The Iron Hearth Smithy. Morning.
The Northreach sun rose without conviction. Its pale light crept timidly through the soot-stained gaps of the workshop's wooden roof, failing utterly to banish the biting chill. Inside, however, the atmosphere was the polar opposite. The air was thick, searing, and suffocating—not due to the weather, but because the massive furnace at the center of the room was being pushed far beyond its limits.
"Hotter! Riven, don't let up on that pumping!" Rianor bellowed.
Rianor stood before a workbench coated in white dust. His fine noble robes had been tossed into a corner, replaced by a coarse linen shirt with sleeves rolled past his elbows. His face was smudged with charcoal, a streak across his cheek that he didn't even bother to wipe away.
In the corner, Riven—the eldest—let out a low grunt. Hrrngh! His tree-trunk arms bulged, veins popping like ancient roots as he operated the giant bellows alone. Whoosh! Whoosh! Normally, the contraption required two grown men to move, but Riven operated it with singular focus. Sweat drenched his forehead and back, evaporating instantly under the furnace's radiant heat.
The fire inside roared a violent blue, licking the brick walls with a terrifying hiss.
"Temperature's rising, Brother! The flame has turned bluish-white!" Raveena reported. The young girl wore oversized iron goggles, her eyes glued to the furnace's peephole. "We've definitely cleared fifteen hundred degrees!"
"Good," Rianor nodded, satisfied. He turned to Rumina, who stood rigid in front of the heat.
Rumina held a long iron blowpipe. Her fingers trembled violently, sweat trickling down her tensed neck. In her past life, she was just a teenager obsessed with watercolors and brushes. But here, the muscle memory of the original Lady Rumina was surging, warring with her fear.
"Rumi, focus. You can do this," Aurelia whispered from near the door, wringing a damp towel. "Remember your ceramics class in Bandung? Treat it the same way—just a little more… stinging."
"But this is real fire, Mom… Mother," Rumina corrected nervously, her voice nearly drowned out by the roar of the furnace.
"Listen," Rianor cut in sharply, his tone shifting into cold project-manager mode. "Inside that crucible is a mixture of northern river silica, soda ash, and lime. Chemically, they will fuse into something transparent. People in this world use filthy, iron-rich sand—that's why their glass is as murky as a swamp. But we…" Rianor lifted a handful of white sand he had meticulously washed with vinegar. "We use the pure stuff."
"Now, blow. Don't think. Let your hands do the talking. A simple tumbler. Just a drinking glass."
Gulp. Rumina swallowed hard and nodded.
She dipped the tip of the iron pipe into the molten liquid. Sssst. It was strange. Her hands moved with a precision that defied her own understanding—the miracle of dual memories. She rotated the pipe, gathering a glob of molten glass that glowed a brilliant, lethal orange. As she pulled it out, the heat lashed against her face, flushing her skin crimson.
"Blow!" Rianor commanded.
Rumina blew into the pipe. Her cheeks puffed out. The glowing mass expanded like a living soap bubble, growing steadily under her control. She rolled it across the marver, shaping the base with fluid movements that resembled a dance. Aurelia held her breath, her eyes brimming with tears at the grace of her daughter's movements.
"Cut it!" Rumina suddenly cried out.
Crack! Raveena skillfully severed the neck of the glass using wet iron shears.
The glass detached, still glowing with residual heat. With swift, careful movements, Rumina clamped it and placed it into the annealing oven to cool slowly, preventing it from shattering due to thermal shock.
"One… done," Rumina exhaled. Her legs gave way, and she would have collapsed if Riven hadn't caught her shoulder.
"We wait for it to cool," Rianor said, his eyes gleaming as he stared at the cooling oven. "In one hour, the fate of House Sudrath will be decided."
An hour later, a heavy silence fell over the castle's main hall. Duke Lucian sat in his cracked high chair, Roland standing tall beside him with an expectant look. Rianor stepped forward, carrying a wooden tray covered with a tattered velvet cloth.
"So," Lucian's voice was deep and resonant. "This is the weapon you intend to use against a thirty-five thousand gold coin debt?"
"Precisely, Father," Rianor replied.
"Reveal it."
Rianor pulled the cloth away with a sharp tug. On the tray stood a glass.
It wasn't a glittering gold chalice, nor was it an intricately carved goblet. It was a simple tumbler. And yet… it was nearly invisible. It was so clear that the candlelight passed through its surface without the slightest distortion. There were no bubbles, no disgusting bottle-green tint. It was pure, like water frozen in mid-air.
"Gods above…" Roland gasped. He picked up the glass with trembling hands. "This… this is crystal quality. Back in Bandung, we'd buy this at IKEA for twenty grand, but here…" He held the glass against the morning sun. The light refracted beautifully, pure and flawless.
"In this world, glass this clear is a myth," Rhea added as she entered. She recalled the luxury collections of the Southern nobles, which looked like cloudy pond water compared to this. "This will be seen as magic."
"It's not magic, Rhea. It's basic chemistry," Rianor corrected, wiping his smudged nose. "Father, the overhead is almost zero. Sand from our river, Riven's muscle, and Rumi's courage. Production cost? Free."
"And the selling price?" Lucian asked, his gaze shifting to Roland.
Roland let out a short, sharp laugh—a sound filled with marketing cunning. He set the glass back down as if it were the most precious gemstone on the continent.
"Father, leave that to me. I won't sell this as a 'glass.' That would be an insult," Roland smirked, pacing the floor as his energy boiled over. "We will call it 'The Goddess's Tear.' A holy artifact recently unearthed from the ancient ruins of Northreach. A vessel capable of purifying the flavor of the finest wines."
"You're going to lie?" Lucian arched an eyebrow.
"It's not a lie, Father. It's Branding," Roland adjusted his collar. "We need fast money. We aren't selling this in some muddy market. We're taking it to where the stupidly rich congregate for the sake of prestige."
Roland pointed to a faded map on the wall. "The Border City. The Black Market. There's an underground auction house there. No taxes, no questions asked."
Rianor nodded, though his expression remained solemn. "The risk is high. If bandits catch wind of us carrying valuables on the road…"
Riven stepped forward, his leather armor creaking. He thumped his broad chest with conviction.
"Let them come," Riven said flatly. "My blade is thirsty. I'm tired of pumping air."
Rhea stepped up as well, crossing her arms with a sharp glint in her eyes. "I'm in. Riven is too stiff for the streets; he needs an extra pair of eyes in the back of his head."
Lucian looked at his children. He saw the same fire in their eyes—a fire that had long since been extinguished in the original House Sudrath.
"Very well," Lucian declared firmly. "Rianor, you stay here. Manage production and make sure Rumina doesn't faint again. Roland, you lead the mission. Riven, Rhea… you are your brother's sword and shield."
Lucian stood, his aura pressing down on the room.
"Remember, you are no longer ordinary citizens from Bandung. You are the Wolves of Sudrath. If anyone tries to snatch that glass from your hands…"
"…Then we will break it over their throats," Riven finished coldly.
Lucian allowed a thin smile. "Move out."