Rycharde had been stationed at the Craggy Rook mines for some time. Even though the paperwork naming him Ezra's vassal had finished, he still had to complete this assignment before they could transfer back to Bren. Evered and Oswyn accompanied him, along with two other Knights. Their mission was to escort a caravan of raw cores northward, inland toward Dram Hilde, where Imperial men would take custody and carry the shipment on the next route toward Rexasticus.
Rycharde rode at the head of the convoy. Evered brought his horse up beside him.
"I've heard Lord Ezra's making noise in Bren," Evered said, keeping his voice light.
Rycharde's brow tightened. "You've been getting news?"
"Aye. Fresh off the Avarium yesterday."
"Good," Rycharde said. "If we'd missed it, they'd have sent it back or burned it. What is it?"
Evered's mouth twitched. "From Galwell. You remember those notices we saw? The ones that looked too clean for handwork."
Rycharde snorted. "The ones we swore had to be trueborn scribes showing off."
"The same," Evered said. "Only it wasn't a scribe. Lord Ezra built a contraption for it."
Rycharde shook his head once, half disbelief, half resignation. "Of course he did."
Evered kept his eyes forward, but the grin stayed. "They're posting them all over, apparently. Clear enough that even the drunkards stop to read—well, if they could."
Everyone chuckled.
Rycharde let out a short breath. "He'll be one hell of an Earl."
Oswyn nudged his horse in on Rycharde's left, just close enough to be heard. "Earl?" he said. "I'll take coin he's Primarch by the next Aufsteigfreigh."
Evered gave a quiet laugh. "You're always trying to lose money."
"You don't have faith on Lord Ezra?" Oswyn replied.
"You wound me, it's not faith, its risk. Why risk the next Aufsteighfreigh immediately" Evered chuckled.
Rycharde's smile came and went. "Keep your wagers. Keep your eyes."
A screech cut overhead.
They looked up. A hawk circled once, then climbed and vanished beyond the treeline.
Rycharde watched it a beat too long.
Odd.
They rode on, talking in shorter bursts as the road narrowed toward an intersection.
Oswyn's voice changed first—less banter, more lane call.
"Hold," he barked. "Something's wrong. I feel mana, but I can't place it."
A ball of fire hurtled toward the party.
"To arms!" Rycharde roared. "Bandit attack! Bandit attack!"
The fireball came in low, skimming the road like it had been aimed for wheels, not riders.
Rycharde snapped his hammer up. Mana seated into his shoulders. The swing met the spell mid-flight. Flame burst and split around the hammerhead, heat washing over the lead horses. One stamped and tossed its head, but the driver held.
"Hold the line!" Rycharde barked. "Keep the wagons moving!"
Evered's horse slid up beside him. Oswyn drifted back toward the covered wagons without needing to be told. The other two Knights widened out—one to the rear, one to the right brush—making the convoy less of a single target.
A crossbow twanged from the left ridge. The bolt punched into a sideboard and stuck, vibrating.
Rycharde's eyes tracked the height. Three figures in patched coats—too still for common thieves.
"Ridge," Oswyn called. "They've got height."
Evered lowered his lance. "Should I give chase?"
"Go," Rycharde said. "Make them move."
Evered drove forward at an angle, using trees and uneven ground for cover. Another bolt snapped past his helm.
On the road, men rushed from the right brush—six, maybe seven—hooks and axes meant for traces and spokes. They didn't shout. They ran straight for the wagons.
Rycharde felt his stomach tighten. "They're not here for coin," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "Oswyn—cores."
Oswyn planted at the core wagons, halberd across his body like a bar. The first attacker tried to slip past and reach for the chains.
Oswyn stepped in and cut him down with a short, efficient swing. The man dropped and didn't get back up.
A second attacker raised an axe toward the wagon wheel.
Rycharde met him. One hammer swing broke the axe head and the man's collarbone with it. He folded to the road, choking on pain.
"Back!" Rycharde roared at the rest. "Off the traces!"
They hesitated.
That was when the animals hit.
