After the talk with Reitz, Ezra didn't go directly to Draffen and lay out his plans for infrastructure improvements. From his conversation with Draffen, he already had a rough idea of what kind of person he was. Draffen leaned toward practical application; he was the sort of man you had to convince through actions and overwhelming evidence. In Ezra's opinion, that wasn't just fitting for the Master of Works—it was also the type of personality Ezra resonated with. If he won Draffen over, any other projects he had in mind would be easier to implement with him on his side.
He needed to start small. During his exploration and observation, he'd seen several inefficiencies in how the offices conducted their work, but any suggestions coming from him would be shut down immediately. No one would listen to some child's ideas about how an office should be run. Even if he could somehow convince Reitz—which he doubted—he didn't want to risk offending people or forcing his own way. That was not only prone to malicious compliance, but would invite other forms of pushback that would only create more inefficiency. It would be better to show, not tell.
Even he wouldn't take himself seriously if the situation were reversed. So a plan formed in his mind. He needed something that would establish credibility and competence immediately. There were several low-hanging fruit he could target, but given the nature of bureaucracy in Bren, the most impactful—practically—was the printing press. But rather than a Guttenberg or movable type he had an entirely different design in mind.
He had already understood the capability of Bren from a materials standpoint, so he was going to make some very generous modifications to his "printing press"—modifications that would also make it hard to copy. The concept could spread into widespread usage, but what he had in mind was much more sophisticated.
With the sophistication of Bren's bureaucracy came a paper industry. And with paper came people—junior scribes, clerks, and other literate commoners in relative abundance. During his wandering through the Castle Offices, Ezra had noted that each of the major offices in Bren had fifty or more scribes each. Rolls had a hundred scribes, on top of other clerks. But that was just the tip of the iceberg; it didn't even account for the satellite offices in the inner and outer ring, each with their own clerks and runners.
Ezra's desired outcome was a reduction in manual copying—funneling those hands into something more productive than what he considered menial work. Scribe work and clerical work were respected among commoners. But there was no centralized, universal education. Most commoners who could do literacy work were Kanzlei, if Ezra could call it that: a caste born and raised in the system, keeping its own methods of instruction and its own internal expectations.
The Kanzlei were trained through apprenticeship rather than tutors. They kept information close. They kept their training close. And because the caste existed throughout the Empire, anyone who needed someone literate could find one quickly. The downside was the other half of caste: arrogance, and a tendency to keep to themselves, a habit of gatekeeping that Ezra didn't like.
With the device Ezra planned, he was hoping to free enough people to give him enough hands for what he planned next.
He thought it was funny that instead of being a scientist, right now he was primarily a politician, economist, and engineer rolled into one.
For now, his base of operations was a section of courtyard within the castle. He had his retinue in tow.
Wood and tools had been laid out on makeshift tables. Everything was temporary. He didn't care. Comfort came after proof.
On the central table Ezra laid out what he'd taken from the castle stores: spare hinges, a box of nails, several strips and blocks of ironwood, a small sack of fine ash, and—most important—two pouches of wax taken from the chandlery.
A bucket sat beside them, already half-full of water. Another bucket had been set near the brazier, for ash.
Hearth came in last and set down a small pot and a bundle of dark amber lumps wrapped in cloth.
Ezra pointed at it. "Is that the resin we got from the carpenter's guild?"
Hearth nodded once. "Aye. Rosin."
"Okay," Ezra said. "Put it there. Next to the wax."
"The wax bucket?" Hearth asked, glancing between the table and the pouches.
"Yes," Ezra said. "That one."
Caspian leaned forward, eyes on the bundles and the blocks of ironwood. "What are we making?"
"A press," Ezra said.
Galwell blinked like he'd misheard.
"A what now?" Galwell asked. "A press?" He leaned in, frownin' at the table. "Like the screw y'use to squeeze a barrel dry? For paper?" He blinked at Ezra, still not followin'. "I thought you had some plan to make them maesters listen to you. What's this got to do with that?"
"This will help," Ezra said. "Not yet. Later."
