Rycharde arrived with Evered and Oswyn in Bren after their long escort mission. Upon arriving in the inner ward, they left their horses to the grooms and dismounted, their armor still coated in road dust. They walked toward the Castle gates where they were identified by the sentries and permitted to proceed.
They went up a few flights of stone stairs. They found an open door that had several messengers going in and out. The tactile, rhythmic hum of the stencil punches reverberated onto the castle walls. Rycharde stopped for a moment and checked the corridor markers to ensure they were on the right floor.
A fifteen-year-old attendant met them outside the doorway and greeted them as another messenger bowed to the knights and walked past. "Sers, I am Hugo zu Bren of the Press Office. I am currently the one overseeing appointments. Might I ask, what your purpose is today?"
Rycharde paused, taken aback for a bit by the formal efficiency. "Good Scribe, Sir Rycharde Cindemere. I have come to meet with the heir of House Blackfyre, Lord Ezra Blackfyre. I was told he would be in this office."
Hugo smiled. "Ahh, yes Sir Rycharde, I have heard a lot of you from Lord Ezra and Sir Galwell. They will be inside further back. It was a good thing that you came at this moment, else they would have left for the furnace construction."
Rycharde nodded, and Hugo had them escorted by a clerk through the maze of desks to where Ezra and his core attendants were.
Upon arriving, Ezra hopped down from his drafting chair and greeted them.
Ezra still had the gait of a grown adult, but much less so. To Rycharde, it was a mechanical mismatch—there was no wasted motion, no hesitation, and his eyes stayed level on the room instead of watching the floor. But somehow it felt less eerie now, much different from when he was two. It felt much more natural and much more "him." Rycharde also noticed that Ezra's field was smoother, like less mana was being used, but he couldn't tell for sure.
"Rycharde, Evered, Oswyn. It's been a while."
Everyone bowed and returned the greeting, but Rycharde followed it up.
"Aye, milord. This is my first time seeing this office. Will this be your first official station as a member of Lord Blackfyre's privy council?" Rycharde chuckled.
Ezra, however, looked curiously and took the question seriously. "Uhh, do you mean that I will stay in this position?"
Ezra shook his head. "No, I won't. I think there are much more important things than running a publication and licensure office and an over-glorified PR department. I'll just build the infrastructure first and hand it off to someone I can trust. I am trying to hand it off to someone else as soon as they meet certain criteria. For important decisions I would still intervene of course, so far there isn't anyone that meets it yet. Maybe in a few more years."
Rycharde paused. He tried to deconstruct what Ezra had just said. "PR Department, milord, and a publication office?"
"Uhh, when I meant PR I meant public relations. It manages how the populace and peers look at Castle Blackfyre."
Rycharde went pensive for a beat, trying to digest his words. He understood the gist. If one did manage how someone would perceive House Blackfyre, that would mean no revolts, but the way Ezra had described it was more foreign somehow.
"Is it like an Intelligencer office?" Rycharde then followed up.
"Something akin to it but entirely different, some responsibilities do overlap. But the office would need to make most of the population literate for it to make a bigger impact." Ezra nodded.
Delmon's eyes widened at the statement, the scribe almost dropping the stack of papers he was holding.
Something in Delmon clicked into place.
Ever since his earliest memories, Rycharde had noticed Ezra's manner of speaking was off. He had attributed it to a child's understanding. Ezra would often use a string of words that were not commonly spoken in succession, and somehow gave them meaning that made sense in the context of what was being spoken.
"And the publication means what exactly, milord?"
"Oh, that means the duplication and distribution of books and other material to be consumed by reading."
Rycharde again contemplated and noted the word. At least now they had a handle for the action to describe what was being done.
Ezra spoke again. "Will you be staying this time? I believe the paperwork for you to be transferred as my own Knights has been done. I saw it myself in Kestel's office."
"We indeed have completed the final assignment as escort for the cores. We handed it off to the Imperial Escort designated to deliver cores directly to Rexasticus." Rycharde nodded.
"However, I took one more assignment. I can decline if you so command me to. It's just that this assignment pertains to the delivery of a press set to my father's Barony."
"Hmm," Ezra nodded. "That's alright, it's fine with me. I'll just see you guys when you get back."