A wolf burst from the left brush and latched onto a draft horse's hind leg. The horse screamed and kicked, jerking the traces. Another wolf followed, then a third.
Too many. Too fast. And they didn't move like hungry beasts.
Oswyn's eyes narrowed. He didn't speak. He moved.
He kept his swings short so he wouldn't spook the team, using the halberd's hook to rip one wolf off the horse and throw it hard into the ditch. It yelped and ran. The second took a cut along the ribs and still tried to bite.
Rycharde's hammer came down beside its head, cracking stone and stunning it long enough for Oswyn to finish it clean.
On the ridge, Evered reached the first crossbowman and drove his lance into the man's gut. The second tried to reload; Evered kicked him off balance and smashed his face with the lance butt. Both bodies rolled down the slope.
The third shooter vanished into the trees.
The ground attackers saw the ridge break and the wolves falter. Their urgency changed. They stopped reaching for chains and started stepping back, eyes flicking between the Knights as if waiting for a signal.
Rycharde watched it happen and felt the shape of the ambush: spell to slow, men to seize, animals to break the team.
"Drivers!" Rycharde shouted. "Push through! Don't stop!"
The wagons lurched forward, wheels grinding over broken stone. Oswyn walked with the core wagons, halberd ready, eyes on the brush. Evered returned to the road, breathing controlled, mace now in hand.
The remaining attackers didn't press. They withdrew toward the trees and vanished.
Rycharde didn't pursue. He counted quickly. Horses steady. Drivers intact. Crates untouched.
Oswyn wiped his blade on a rag and looked toward the treeline where the wolves had come from. The brush sat still again.
Evered rode up. "Those weren't bandits," he said quietly. "Too bad we missed the trueborn."
"Aye," Rycharde replied. "They just dressed like them." He nudged his horse forward. "We keep moving. Dram Hilde before dusk."
The convoy rolled north again, toward the inland road and the Imperial exchange point, leaving the intersection quiet behind them.
The censurae hadn't lifted any mining bans for the duration that the audit was still being conducted. For the other fiefdoms who had mining rights on the mountain range, operations had stopped only for a month. For Loria and Fulmen, however, they never stopped. For Loria, it was because there had been a quantity that had been found unaccounted for; for Bren, however, the official reason was because bandits kept targeting the core convoy and that the Censurae wanted to be "thorough." The raids never stopped, but no cores were ever taken.
Bren's council had concluded it was more of a harassment tactic so the Censurae could put pressure on Reitz. Their suspicions lay on Lorian agents than actual bandits. Bandits didn't like to steal cores in the first place; it wasn't just hard to liquidate, but it if you were caught with a core shipment in your hands, the empire would really make an effort to end your whole line. They really didn't mess around with anything magic core or crystal related. Thus, Bren's monetary problems were still there.
The maesters were happy about the press, most especially Maester Rowan. Everytime Ezra came by, he wore a grin, and a look of affection that wore like he had seen his favorite nephew. However, for the time being, the press, stencil punch combination cost more than it saved.
Reitz had ordered vetted carpenters into the castle just so that the plans won't spread. He wanted to keep the technology a secret as much and for as long as he could. He knew that eventually, if the Empire really wanted to, he would be forced to hand it over, but right now, with Reitz's situation and the betrothal of Ezra to the Rex's daughter, he had enough leverage that he was not afraid of them strong arming him into giving it away.
Ezra really wanted to work on the sanitation, but the matters pertaining to his new Office had to be addressed first. On paper, the office was directly overseen by Reitz, but there had been a clause that official duties were to be passed to Ezra on when he was fourteen. But in practice, Reitz let him have all the freedom he needed. He also got around the fact by designing a new seal that identified with the new Press office; any document that pertained to the jurisdiction of the new office was considered also signed by Reitz himself. For the first few weeks of the office, Reitz wanted to make sure that Ezra wouldn't go overboard, so he didn't give the new seal immediately.
During the day that the new Press Office was supposed to be officially inaugurated, Ezra went to Rowan first.