Galwell pulled back a little, still squinting. "That don' explain nothin'."
"It's not supposed to," Ezra said. "Not until it works."
Dynham looked at the table, then back at Galwell. "You can call it a barrel-screw if you like." He shrugged. "When has the boy's thinking not helped? Anticourt didn't go to hell by luck."
Galwell shrugged, palms up. "I just don' get it. Not that I don' have faith. I just wanna understand."
"You will," Ezra said. "After."
He looked around at them, small and steady like he was calling a drill.
"Do you have the measuring sticks I gave you?" Ezra asked.
"Aye," Galwell said at once.
Dynham nodded. "Aye."
Hearth gave a short nod as well, and Caspian looked down like he was checking he hadn't lost his.
Ezra had cut them himself earlier—meter sticks, straight and precise, marked the same way on each edge. It saved him from having to argue with "about this much."
"Good," Ezra said. "Galwell. Dynham. You work on this."
He handed them paper with the plan for a frame.
"It shouldn't wobble," Ezra said. "It has to lay flat."
Galwell took the plan carefully, like he was afraid his fingers might smudge it. "Aye."
Dynham glanced at the sheet once and nodded. "We'll do it."
"Stick to the design," Ezra said. "I'll check it after."
He looked past them.
"Hearth. Caspian," Ezra said. "Support them. Don't let them do it alone. Give them tasks and make them do the motions."
Caspian hesitated. "I can cut?"
"You can hold," Ezra said. "And you can measure. If you can do more, you will."
Caspian swallowed and nodded quickly.
Ezra turned back to Hearth. "And when you run mana, use what I told you. Not force. Control. Threads."
Hearth grunted once, like he didn't like being taught by a toddler but had already decided he liked results.
Ezra pointed at the pot and resin.
"I'm going to experiment with mixes and proportions," he said. "Wax. Resin. Ash."
He looked at the others again.
"On second thought, Hearth, you come with me. I'll have you pour the mixes while I record them."
"We talk before lunch," Ezra said. "We list what worked and what didn't."
He held their eyes one by one, the way Reitz did in council meetings.
"Got it?"
"Aye," Galwell said.
"Got it," Caspian echoed, a half-beat later.
Dynham's mouth twitched. "Aye."
Hearth nodded once. "Aye."
Ezra nodded once and turned back to the table.
He took the wax pouches, felt their weight, then set them down again like he was deciding how much to waste on purpose.
"Hearth," Ezra said. "Make sure the pot doesn't boil over. I can check on it from time to time and I know the temperature, but you should be able to tell it on your own."
Hearth moved the pot over the brazier and began breaking the wax into chunks with the back of a knife.
"For now let's try half of that, half of the other. See what I did?" Ezra asked. Before he executed everything, he'd had measuring cups made out of ironwood. It wasn't exactly ideal, but he had carved enough that could be used. The objective of today wasn't just to make the press, but to make it a teaching moment.
"So do you know what we are actually doing? Hearth?" Ezra asked.
Hearth looked at him, bewildered. "Ugh? Mixing things?"
"I meant the process," Ezra said.
"Process?"
"Yes," Ezra said. "Right now we are collecting data. We want to be able to get the right proportions so that we can repeat the same mixture again."
"Got it?"
"Yes, milord."
"Alright," Ezra said. "Pour and stir."
Ezra and Hearth spent half the day just testing out mixes. As they were about to finish, Ezra asked Hearth a question.
"Do you know why I asked you specifically?"
Hearth shook his head. "No, milord."
"Well it's because, when the time comes, I want you to liaise with the actual craftsmen and carpenters for this mix," Ezra said. "It's easier to explain when you have done this yourself."
Hearth nodded.
"Also I noticed you are better articulated than Caspian," Ezra said. "You got a better head start in Abrosite. You were raised as a noble, so I know you can better carry yourself." Ezra paused and looked Hearth in the eye. "I know right now this doesn't look like much. But trust me when I say this will really be a big deal in the future."
Hearth looked at Ezra curiously, then replied, "Aye, milord."