The conversation with Ezra continued and they discussed things that had happened in Bren while they were away. Ezra spoke of the merchant auctions for the press charters and the new arithmetic he was having the scribes teach to the outer ring children.
He also spoke of the trial he had set with Lord Blackfyre regarding child mortality—filtration boxes at the draw points in two outer wards, with enforcement and maintenance schedules, and a requirement to prove results in the death rolls after a few months. He said he should be getting the cost and labor figures from the Master of Works already, but it got delayed because of the other projects and the added responsibility that Reitz gave the Press Office. He finally discussed the construction of a new type of kiln in the smithing district.
In turn, Rycharde gave a brief tactical report about their assignment. He detailed the ambush they had fought off near the Craggy Rook intersection. He told Ezra that they were no common bandits—they had used spells but were obviously second or first circle. They never made a real push to secure the cargo.
Ezra just nodded. "That's odd, isn't it."
"It is, milord. But I think that they were just putting pressure on us. I believe they were Terros' men. They just wanted enough reason for the Censurae to keep our mines in the Antipass region closed. That way they can choke Lord Reitz. I did give the same report to Lord Blackfyre. There was just something odd."
"Odd? What do you mean?"
"We were attacked by animals. It seemed that they were attacking us solely but I couldn't tell for sure. Wolves."
Ezra's face turned slightly sour.
"Whisperers? Were there shadow walkers among them?"
"There were no shadow walkers. It could be whisperers, but there was no confirmation."
"Remember they can attack from distances far enough to avoid detection. Like what we encountered in Irriton."
Rycharde nodded. "It's best to keep an eye on the situation. We don't have concrete proof, but it wouldn't hurt to be wary. Were there any animal attacks reported nearby?"
"Not that we know of, at least not in a scale where it would be considered coordinated."
Rycharde filed it away in his head.
"Alright, we'll be going along to the kiln," Ezra said. "Are you going to come? You don't need to. I think you need rest, you had just come back."
"I would have to take your offer of rest for now, milord." Rycharde bowed and so did the other knights who were with him.
"Very well." Ezra nodded. "Oh, when will you depart for Baron Cindemere's fief?"
"Tomorrow, milord. If it pleases you that I personally deliver the press to my Lord Father." Rycharde answered.
"That soon? Ahh, then you really do need your rest. The sooner you leave, the sooner you return, right? We'll just go now. Just pass by tomorrow when you're about to leave. I'll just have the clerks prepare the press set for delivery." Ezra bid them goodbye.
While Evered and Oswyn retired to their quarters, Rycharde stayed for a while and observed how the press set was operated. He saw the clerks arrange a set of letters into a frame and then hand it off to someone who had to pull the lever for it to be embossed to the stencil. The resin stencil was placed in a box that had labels and markings. This was then delivered to the other end where laborers placed the sheet carefully and then applied a thick, dark ink over the frame. Another worker pulled a second lever, bringing a heavy flat block down against the paper with a solid thud. When it was lifted, the sheet was peeled away, covered in perfectly uniform text, and set on a rack to dry.
When Rycharde had satiated his curiosity enough, he too retired to his quarters.
The next morning, the inner courtyard was loud with the sounds of staging. Rycharde stood beside a reinforced transport wagon, supervising the laborers as they packed the press set. A few clerks were running around and loaded the packed set along with the resin sheets and ink. The press set had been loaded complete with its own custom storage.
The device had been completely dismantled for transit. The heavy timber frame, reinforced with thick brass fittings, was the largest piece. It required four men and a block-and-tackle to lower it into the wagon bed. Rycharde directed them to position it directly over the rear axle to maintain the wagon's center of gravity.
The delicate components required more attention. The brass letters and stencil punches were separated into wooden cases and packed tightly with sawdust. If the metal shifted and struck against itself on the rough roads, the letters would warp and become useless.
There was another wagon loaded entirely with the consumables—the resin sheets and the specialized lampblack ink. Each stack of sheets and jar of ink had its own container, heavily sealed, numbered, and documented. The office strictly tracked where each batch went to ensure no one was hoarding them. According to the loading clerk, this was the batch of resin sheets allocated for the Barony's use this quarter.
This delivery wasn't part of the initial ten bids. This second batch of presses was strictly for the clerical and personal use of the designated lords. Another writ had recently been issued detailing two distinct charters. The first allowed the holder to print whatever they wished and charge for it—a 'license to publish,' in Ezra's terms.
