Draves, Emily, and I chatted for a while as workers and guards moved throughout the industrial district around us. Every so often, a wagon rattled past carrying ore, paper bundles, or charcoal.
Then a sharp shout came from the direction of the paper factory, calling for Emily.
All three of us turned toward the sound.
A man stood frozen in the doorway of the factory, one hand still gripping the frame. The moment he realized all of us were staring at him, especially me, his face drained of color.
He straightened.
“S-Sorry, my lord!” he stammered before nearly tripping over himself as he disappeared back inside.
Emily let out a long sigh.
“I’m going to have to go. We were in the middle of something when I heard you were back. We are trying to figure out that cardboard you were talking about.”
“I told you not to worry about it yet.” I said.
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “If it works like you think, we could make so much money.”
Then she pointed firmly at both of us, her expression suddenly serious.
“But you are both having dinner with me tonight. I want to hear what happened on the border.”
Before either of us could answer, she spun on her heels.
Her braid whipped across her back as she hurried toward the factory entrance, skirts swaying as workers quickly stepped aside to let her pass.
I watched her go with a smile tugging at my lips.
She really was growing up.
Draves crossed his arms over his chest as he watched her disappear inside.
“She has changed so much and yet not at all.”
There was something softer in his voice than usual.
He had known her much longer than I had.
I still remember the first time I met Emily. The girl couldn’t even look me in the eye when she entered the room. Then, somewhere along the way, she transformed into an energetic little sister who constantly invaded my space, insulted me, and overworked herself trying to figure out how to make paper.
And now…
Now she was…
Well, she was Emily.
What else could I really say?
I turned back toward Draves only to find his serious expression fixed squarely on me.
The warmth faded from my grin almost immediately.
I already knew where this conversation was headed.
After a brief pause, I gave him a small nod.
“I have been hesitant to ask, but I feel I must. What is your relationship with Emily?”
I exhaled slowly through my nose and looked out toward the canal rather than meeting his eyes.
I knew this was coming eventually.
“She is my friend. And that is all it will ever be.”
Draves gave a slow nod.
He knew me well enough to understand I would never cross a line with a woman unless I intended to marry her. Still, the tension in his posture didn't fully ease.
The two of us stood there in silence for a while as workers moved around us carrying crates and tools. Somewhere nearby, someone shouted instructions over the roar of a waterwheel.
Finally, the silence became unbearable.
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Just ask.”
Draves’s jaw tightened slightly before he finally spoke.
“I heard about your forced engagement to a member of a Dukal line. Are you marrying the woman? If so, what happens to Emily?”
His tone remained calm and controlled, but there was a coldness beneath it.
I understood why.
Emily was family to him.
I ground my teeth.
“I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t mean for Emily to fall in love with me. You think I want to hurt my best friend? She is practically like a sister to me.”
Draves' eyes narrowed slightly.
“I told you to distance yourself. I warned you.”
For the first time since the conversation began, frustration crept into his voice.
That irritation immediately sparked my own.
“And what was I supposed to do?” I snapped before forcing myself to lower my voice. I jabbed a finger toward him. “If I told you to no longer be friends with Marsh or Emily, would you have done it? Would they have allowed it?”
I turned away and dragged a hand through my hair, trying to keep myself from outright yelling at him.
“Yeah, this sucks. I can’t change the situation. Even if I weren't being forced to marry Erica, it wouldn’t change the situation.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Unless you have a way to suddenly elevate her status. And give her a history of noble lineage.”
The words hung between us.
Draves’s expression was conflicted.
Because the worst part was that neither of us was truly angry at the other.
We were angry at the world that made this conversation necessary at all.
I turned and looked at him.
“The truth is, I'm not ready to be married, not to Emily or to Erica. If there were a way to get out of this without offending the entire royal family, I would.’
Then I chuckled bitterly. “From what news I have received, even if this makes the king and some of his family happy, other royals and nobles are not pleased.”
Draves studied me carefully, his expression unreadable. Around us, the sounds of Pine Ridge continued uninterrupted—waterwheels groaning, men shouting to one another, iron clanging somewhere in the distance—but the noise felt strangely far away.
We stood in silence for a long while.
Both of us lost in our own thoughts.
Finally, the general broke the silence.
“What do you know of her?”
I shrugged.
“Well, she's cursed, and I will probably be dead before the wedding.”
I kept my face perfectly serious as I said it.
Draves did not react. He simply stood there with his arms folded behind his back, staring at me with the patience of a man who had long since learned to endure my nonsense.