When lunch break came, they reconvened.
Galwell came in first with Dynham behind him, both of them carrying the ironwood frame pieces like they were trying not to insult Ezra by letting anything scrape.
Galwell set the pieces down on the table. "Alright," he said. "We got it close. Don't bite my head off."
Dynham didn't add anything. He just looked at Ezra and waited.
Ezra looked at the frame.
He pressed down on one corner, then the other, then ran his hand along the long edge—no rock, no wobble.
"Good," Ezra said. "It lays flat."
Galwell let out a breath like he'd been holding it. "Aye."
Ezra pointed at the rails. "Now show me the carriage."
Dynham slid the bed block between the two ironwood rails and pushed it forward.
It moved, then caught, then jumped.
Galwell grimaced. "It binds."
"It shouldn't," Ezra said.
Galwell shrugged, palms out. "It's wood."
Ezra didn't answer right away. His eyes went distant for a breath as AMP bit into the length of the rails. It wasn't straight enough. A taper so slight it would pass any normal inspection. A twist that only showed when the block met it.
He picked up charcoal and drew a thin line along one rail, then tapped two spots.
"Here," he said. "And here."
Galwell leaned in. "That looks straight."
"It isn't," Ezra said.
He took a knife. Not a chisel—too coarse. A knife with a clean edge.
"Watch," Ezra said as he activated AMP tracing the path.
He steadied the rail with one hand with mana reinforcement in his fingers so they wouldn't slip. Then he shaved a curl of ironwood off the marked spot. The shaving was thin enough it barely made sound when it fell.
He checked again.
Another curl.
Then he pushed the bed block forward.
It moved smoother, but it wasn't perfect, but now It didn't jump.
Ezra set the knife down and looked at Galwell.
"Now you," Ezra said. "Measure. Mark. Shave. Measure again. Don't guess."
Galwell stared at the rail like it had offended him personally. "Aye."
Dynham took the measuring stick and set it to the rail, squinting like he was sighting a bow. He marked with charcoal. Galwell shaved. Dynham checked. They repeated it without talking much.
Hearth and Caspian came in as they worked, carrying a small bundle of cloth and a pot that still smelled faintly of wax.
Caspian looked relieved to have something he could carry and not ruin.
Hearth set the pot down near Ezra. "Your mixes."
Ezra nodded once and glanced at the marks he'd scratched into a strip of ironwood earlier—simple numbers, each tied to a cup ratio.
"How many?" Ezra asked.
"Six," Hearth said.
Ezra pointed to the cooled sheets stacked beside the pot. "Which one held best?"
Hearth picked up two and flexed them.
"This one tears less," he said. "Edges don't string."
Ezra nodded. "And the other?"
"It holds shape," Hearth said, "but cracks if you push toPressing Inko deep."
Ezra nodded again. "So we use the first one. For now."
Caspian leaned closer, careful not to touch the sheets. "So… we can start punching?"
"Yes," Ezra said. "After the carriage moves clean."
Dynham slid the bed again.
It still caught once, but it was better.
Ezra watched for a breath, then nodded.
"Good enough," he said. "We can test."
Galwell frowned. "Good enough don't sound like you."
"It's a prototype," Ezra said. "We learn."
Ezra reached into his pouch and poured out the punches on the table. Tiny metal blocks, each with a raised glyph on its face.
They clinked as they hit the wood.
Caspian's eyes widened. "Those are the letters."
"Some of them," Ezra said.
Galwell picked one up between thick fingers and squinted. "Backwards."
"It has to be," Ezra said. "When you press it, it reads right."
Dynham turned one in his hand, then set it down with care. "So this goes here."
He pointed to the punch mount.
Ezra nodded once. "Yes."
He took the selected punch—one of the simpler glyphs without enclosed loops—and set it into the mount. He checked it twice, then looked at Caspian.
"Hold the corner stop," Ezra said.
Caspian swallowed and put two fingers on the ironwood stop block. "Like this?"
"Yes," Ezra said. "Don't press. Just hold."