Ezra found Rowan in the records room working and managing
Rowan looked up from a docket as Ezra approached, quill hovering.
"My lord," Rowan said, tone careful. He always used the title when paper was involved.
Ezra held out a folded packet wrapped in oilcloth. It was tied with thin cord and sealed twice—once with the new Press Office mark, once with Reitz's seal beside it.
"You should keep this, Maester Rowan."
Rowan did not take it immediately. His eyes went to the seals first, then back to Ezra.
"What is this?"
"A copy of the plans for the press," Ezra said. "And the punch stencil. Enough detail to rebuild it."
Rowan's brow furrowed. "Why would you hand me this? Lord Blackfyre wants this underwraps."
"This contraption will eventually be copied," Ezra said. His gaze stayed fixed. "If it disappears, or burns, or someone says we stole it from them later, we need a version that predates the argument."
Rowan's quill lowered to the table. "You want record protection."
"Yes," Ezra said. "I already mentioned this to Lord father."
Rowan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Explain."
"Craftsmen make things. Methods. Tools. Sometimes the method is the value. Right now, if someone copies it, the maker has no clean remedy unless he fights. Or begs a lord. That's unstable."
Rowan's expression stayed neutral, but his attention sharpened.
"I was thinking," Ezra continued, "of an office service. A craftsman brings his method in writing. We keep it sealed in the Rolls. We mark the date and the witness. In exchange, the House grants him a limited protection—only he may sell it or allow a person to use it for a number of years. If someone copies it without leave, they are punished and we take their goods."
Rowan finally took the packet. He weighed it in his hands like it was coin.
"You're asking for an exclusive privilege by writ," Rowan said.
"Yes, limited," Ezra replied. "But enough time that a craftsman dares to bring his method into the open."
Rowan's mouth moved into something not quite as smile.
"That language invites challenge," he said. "But if we anchor it in date, witness, and term, it can be made to hold."
"This is all just food for thought, though. I believe Lord father has more important matters to enact. I'd just like to leave to think about the possibilities for another time."
Ezra bid Rowan goodbye, leaving him in a pensive state.
Ezra arrived at the new Press Office and inspected the four newly built machines. Ezra had refined the models to something more sturdy over the past few days. The result were brass fittings where it made sense, and each of the stencil punches' letters were also made of brass. Some junior scribes thought that with the device installed and ready to go, that they would be out of job; to their surprise, their own offices had found something for them to do. With the whole press in place, Maester Rowan now wanted some of older copies of some archived rolls to have a newer version. Ezra chuckled because Jevon's paradox was in full display.
Each of the offices had their own stencil punches, but all the stencil cartridges were processed in the office. Some of the junior scribes that Maester Rowan had recently trained and were on process to be in their office were instead transferred to the Press Office. Rowan insisted on transferring some of the senior scribes, but Ezra declined since he thought that those were the most prideful and stubborn bunch of the Kanzlei, since they were all Kanzlei.
Ezra pulled some strings so that Extos was relieved of training to be a squire; instead, he asked Reitz if he could become an executive assistant of sorts. Before it was approved, Reitz did extensive background checks, and once he was vetted, he was allowed. To lure Extos, Ezra told him that instead of training he would now be making some money by running his Press Office. When asked what it was, Ezra told him it's an office where they made books. Extos went hook line and sinker; he was now registered as an official attendant of Ezra.
Of course, he wouldn't manage it immediately. Ezra would have to oversee it himself for a time.
Ezra found Extos waiting just inside the Press Office door, hands behind his back as if he were reporting for drill instead of clerking.
Three junior scribes stood at a worktable nearby. They were around thirteen to fifteen years old. Their eyes kept flicking to the machines—at the brass fittings, the lever arms.
They eyed Ezra like a curious specimen. They had known from their studies that noble children developed fast. At around four years old, one could converse with a highborn child, and normally by two they would already have known how to count. Ezra, however, was a different matter.
"Right," Ezra said. "Names?"
"Hugo." said the oldest.
"Delmon." added the scrawniest one.