I shook my head.
“You know what. You're no fun.”
Another pause.
“Fine,” I said with a sigh. “First, she has been engaged three times. All of the men died.”
That finally earned a reaction.
Draves pursed his lips slightly, his eyes narrowing.
“Sometimes I cannot tell if you are joking. But this now makes more sense.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“It’s no joke. Two died on the battlefield, and one died from a rabid dog bite.”
Draves considered that.
“Your attitude makes me believe you are not concerned.”
“Not at all.” I shrugged. “It all seems reasonable. The three deaths are understandable.”
“That is not what I am concerned about. This could be used to get rid of you.” His tone hardened slightly. “Those three deaths could be a coincidence, but what will people say if you die? Why would there be an investigation if everyone believes she is cursed?”
The weight of that possibility settled in my mind. A question I had asked myself on occasion. Was this a setup?
“That was something Benjamin and I have discussed. Anything is possible.” I gave him a sidelong glance. “You now understand my increased guard.”
Draves gave a slow nod.
“Any other information?”
“It is contradictory,” I said. I frowned slightly as I tried to organize my thoughts. “And there was definitely a personality shift in my bride-to-be after the last man died. Before that point, they say she was in the center of things. She had a great influence over the people her age. She spent almost all her time at social events and at court.” I gestured vaguely with one hand. “A true socialite and extrovert.”
Draves nodded for me to continue.
“After the last death, the rumors that she was cursed outweighed her popularity, and she became extremely reserved. She still enjoys her time at court, but she stays on the sidelines.”
I paused. Trying to think of all the ideas that Benjamin and I had come up with.
“Whether this is voluntary or due to her being kept at arm's length by others is the question.”
Draves’s eyes lingered on me for several seconds before he finally asked; “What do you think this means for you?”
“In my opinion, it could go a few ways.” I rubbed my jaw thoughtfully as we walked closer to the factories and the canal. “She could be grateful that I was willing to marry her and be a faithful wife. Or she could feel indebted to her family for the arrangement, and feel she has something to prove to them by trying to steal our secrets.”
I let out a frustrated breath.
“There are too many variables. I feel that even with the information I am getting from John and Baron Sophis, I will still be at a disadvantage. She will know more about me than I will about her.” I gave Draves a sidelong look. “She sent a servant down to Manticole to speak with my cousin Catherine and was even able to get a copy of Catherine’s book on etiquette.”
Draves listened without interruption, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual military posture.
“I don’t think her advantage will be as great as you think.” Draves said. “It is your character that matters, and she will not be able to trust everything she hears about you until she meets you.”
I barked out a short laugh without humor.
“To be honest. The whole thing scares me. I’m being pushed into something I am totally unprepared for.”
Draves’s expression softened slightly.
“You were unprepared to be a baron when you first came here.” He swept a hand toward the sprawling industrial district surrounding us. “Now look around you.”
I followed his gesture. The massive waterwheels. The quisi-factories.
“Back then was different.” I shook my head slowly. “I always felt I had the option of running away. You even once suggested I do just that.”
The words slipped out more honestly than I intended.
“It has reached the point that I cannot run away.” I crossed my arms tightly. “And now I am marrying someone who could be a threat to everything we are trying to achieve.”
Draves studied me for several moments before answering.
“I see your point, but it is a risk that all couples go through.” He spoke calmly, like a man discussing battlefield tactics rather than marriage. “Just because some people meet their spouses beforehand doesn't mean the risk is not there.”
He paused briefly.
“In fact, I know many who were blinded by love, not seeing the danger until it was too late.”
I started walking down the packed road between the workshops, my boots crunching lightly against loose gravel as I thought over his words.
“I guess that makes sense.” I frowned slightly. “But my wife is a noble. She is most likely stuck up and used to getting things her way. What happens when I say no? She will run off and go tell her daddy. She is a potential threat to everything we have built, whether I meet her beforehand or not.”
We approached the printing workshop.
Unlike the bustling scribal halls in Hillside, this facility focused almost entirely on the machinery itself. The scribes and bookmakers had already relocated, leaving behind the engravers, printers, and craftsmen who maintained the presses.
The moment we stepped inside, the smell hit us.
Ink and the oil that greased the machine.
The rhythmic clacking of presses echoed through the workshop while workers moved carefully between stations carrying trays of type and freshly printed sheets.
Draves’s sharp eyes immediately began scanning the room.
The place had been divided into two major sections.