The administrative distribution charter was strictly for internal usage. To ensure compliance, Ezra had made a physical alteration to this class of press: an unremovable identifier was embedded into the frame, stamping a mark onto every single page it produced. No copies made from this press could be legally sold unless the Press Office was notified beforehand. Any form of mass distribution without pre-approval was strictly barred. If caught, the charter would be revoked immediately, and the possibility of ever acquiring a publishing charter or an administrative distribution charter would become nonexistent.
As a second son, Rycharde would never inherit the Barony, but that did not matter. In the Empire, magic was preserved, making trueblooded kin too precious to scatter. The nobility operated as broad, interconnected Houses. When Rycharde had been elevated to a landed knight, he chose not to take a new surname to found a lesser house. He kept the Cindemere name, legally binding his own awarded lands directly to his father's domain. This meant that even though Rycharde was landed, his lands belonged to House Cindemere.
Delivering this press wasn't just an errand for his father. Reitz had made sure that the knights loyal to Ezra were awarded. The Ironbale Merchants, Galwell's kin, had been in charge of the distribution and creation of the resin sheets and the press ink. Even though technically House Cindemere weren't allowed to make money off the press, since Ezra was the Officer in charge in every way but name, it was easy enough for them to publish anything if they made a request.
Evered walked around the front of the wagon, checking the leather traces and collars on the two draft horses. Oswyn stood at the rear, pulling hard on the ropes to test the tension over the crates.
"It won't shift," Oswyn reported, stepping back. "Tied down tight."
"Good," Rycharde said. "The roads after Mirstone heading out toward the Barony are rough. If that iron frame slides, it will snap an axle."
A clerk from the Press Office hurried across the courtyard, carrying a sealed leather tube. He handed it to Rycharde. Rycharde popped the cap, quickly checked the Blackfyre seal on the writ of transit, and secured the tube to his belt.
As the clerk hurried away, Ezra walked across the courtyard toward the wagons. Rycharde turned and offered a respectful bow.
"Milord. You came to see us off."
"I just wanted to make sure everything was loaded properly," Ezra said. His eyes scanned the heavy crates, checking the tension of the ropes and the weight distribution over the axles. He gave a satisfied nod. "Tell Baron Cindemere that if he needs to request a new stencil punch, he can send word directly to the Press Office, I'll try to prioritize them. Also he shouldn't try to have a local to fix the press if it breaks. Part of the lease is the repairs. The brass tolerances are exact. A local copy will jam the frame."
"I will relay the instructions exactly, milord," Rycharde said.
Ezra looked up at him, his expression turning a fraction more serious. "And keep your eyes open on the road. If you encounter any more 'odd' wolves, don't linger to investigate. Just get the cargo to the Barony."
"Aye. We will not take any unnecessary risks," Rycharde replied, appreciating the tactical directive.
"Good. Safe journey, Rycharde." Ezra stepped back to give the draft horses room.
Rycharde gave a final nod. He turned to his men.
"Mount up," Rycharde ordered.
The knights swung into their saddles. Evered took the vanguard position, his mace resting easy at his hip. Oswyn fell in at the rear, pulling hard on the ropes to test the tension over the crates.
The two clerks sent along with the delivery to oversee the initial installation and operation were in a carriage in the middle of the caravan. They were there to address faults if any part of the press set jammed or shifted. They would remain in the fief for a month to instruct the Baron's men on repairs and proper handling.
They moved out in a tight column. At the main gates of Castle Blackfyre, Rycharde called a halt. He pulled the leather tube from his belt and handed the writ to the captain of the watch. The captain broke the wax, verified the requisition for the equipment, and signaled the men above.
The heavy iron-wood doors swung open, and the portcullis was drawn up with a mechanical clatter.
Rycharde guided his horse through the gate. He listened to the solid, rhythmic grind of the heavily loaded wagon wheels transitioning from the smooth stones of the inner keep to the packed dirt of the outer ring.
Rycharde's eyes looked to the skies and he saw a hawk circling above. He squinted, and then the hawk broke its pattern and left.
"Odd," Rycharde muttered, then turned his head back toward the road.
"Alright. Let's move out."