The salt-mist from the harbor was a distant threat, held at bay by the Iron-Crest's pressurized air-locks, but the atmosphere inside the Great Foundry was reaching its own boiling point. Standing amidst the titanic pistons and glowing copper coils were the heirs of the Iron-Wastes: Freya Ashford and her elder brother Frederick.
Unlike the Southern diplomats, the Ashfords looked like they had been forged in a furnace. Frederick (27) was a pillar of scarred leather and iron plates, his gaze heavy with the pragmatism of a man who ruled a land where coal was more valuable than life. Freya (22), however, was a whirlwind of frantic energy, her fingers dancing over a prototype "Shock-Glove" that hissed with erratic blue sparks.
"The South wants to dissolve your wires, Priscilla," Frederick said, his voice a gravelly rumble that cut through the hiss of the steam. "But my people are freezing. The coal-seams in the Wastes are running thin. My father wants your turbines to keep our cities from becoming ice-tombs. I, however, want to know if your 'Grid' can power a siege-engine."
Priscilla stood at the central control pulpit, her hand resting on the master throttle. "Your people are freezing because you're still burning rocks like cavemen, Frederick. The Wastes don't need coal; they need a thermal-exchange loop. But I don't give away my math for free."
"I'm not asking for a gift," Freya interrupted, stepping forward. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the violet glow of the foundry's primary capacitor. "I've seen the way your 'Integrated' move. It's a rhythmic, oscillating pulse. You've bypassed the chemical neurotransmitters and gone straight for the electrical."
Freya raised her glove, the brass coils around her forearm whining as they gathered a charge. "But your shielding is flawed. You're using obsidian dust to block the feedback, but it's too brittle. My shock-glove uses liquid mercury-conductors. If I touch your main relay, I can hijack the frequency of every worker in this building."
"A bold claim," Priscilla said, her baddie smirk sharpening. "But hijacking a frequency is easy. Maintaining the stability of the host's heart rate while doing it? That's the part your glove will fail at."
"Is that a challenge, Architect?" Frederick asked, his hand moving to the hilt of a massive, steam-assisted broadsword.
"It's a demonstration," Priscilla replied. She signaled to Silas, who was watching from the rafters.
Silas dropped a heavy iron crate into the center of the floor. It contained a "Static-Drone"—a spherical machine bristling with copper needles. "Freya, if you can shut down this drone using your glove before it drains your glove's battery, I'll give you the blueprints for the thermal-loop. If you fail... you give me the mining rights to the Ashford Magnetite veins."
Freya didn't hesitate. She lunged, her glove roaring as she unleashed a concentrated arc of electricity. The drone spun, its needles humming as it created a counter-magnetic field. The two forces clashed in the air, creating a blinding sphere of white light that smelled of ozone and melting brass.
As the light faded, Freya was on one knee, her glove smoking and dead. The drone remained hovering, its violet light steady.
"You focused on the voltage, Freya," Priscilla said, stepping down from the pulpit. "You forgot that in a closed system, the one with the higher resistance wins. Your glove overheated because you didn't provide a ground."
Frederick looked at the drone, then at his sister, then finally at Priscilla. He saw more than just a girl; he saw a sovereign who understood the fundamental laws of the universe.
"The Magnetite veins are yours," Frederick said, his voice heavy with respect. "But the South is still coming with their salt-bombs. If your Grid fails, our deal dies with it."
"The Grid won't fail," Priscilla said, her golden eyes flashing. "Because now, I have the magnetite to build the world's first electromagnetic shield. Silas, get the drills ready. We have a harbor to protect."