On one side, rows of workers sat at long tables carving wooden blocks and movable type pieces with painstaking precision. Small curls of wood littered the floor beneath their benches. Until we figured out how to produce inexpensive metal types, wood remained our best option. We had experimented extensively with clay and bronze. Both had failed.
Clay cracked too easily and lost detail quickly, while bronze was expensive enough to make every failed attempt painful. We also couldn’t get the letters as sharp as we could with the wood even with the casting. The ongoing war with Turabe had only driven metal prices even higher.
Wood, despite not being perfect, was best.
After we figured out the issue with the ink, it has become even better. The traditional water-based ink we used for writing caused the wooden type to swell after only one or two hundred uses of the letters. The edges blurred, ruining the sharpness of the letters.
We ended up developing an oil-based ink similar to—but not quite the same as—the oil paints I used for my paintings.
It had been quite the process and we almost gave up. Entire batches had turned into sticky black sludge before they finally found the right balance. But once they succeeded, the difference was enormous.
Now, a set of wooden type could survive nearly five thousand runs before wearing down badly enough to require replacement.
Draves slowly walked between the workstations, watching the craftsmen carve symbols into the blocks with almost surgical precision.
His fingers brushed lightly across one of the finished trays before he looked toward the presses.
Finally, he broke the silence.
“This is impressive, Amos.” His brow furrowed slightly as another stack of printed pages rolled through the press. “I do not understand it. But I can tell something incredible is going on here.”
I smiled faintly.
“More than you know.”
Together, we moved deeper into the factory toward the presses themselves.
The machines groaned and clattered rhythmically as workers fed paper through them. Others collected fresh pages and hung them to dry while apprentices hurried about carrying ink and replacement type.
Draves stood beside me for a long while simply watching the process.
Slowly, understanding began to creep across his face.
Finally, he gave a small nod.
“I think I am understanding the process now.” He glanced toward one of the stacks of freshly printed sheets. “But it still seems surreal.” His eyes shifted back toward me. “How many books can you produce?”
“We only have one press for books, and that is for creating reading and math primers.” I gestured toward the largest press in the room where workers carefully stacked drying pages. “This last month, we created a level 1 and a level two reading book, and then a basic addition and subtraction book.”
I still sounded mildly stunned by it myself.
“And the number of books they created this last month blew me away.” I shook my head slowly. “We even had to reduce the export of paper in order to supply enough for the books.”
Draves turned toward me fully.
His expression remained calm, but there was an intensity in his eyes now.
“You dodged my question.”
I couldn't help grinning.
“Two hundred of each.”
The grin slowly faded as Draves stared at me.
The sounds of the workshop continued around us uninterrupted—the presses clacking rhythmically, workers shouting for more supplies, paper rustling—but for several long seconds the general said absolutely nothing.
I could practically see him trying to calculate what that meant. Not just the number of books but the implications of what we had done.
“Each family in Hillside and Cove Town will have books in their homes.” I pointed toward one of the stacks waiting for transport. “They bind the books themselves. Directions on how to bind them, and the materials to do so, are provided to the families.”
Draves slowly exhaled through his nose.
“I should not be surprised that the first people you give this miracle to are your peasants.”
There was no mockery in the statement. Only weary acceptance.
I shrugged slightly.
“Well, they are the people who need it most. And it isn’t like the wealthier members of my County are not receiving the same.”
Draves’s eyes drifted across the room again before settling on another machine farther down the workshop.
Large wooden frames surrounded a press where workers carefully aligned printed sheets.
“This other machine is how you make the playing cards?” He asked.
“Yes.” I walked toward it while one of the workers quickly stepped aside to let us inspect the press. “This, I believe, will be our true money maker for next year. If we can keep the paper supply up.”
Several finished sheets sat drying nearby, each filled with rows of printed card faces.
Draves picked one up carefully between two fingers.
“And that last thing?”
He nodded toward the experimental roller press at the far end of the workshop.
Unlike the other presses, this one looked almost chaotic. Gears, rollers, belts, and partially disassembled components covered the surrounding tables while several engineers tinkered with them.
The moment they noticed me approaching, the entire group suddenly pretended to be working productively instead of bickering.
We were attempting to create a conveyor system in which the copper plate wrapped around a drum roller. The paper would pass beneath it, printing one side of the cards before moving farther down the line, where papers could be sealed together and coated.
At least… that was the dream.
“If we get this working,” I said carefully, “I think we could make fifteen thousand decks a month within the year.”
That finally broke Draves’s composure again.
His eyebrows rose slightly.
