voice low.

"Since before I was taken. I dreamt of it during the siege of Emberhold. But thought is only the seed. We need fruit."

The nullborn studied the design, his scarred brow furrowed.

Exiled by his own hand, driven from his own house after being accused of a crime he never committed, Baelius had found in Caedrion both patron and redemption.

Where House Ignarion had cast him out, Caedrion had given him forge and purpose.

Loyalty had been sworn that day, not with oaths, but with fire and steel.

"It could work," Baelius said slowly.

"If the housing holds the charge. If the Architect's light can be bound without dissipating. Your concept is great in theory. But unlike the shells we make using the Crucible's flames, the Architect's energy is not meant to simply be shot straight out the bore, rather it needs to recharge the enchantment in a way that doesn't overload it…. I'm not sure our current shells and batteries can sustain such a reaction."

"Then we shape one that can," Caedrion said. His hand pressed against the artifact beneath his shirt, its thrum steady, patient, a reminder of both leash and power.

"The light is no longer hidden from me. I know its cadence now. It can be harnessed."

Baelius hesitated. "To bend such power is… dangerous."

"Nothing great has ever been achieved in this world without first taking a risk."

Caedrion cut in. His tone left no room for doubt.

"You swore yourself to me, Baelius, while I appreciate your concern. I will not accept such timid notions unless you can prove to me the potential danger outweighs the benefits."

The nullborn inclined his head. "Then we begin."

The forge was no ordinary hearth of bellows and coal.

This one had been remade under Caedrion's vision, its stone inlaid with fragments of Architect sigils, its flame drawn not only from fuel but from light coaxed into matter.

The apprentices called it a "living furnace." To Caedrion it was a tool, dangerous, miraculous, indispensable.

They began with the shell.

Molten alloys were poured into molds of iron and silver, each attempt cooled and shattered when the light refused to hold.

They worked side by side, hour by hour, sketching changes in chalk upon the forge floor, altering curves, re-aligning channels, until the shell no longer cracked but glowed faintly when sigils were carved into its surface.

Next came the core.

Baelius suggested a weave of gildbrass and mithril; Caedrion overlaid it with sigils borrowed from his time beneath the sea, patterns half-remembered and half inspired by those he had seen in tomes that predated human existence entirely.

It was delicate, infuriating work.

The smallest misalignment bled the charge out like water through sand.

Day bled into night, then into day again.

Aelindria came once, bringing bread, her belly round beneath her cloak.

She sat beside him for an hour, listening to scribbles on parchment, and the complaints of laborers who complained about another failed prototype.

Watching Caedrion scrawl figures across soot-dark paper as he corrected his own mistakes.

Aelindria did not speak at first.

She simply set the loaf down on the worktable and lowered herself onto the bench, cloak gathered around her, eyes reflecting the forge-fire.

The apprentices glanced at her with the furtive awe they usually reserved for Caedrion, as if the sight of her swelling belly reminded them all of what they were truly working for.

"You burn yourself to embers," she said at last, watching him bend over another page of figures.

"I burn so others may carry the torch," Caedrion replied, not looking up.

"You always speak as if you're already gone," she said, a faint smile ghosting across her lips.

"But you're here, Caedrion. With me. With us. Remember that."

He did look up then, meeting her gaze across the din of the forge.

For a heartbeat he nearly reminded her of the truth, that the leash at his chest ticked down the days, that every hour lost was a step closer to being dragged beneath the waves again.

Instead he only reached across the table and took her hand, pressing his soot-stained thumb against her palm.

"I remember," he said. "That's why I cannot stop."

She lingered until the bells marked nightfall, and when she finally rose, her hand brushed his shoulder in parting.

The warmth faded quickly, leaving only the forge's relentless heat and the work still unfinished.

By the week's end, their failures had piled high.

Shells cracked. Cores fizzled.

More than once the forge's light flared dangerously, forcing apprentices to scatter while Caedrion and Baelius wrestled control back.

Exhaustion lined every face, soot stained every hand, yet neither man relented.

Finally, on the seventh night, the forge's song changed.

Baelius held the half-finished core in tongs, lowering it carefully into the glowing shell.

Caedrion's hands shaped sigils in the air, channeling the Architect's cadence through the inlaid stone.

Light streamed, not as a wild flood, but as a river finding its bed.

It filled the core, pulsed once, and held.

The chamber went silent.

Baelius lifted it carefully, the completed battery glowing faintly with inner radiance.

For the first time, the light did not gutter or fade.

"It holds," Baelius whispered. His voice shook. "By the Architect, it holds."

Caedrion took it, feeling its weight, its steady thrum.

Not infinite, never infinite, but self-sustaining. A source, not a drain.

At once, his mind leapt ahead: rifles with enchanted bores, revolvers whose chambers could spark without exhausting him as he refueled their enchantments from his own internal reserves.

Cannons that could fire and recharge without draining him to dust.

An army not limited by his own pulse.

"This changes everything," he said quietly.

Baelius smiled, soot streaking his pale face. "It makes us free."

Caedrion met his eyes. "No. It makes us ready."

Over the next days they tested the prototype.

A magitech rifle, its bore modified with runes, accepted the battery like a cartridge.

The first attempt overloaded, the stock cracked, the barrel seared.

Adjustments were made.

The second test proved successful. It's fading runes glimmered once more with the rustlight of the architect.

Next, a revolver. More compact, more unstable.

The third attempt fused the cylinder shut; the fourth worked perfectly.

Finally, the cannon.

The apprentices gathered as the battery was set into the chamber, whispers running through the crowd.

Caedrion gave the order himself.

The weapon thundered reapetedly until its enchantments were fully exhausted.

Then the shells were ejected, and a battery took its place. Inserted into the horizontal sliding block, it refueled the glimmering light on its bore before ejecting the spent battery.

Yet like all the others the battery remained bright, its reserves restoring themselves.

A binding loop of energy, one that seemingly denied the laws of physics as Caedrion understood them.

Just as the engine beneath his family's ancient castle did.

Had he discovered some primeval secret that the Architect used to create Perpetual energy… or merely a tether to a deeper reservoir he could not yet see?

He could hardly believe the thought.

His inner turmoil was ultimately broken by cheers raw and exultant.

For once, even Baelius let himself grin.

Caedrion held the battery aloft. "No longer will our arms be shackled to a single well of power," he declared.

"No longer will our strength falter because one man grows weary. This is the first stone in a foundation that will outlast us all."

The forge thundered with applause, but within his chest the artifact pulsed again, faint and steady. Six months. No more.

He clenched his fist around the battery. Then six months will be enough.