"Louis." said youngest one.
Hugo's throat cleared. "My lord… we are to press notices?"
"No not you three." Ezra replied. "For now we the other clerks are going to do the menial work. From what I understand, being assigned as junior scribes for the Maester of the Rolls," Ezra stared at them, ",you have passed their assessment. Meaning you know arithmetic, and some natural philosophy?"
All three nodded.
"Good."
He slid the three identical books forward. The cover was plain, but the title had been printed cleanly:
Fundamentals of Arithmetic
Press Office Instruction Copy
Delmon touched it with two fingers, as if it might smear.
"This is a… book," he said.
"Yes," Ezra said. "You will study this first."
Delmon leaned in. "We don't have this in the archives."
"Not everything is stored in the archives," Ezra said. "Also, your assignment is to read the book and try to understand it. Using the press isn't that hard; a normal laborer can do it."
The first scribe blinked.
"You need not bother yourself with this today," Ezra said, and didn't offer more. "Listen, there are other things you can help me with, but this isn't it. For the whole week, try to familiarize yourself with this. Next week I will be asking you questions based on the first chapter."
He pointed to the nearest machine.
"For now," his gaze swept all of them, "Your job is to understand the book. Next week you will do work problems with me."
Hugo nodded, swallowing. "My lord?"
"I will need you to help me with something in the future, and for that future to happen you must understand this material first."
The other scribe browsed through the first chapter quickly as Ezra was talking; his eyes widened.
"Bu—but, my lord, have you read this actually?"
"Yes." Ezra nodded decisively. "Now go study it. You three will be here if Maester Rowan needs something else. But your primary task will be to read and understand the book. You may discuss with yourselves."
Extos watched quietly, eyes moving between Ezra and the machines.
Ezra turned to Extos. "Extos."
"For now you just need to familiarize yourself with our process."
"You're my runner inside the office," Ezra said. "You make sure paper comes in, finished sheets go out, and no one walks away with a stencil. You will also log the usage and which department comes."
Extos nodded.
"If a Maester wants a stencil, he signs for it. If he doesn't sign, he doesn't get it." Ezra said.
"I will do as you instruct milord."
"Also, make sure the three scribes understand the textbook. I believe we have discussed this before."
"Yes milord, the numeric system that the book proposes is novel, and the zero placeholder as you have demonstrated prior makes everything so much easier."
"Good," Ezra nodded. "See to it that hey understand at least chapter one by the end of the week. I will check on their progress."
Extos frowned, but then nodded and said, "About the other books, my lord."
Ezra waved him, "Yes, yes, I will give them to you, but we need to copy press them first."
Ezra then turned to Galwell.
Ezra stepped closer to him. "We need lampblack. A steady supply. Not whatever we get from the chandlers."
"Aye," Galwell said. "If it ain't consistent, the print starts lookin' like a drunk scribe did it, an' Rowan'll start smellin' trouble." He glanced at the machines again. "We buyin' it or makin' it?"
"We should make it," Ezra said. "We do a controlled burn, catch the soot on cold plates, grind it down, then bind it with oil."
Galwell nodded slowly. "That's cleaner. An' quieter, if we keep the mouths shut." He leaned closer, voice dropping without losing the accent. "But if we start buyin' oil and scrap in bulk, folk notice. We gotta drip-feed it. Spread it."
Ezra picked up one of the stencil frames and held it so Galwell could see the slots and latch points.
"We standardize them," Ezra said. "Same dimensions, same latch. If one breaks, it gets replaced without a craftsman improvising a new one."
Galwell's eyes narrowed slightly. "That means a workshop."
"A small one," Ezra nodded. "Preferably inside the inner ring. Vetted hands only."
Galwell gave a short exhale. "I can get you charcoal burners and a tinsmith." He paused then gave a quiet laugh. "I'll start on lampblack and the cartridge shop," he said. "I'll send you names before I move anyone. I'll have the materials delivered by the Ironbale Merchants."
"Do that. I've settled matters here. I'm going to go to Maester Draffen next."