By the time the estate came into view, dawn had barely touched the sky. A gray wash lingered over the fields like ash on parchment, and mist clung low to the earth, curling around Leonel's boots as he moved along the outer edge of the fence line.
The pup shifted in the satchel slung over his shoulder, its breath shallow, its weight a reminder against his side. Every step jostled its wound, but he couldn't do anything about that until they were hidden.
The side gate creaked just enough to make him wince. A quick glance at the manor's upper windows revealed no lights, no silhouettes.
Good. Still asleep.
He slipped through the side yard and crossed to the old stables. The doors had warped in their frames, one hanging half off its hinge, the other swollen with moisture. It took a shove of his shoulder to get inside.
The smell hit him first—damp hay, sour straw, old manure. A memory of what the place used to be. Horses hadn't lived here in years.
He moved to the back, past the rusted troughs and the broken railings, until he found the last stall. A tarp hung in one corner like someone had meant to return and never did. Beneath it, a cot still sat tucked between support beams, its frame bent and canvas sagging.
Carefully, he knelt and slid the satchel open.
The pup didn't move.
"Sable," he murmured, testing the name again.
It didn't twitch.
He eased the creature onto the cot. Blood had soaked through the bandage, dark and sticky. The gash along its ribs had clotted badly, but it was still open in places—red and raw.
Leonel set the satchel aside and dug into his pockets. The flask he'd filled at the stream was nearly empty, but it would do.
He poured a little into a scrap of cloth, then hovered over the wound.
"This is going to sting," he said softly.
When the vinegar touched flesh, the pup flinched hard, a low whimper rasping from its throat.
"Yeah," Leonel said, voice low. "I know. I'm sorry."
He worked carefully, wiping blood away, pressing where he had to, tying fresh strips of cloth around its side. He had no medical training—just memory. Just instinct. He remembered a documentary once, about field surgeons in the Amazon using alcohol and cloth and hope.
It would have to be enough.
When the work was done, he leaned back and exhaled. His hands were shaking.
There wasn't much food in the stable. Just some dried crusts in a feed bin, half-buried under dust. He soaked them in water, mashed them into a pulp, and held a small piece up to the pup's nose.
It didn't react at first.
Then it sniffed once, weak and slow. Its tongue flicked out, brushed the bread, then retreated.
Leonel tried again. Closer. Gentler.
This time, the pup opened its eyes—just a sliver—and took the food from his fingers.
A breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding slipped out of him. Relief, slow and heavy.
"Good," he whispered. "You're not giving up on me."
The pup finished the rest in quiet bites. Afterward, it shifted closer, curling into the folds of the cot, head resting near Leonel's knee.
He didn't move.
Minutes passed.
Outside, the first birds began to call. The mist lifted slightly.
Leonel reached out, ran his fingers through the fur behind its ear. It was coarse in some places, soft in others, still matted with dried blood. But underneath it all, there was warmth. Life. Something that refused to die.
"You're not just some mutt, are you?"
The pup flicked one ear.
A smile tugged at the corner of Leonel's mouth.
"Sable," he said again. "That's what I'll call you."
The name felt right.
Not dramatic. Not magical. Just… right.
He stayed there a while longer, watching the pup breathe, counting the rise and fall of its chest.
When he finally stood, the weight of fatigue slammed into his shoulders. But something else pressed beneath it—something sharper.
Purpose.
He grabbed the satchel, slung it back over his shoulder, and cast one last glance toward the cot.
"Rest now, Sable," he murmured. "I've got work to do."
The stable door shut behind him with a reluctant groan, the latch clinking quietly in the half-light.
Morning hadn't yet broken clean. The estate still slept, wrapped in the hush before dawn. Leonel didn't return to his room. Instead, he cut across the rear courtyard, past weeds pushing through cobblestones, and ducked into the lower hall where dust gathered like intent — thick, undisturbed, and ignored.
The workshop sat at the end of a crooked corridor, half-forgotten beneath the estate's west wing. It hadn't been touched since his uncle died — a smith turned tinker turned hermit. Leonel hadn't even dared enter until now.
Inside, everything felt like a ghost of usefulness.
Scraps of twisted metal lay in crates. Tools rested on hooks coated in rust. A workbench stood beneath a grimy window, its surface cracked and ink-stained. Cobwebs veiled the corners. The air held that strange scent of old oil and old paper — time sealed in wood and iron.
