In the marbled halls of Castle Albrecht, the fire crackled low, casting long shadows that danced across oil portraits of forgotten lords. The Duke of Emberhold sat slumped in his throne-like chair, tunic wrinkled, goblet half-spilled on the table beside him.
Magnus stood across from him—taller now, sharper than the boy who once begged to show him a steaming valve. There was steel in his coat and something colder in his gaze.
"Duke Albrecht," Magnus said smoothly, "your debts are coming due."
The old man chuckled, a bitter, tired sound. "To you, I suppose?"
"To progress."
I. Collateral
The ledger Helena held was thick, bound in blackened calfskin. Its pages bore the truth of the duchy's unraveling:
3,000 gold borrowed for the drawbridge upgrade.
4,500 gold for the new grain steamers.
2,000 for textile support.
1,800 for retrofitting the watchtowers with Magnus's night lenses.
Add interest, and it all towered above the ducal treasury.
Albrecht scoffed as she read the totals. "I supported your rise, boy."
"And you'll continue to," Magnus replied calmly. "With your name. Your seat. Your signature."
"You're asking me to surrender the duchy."
Magnus shook his head. "Only the burdens of ruling it. The title remains yours. The decisions... come through me."
A long silence. Then, with a trembling hand, the Duke signed.
II. Theater of Power
Magnus didn't oust the Duke. No—he elevated him.
A new stage was built in the capital square. There, Albrecht gave rousing speeches written by Tobias. He cut red ribbons at new factories. He toasted the prosperity brought by "partnership with House Veyron."
Behind him, always a step to the left, stood Magnus. Quiet. Watching.
The people saw a noble leading them into a golden age. They cheered their Duke and whispered the name of his "young advisor."
In truth, every law passed was Magnus's draft. Every guild contract bore Helena's seal. Every military allocation came through Rell, now promoted to Strategic Quartermaster of Emberhold.
The Duke ruled.
But Magnus governed.
III. Assembly of Ashes
The other nobles noticed.
Magnus began receiving invitations to council banquets, masked balls, and seasonal hunts. He declined most, attending only those where power tipped one way or another.
At the autumn conclave in Silvermere, he walked through marble arches in a black coat lined with cogwheel motifs. The Duke flanked him, laughing at jokes Magnus never made.
The other lords and ladies watched warily. Some approached. Others avoided him entirely.
Only Duchess Elara of Blackford spoke plainly.
"You've turned our game into a board of iron and steam," she said, sipping wine as she studied him from behind veiled eyes.
Magnus smiled. "Would you like to learn the rules?"
"And if I already know them?"
"Then we should talk more often."
Their eyes locked. For the first time, Magnus didn't feel in control.
IV. Strings and Steel
Back in Emberhold, Tobias handed him the latest reports:
The first Iron Vanguard barracks completed, outfitted with steam-powered weapons.
Five barons now indebted through loans or technology leases.
Whispers of rebellion in Riverrun, quelled by strategic textile shortages.
"The nobles know you're pulling strings," Tobias said.
"Let them," Magnus replied. "Fear breeds loyalty faster than gold."
"But it also breeds plots."
"Then we'll give them an enemy they fear more."
He unfurled the blueprint of a new invention: The Cinderwolf. A four-legged automaton built from bronze and carbon steel, powered by internal steam gyros, capable of patrolling without sleep.
"Deploy two to Riverrun," he ordered. "Tell them they're a gift from the Duke."
"And the other provinces?"
Magnus grinned. "Let them ask. Let them beg."
V. The Mask Cracks
One evening, Magnus sat alone in his forge—no servants, no advisors, only the whisper of flames and the clink of hammer on steel.
He held the first plate of a prototype breastplate, etched with the crest of the Iron Vanguard: a clenched fist encircled by gear spokes.
"Was this what you wanted, father?" he murmured.
The forge didn't answer. Only the fire, eternal and hungry.
A noise behind him. Helena entered, coat dusted with frost.
"You missed supper with the Duke."
"He eats like a fool and drinks like a corpse."
"He asked about your mother."
Magnus said nothing.
After a moment, Helena sat beside him. "You don't have to do this alone."
He stared at the fire. "I was born alone."
She didn't speak after that. Just stayed until the coals dimmed.
VI. A Puppet No Longer
A month later, Duke Albrecht fell ill.
Magnus ordered the best physicians, imported from three duchies. But no cure was found. Some whispered poison. Others, fate.
On the night the Duke died, Magnus held the death certificate, written in Helena's hand. Signed by the physicians. Stamped with the crest of the ducal court.
He walked into the council chamber and stood before the remaining lords of Emberhold.
"No succession crisis," he said plainly. "The Duke has named me his Executor."
"And the heir?" asked a trembling cousin.
Magnus turned to him. "There is no heir."
That night, the city bells tolled not in mourning, but in announcement.
The Lord-Regent of Emberhold had risen.
And no one dared challenge him.