“The issue is the timing.” I pointed toward the gears and rollers. “Everything has to be precise down to the last detail. Each part has to fit perfectly, and the machine will need to be constantly oiled, greased, or whatever they need to do.”
One of the eavesdropping engineers nearby nodded.
“It is a project that has the engineers very excited.”
“That,” Draves said dryly, “I can see.”
Draves walked toward a nearby table where several etched copper plates rested.
The polished surfaces reflected the workshop lights faintly.
“I would like to watch this etching process of copper.” Draves said.
“Well, you have asked the right man because I end up doing all the artwork on the resin surface.” I tapped one of the plates lightly with a finger. “I will let you know when I am doing my next plate.”
Then I smirked.
“Actually, we found something that etches iron, but it isn’t as clean as what we have with copper.” I folded my arms. “It is an… interesting story. Want to hear it?”
Draves slowly looked at me.
The veteran officer already had the expression of a man bracing for disaster.
“The way you framed that makes me immediately think it has to do with your chemists again.”
I pointed at him.
“And you are not wrong.”
One of the engineers nearby suddenly chuckled. The two factions within the Reality Benders were always teasing each other.
“So I don’t know the precise details, but one of the pyromaniacs was trying to make something new.” I started walking again, motioning for Draves to follow me deeper into the workshop. “None of them has any idea what they are doing, so they just keep trying different things.”
Draves muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
“Well, apparently, they burnt saltpeter and sulfur in a crucible and were going to dump it into a pot of boiling water.” I winced at the memory. “The idiots forgot to open the fume hood, and the area started filling with a fume that irritated their eyes. Their skin also started to feel like a thousand needles were pricking them.”
Draves looked at me. “You let these people continue experimenting?”
I shrugged.
“Well… yes?”
The general closed his eyes briefly, like a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. Realizing I might be as insane as the chemists. Maybe they were rubbing off on me.
“This time, however, they opened the hood.” I rubbed my temples as we continued walking past the presses. “Nothing happened, and they also got a lackluster result when they added it to the water. They decided to try to recreate the prickling on their skin, since that was the only interesting reaction.”
I could physically see Draves fighting the urge to let his jaw drop as he realized the chemists were willing to inflict self-harm in order to figure out what was going on.
The expression he settled on was the weary look of a man rapidly losing faith in humanity.
“Anyways,” I continued, completely ignoring his silence, “they couldn’t get the same reaction on the skin, just the burning eyes until they added a boiling pot of water back into the mix. This caused them to sweat or the humidity to collect on their skin.”
I started walking towards the factory exit.
He looked at me as we were leaving. “You mean to tell me they intentionally exposed themselves to the fumes again?”
I lifted a hand defensively.
“In their defense, they did wait until after they opened the hood this time.”
That did not seem to reassure him.
“Anyways, the fumes mixed with moisture on their skin, and created a weak acid.” I shrugged. “Probably sulfuric acid since they used sulfur, but I really don't know. Now they are trying to concentrate it.”
I wasn’t a master of chemistry, but I knew some of the elements, and I was pretty sure I could still balance a chemical equation. Oh, and that there were two electrons in the first ring and eight in the second.
“This all seems very foolish.”
“That,” I admitted, “is a completely fair assessment.”
We walked outside into the dusty yard.
“But, in their defense, whatever the stuff is, it has actually been a big help in removing rust and the black scale from iron and steel. We also found that giving the metal several dips in it roughs up the surface enough for paint to stick properly. That should prevent rust.”
“It sounds like a painful way to experiment.”
I let out a long-suffering sigh.
“I had to put in new safety practices after that.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I swear that they are trying to kill themselves sometimes.”
That was only partially a joke.
What I didn't say out loud was that the entire incident had terrified me.
The idea of one of my chemists accidentally creating chlorine gas or worse, something resembling mustard gas, was enough to keep me awake at night.
After the acid incident, I had gathered every single one of the lunatics together and explained in no uncertain terms that it was entirely possible they could create something capable of killing everyone in the workshop if they weren’t careful.
Judging by the serious expressions at the time, I think they understood.
Mostly.
At least until the next exciting discovery distracted them.
I was beginning to realize something deeply uncomfortable.
The road toward true scientific advancement was apparently paved with explosions, poison fumes, and men making catastrophically bad decisions in the name of curiosity.
One of those idiots had even wanted to put a drop of the acid on his tongue. Dedicated. But unbelievably stupid. But at the same time, I wondered if we could create Sour Patch Kids.🫠