Ezra set one of the waxed linen sheets on the bed and pushed it into the corner. He clamped it down.
"Watch," Ezra said.
He pulled the handle down, heard the thunk, then lifted it to reveal a clean hole.
Caspian blinked. "It cut it."
Ezra nodded once. He slid the bed to the next notch and pressed again.
Thunk—then again. He lifted the sheet and held it up; the holes sat evenly spaced in a straight line.
Galwell leaned in. "Alright. That part I see."
Dynham's eyes stayed on the sheet. "Do the round one."
Ezra didn't answer. He swapped punches—one with an enclosed loop—and pressed.
Thunk.
When he lifted it, the center piece fell out of the wax and left a gap that shouldn't be there.
Caspian flinched. "It broke."
"It didn't break," Ezra said. "That's the problem."
Galwell frowned. "So it don't work."
"It works," Ezra said. "Not with that shape."
He took charcoal and drew the glyph on a scrap, then drew two thin bars across its enclosed space.
Caspian stared. "You're changing the letter."
"I'm changing how it prints," Ezra corrected. "The meaning stays. The shape changes."
Dynham watched the drawing and nodded once. "Like a seal. Same name, different hand."
Ezra looked up at him. "Yes."
Hearth exhaled through his nose. "So we need new punches."
"Yes," Ezra said. "Later. Not now."
He looked at the cut stencil again, then at the table.
"Now ink," Ezra said.
Galwell blinked. "Ink?"
"Yes," Ezra said. "Stencil is nothing without ink. So I've collected some mixes of lampblack and oil. I tested the mixes as Hearth was testing the resin mix."
"Don't we have ink, already?" Dynham asked.
"That sort of ink runs for our purpose. We can't use it," Ezra replied.
Ezra took a sheet of paper, laid the stencil sheet over it in the frame, and aligned it to the corner stops. He used a rough dauber—cloth wrapped around a wad—to press ink through the holes.
He lifted the frame.
Then Hearth said, flatly, "That's writing."
Galwell stared at the page. "You did that without a pen. Just… dabbin'."
Dynham exhaled once. "If you can make ten of those before dinner, Maester Rowan will start hogging this."
"That's why we make more. This is just the first version of it. This is what they'll see, but we'll try our hand more with other versions."
Caspian reached for the sheet, then stopped himself and looked at Ezra instead. "Can we do another?"
Ezra nodded once.
"Yes," he said. "That's the point."
He set the stencil back, aligned the paper to the stops, and dabbed again.
A second copy.
Then a third.
The fourth was already faster.
By the tenth, Hearth had stopped looking skeptical and started looking irritated at the world for not having done it first.
Ezra watched the ink settle, watched the stencil hold its shape, watched the letters stay consistent from sheet to sheet.
In his head, the next steps assembled themselves automatically: standard sheets, measured mixture, storage racks, run counts, custody.
"So this is what you had in mind, Sire?" Galwell asked, eyes on the page. "That's what you were buildin'."
Ezra nodded.
"Are you plannin' to sell it, Sire?" Galwell asked. "Ironbale's got routes and tongues. Give me leave and I can have merchants lined up, coin in hand. This thing'll pay."
"That is one of the plans," Ezra admitted. "Though, I think this is something that would bring me more leverage in Bren, rather than elsewhere."
Ezra was happy about the success of the first day. While he knew that it would work in his mind, building it was different. He didn't know if he could get the mix for the stencil properly, but he cheated a little bit with AMP. What he had made was something far less like the original printing press, and more like a stencil punch. He used the wax, linen, ash, and resin mix to harden so they could use it as a stencil sheet. This was then loaded to the punch machine, where it punched out the aligned letters. Once that was done the stencil was then dropped off to the press with his custom ink, and finally pressed onto a sheet.
They spent three more days iterating over the initial build and working on the resin, wax, ash mix and the ink mix, by this time Ezra was satisfied enough to present the Stencil Punch and Ink Press to Reitz's council.
By the time Ezra walked into council, he wasn't bringing an idea, but a machine—a machine that would pull a child not yet four into Bren's orbit of power.