Leonel lit two candles and set them on opposite sides of the table.
Then he rolled up his sleeves.
Blueprint parchment came next, laid flat and smoothed with both hands. A sharpened quill. A jar of thinned charcoal ink. His notebook—still half-filled with sketches and system entries—open to a blank page beside him.
His fingers hovered for a moment.
Earth design. This world's logic.
He could almost hear his old team's voices back in the lab. The way they'd argued over stabilizer widths and pressure caps, how they'd rolled their eyes when he demanded field durability over aesthetic. It felt like reaching into another life—one that still echoed in muscle memory.
The first lines came slow.
A flattened cylinder frame. Tapered front. Alloy segments where enchantment runes would hold. The ink core needed internal insulation and a modular feed—slight flex near the tip to imitate a quill's pressure but controlled, even.
He added a note: Capillary rune must activate on draw, not rest.
Then came the reservoir chamber. He modeled it after a fluid capsule valve he once helped develop for battlefield injectors—pressurized but steady, even when tossed, slammed, frozen, or heated.
Leonel leaned in, eyes narrowing.
What he was building wasn't magic. Not in the way this world knew it.
It was precision.
It was control.
And if it worked, it would revolutionize how they scribed, enchanted, communicated.
He didn't stop when the candle burned low. Didn't stop when his hand cramped. He refilled the ink once, twice. Adjusted a line. Redrew a section. Calculated the alloy's melting point in the margins.
The world outside narrowed until it became ink and line and light.
When his chin finally dropped to the table, he was already asleep.
Day broke without fanfare.
A rooster called from somewhere behind the manor. Leonel stirred, blinking at parchment smudged beneath his cheek. The candle had guttered out hours ago.
He sat up slowly.
The blueprint was complete.
Not perfect—there were things he'd change later—but it was functional. Tangible. The kind of thing someone could build.
He rolled the plans into a tight tube, tied it with a strip of cloth, and tucked it under his arm.
The blacksmith wasn't far.
Old Man Haldrik had been with House Varnhart since Leonel was in short pants. Built like a chimney and twice as sooty, the man was mostly beard and elbows these days, but his hands still remembered steel.
He squinted at the blueprint for a full minute before snorting through his nose.
"Pens?" he asked, scratching his scalp with a pair of tongs. "You want me to forge pens?"
"Fifty," Leonel replied. "Exactly as drawn. Use Silverweave if we have any. If not, mirror alloy."
Haldrik grunted. "And you're paying me with what? Gratitude?"
"House funds." Leonel didn't blink. "Father gave me seventy gold. This is the first stage."
The blacksmith muttered something about nobles and nonsense, but he took the plans.
Leonel left before the man could change his mind.
The magic tower stood at the edge of town like a crooked needle piercing the sky. Four stories of stone, barely held together by enchantment and ego. Mages didn't come from money—but they hoarded knowledge like dragons.
Inside, the clerk barely looked up from his scroll.
"Laboratory access?" he repeated, voice flat. "Five gold coins, nonrefundable. Additional damages are your responsibility."
Leonel placed the pouch on the counter.
Clink.
The clerk's tone changed. "Ah. This way, Lord Varnhart."
The lab smelled of ink and sulfur and boiled parchment. Glassware lined the tables—half-filled flasks, dried herbs, melted wax bowls. Runes were etched into the very brick beneath the floors.
Leonel ignored most of it.
He had his own recipe.
He boiled the Myrrhroot resin first, stirring until it thickened. Crushed Ashbark pulp came next, scraped into the base. Crystal flecks—small, unstable, necessary—were added last, dissolving just enough to bind the mana without overwhelming it.
Three filters later, the ink ran clear and violet.
He funneled it into vials, each one stoppered, marked, and set aside.
Fifty in total.
Each with potential.
The last vial clicked into place.
Leonel sat back, fingers stained deep purple, lips dry, spine aching.
Outside, the light had thinned—afternoon bleeding toward dusk. Behind the tall arched window, two mage apprentices stood in the corridor, pressed against the glass.
They weren't laughing anymore.
One whispered something and scribbled a note.
Leonel lifted the case, turned without a word, and walked for the exit.
Let them whisper.
Let them wonder.
They wouldn't be laughing when they saw what came next.