Carl stared at the armor frame resting in the forge chamber, mentally reviewing every connection point for the third time that hour. The Prototype—capital P, because this was attempt number four and it deserved respect—stood silent against the stone wall. Bronze plating. Servo joints at shoulders, elbows, hips, knees. Rune channels etched along the limbs in patterns Varnak had approved. A tri-core battery array mounted in the back housing, glowing faintly with stored energy.
Four days of work. And they still couldn't solve the power problem.
Carl adjusted his glasses and glanced at Varnak, whose bronze labor construct form stood near the workbench. The ancient smith's glowing ember-core pulsed steadily as he examined a joint assembly, his integrated tools extending to test the servo's range of motion.
Ember, the repair golem, hummed low and steady near the power housing, manipulating rune-etched strips with delicate care.
"Alright," Carl said, breaking the silence. "Is everything good to go?"
Varnak's construct turned toward him, the voice resonating from somewhere deep in the bronze chest. "Good? No. Functional? Mostly. The servos respond. The runes channel. The plating holds." He paused, and Carl could almost feel the ancient smith's frustration. "But it won't last. Twelve minutes at full power, maybe fifteen if you're gentle. You need Godsteel. Ancientforge alloy. Materials that don't exist anymore."
Carl sighed. "We work with what we have."
Ember made a noise that sounded like resigned acceptance. The repair golem adjusted one final rune strip and stepped back, its work complete.
"Alright." Carl moved toward the armor frame. "Time to test it."
The Prototype was built for a halfling. Carl had taken measurements from his own frame, accounting for the servo-assisted movement and strength multiplication the system provided. In theory, a halfling wearing this could lift ten times their body weight. Move faster. Hit harder.
In theory.
Varnak watched as Carl began the attachment sequence, bronze hands ready to assist. "I remember armor like this," the ancient smith said quietly. "Before the Sundering. Before the clans fell to war. Smiths made walking fortresses for those who defended the Deep Roads. Powered by leyline taps and Godforged cores." He paused. "This is... close. But fragile."
"Fragile beats nothing," Carl muttered, sliding his arms into the frame. The servo joints whirred to life, responding to his movements. The helmet display activated, showing power levels and system status through integrated crystals.
He flexed his fingers. The gauntlets responded smoothly. Good.
He took a step. The leg servos amplified his movement, carrying him forward with more force than intended. He stumbled slightly, catching himself against the workbench.
"Okay. Sensitivity needs adjustment, but—"
The power meter dropped. Seventy percent to fifty-eight in three seconds.
"Wait, that's not—"
The servos locked. All of them. Simultaneously.
Carl froze mid-step, trapped in the armor's frame as the tri-core battery array began a catastrophic feedback loop. Heat built against his back. The runes flared too bright.
"Varnak!"
The bronze construct moved with impossible speed, wrenching the back housing open with integrated tools. Ember rushed in, manipulating rune channels to bleed off excess energy before the cores detonated. Varnak's hands worked the release mechanisms, forcing servos to disengage manually as the system died around Carl's trapped form.
The helmet went dark. The gauntlets released. Carl gasped as Varnak physically pulled him backward out of the frame, which clattered to the stone floor in pieces.
Carl sat on the ground, breathing hard, while Varnak and Ember stood over the smoking remains of Prototype Mark IV.
"You're welcome," Varnak said dryly.
Carl adjusted his glasses with shaking hands. "Thanks for that."
Ember hummed his agreement.
Carl didn't get up. His back ached where the housing had pressed against it. Heat still radiated from the fractured battery array a few feet away.
Six weeks of this. Six weeks of Varnak standing where Ember used to stand alone, catching every mistake before it killed him.
Carl let his head rest against the stone wall behind him and remembered the day Varnak walked in.
One and a half months earlier
Carl had been hunched over the workbench when the workshop door opened. Dulric came in first, sleeves pushed to the elbow, soot up to his forearms. Ironha followed, the soul-binding book tucked under one arm. Behind them walked a bronze construct Carl didn't recognize — taller than Ember, broader across the shoulders, an ember-core pulsing slow and steady in the chest cavity.
Carl set down his tools.
"Took longer than I wanted," Dulric said. He gestured at the construct. "Frame's mine. Ironha handled the rest."
The construct's head turned. The movement was smooth in a way Ember's never quite was.
"Varnak?" Carl said.
"Most of him." Ironha set the book on the bench, well away from the burnt batteries. "The binding held. He's stable. I'll be checking in regularly until we're certain it stays that way."
Varnak flexed one bronze hand, then the other. Watched the fingers move. Said nothing for a long moment.
Then: "Better than the forge."
Carl huffed a laugh before he could stop himself.
Varnak stepped closer to the workbench. Integrated tools extended from his forearm and picked up one of the failed batteries, rotating it slowly.
"You've been busy," Varnak said.
"I've been failing."
"Same thing." Varnak set the battery down and picked up the rune array beside it. He studied it for a few seconds, then turned it toward Carl and tapped one of the etched lines. "You're forcing it through here. The pattern wants to guide. You're treating it like a pipe."
Carl leaned in. Looked at the line. Looked at it again.
"Huh," he said.
Dulric glanced at Ironha. Ironha's mouth twitched.
"We'll leave you to it," Dulric said.
Carl pushed himself up off the floor.
"Mark Five?"
Varnak's ember-core pulsed once. "Mark Five. We build it properly this time."
Carl's tool brace chirped—the short double-pulse that meant someone was calling through the radio. He tapped the receiver plate.
"Carl here."
"Carl!" Jem's voice crackled through, slightly breathless. "Maz and the others are back. They brought supplies. Some people are taking crates to the longhouse right now."
Carl straightened. Two months. They'd been gone two months.
"Understood. I'll head up."
"I'm about to do the walkthrough with the new refugees," Jem added. "You know, show them around, get them settled. Should be done by dinner."
"Got it. Thanks, Jem."
The radio went silent.
Carl glanced at Varnak, who hadn't looked up from the failed servo joint he was examining. Ember stood near the power housing, one manipulator arm extended, frozen mid-adjustment.
"I'll be back with the supplies," Carl said.
Varnak nodded but he didn't turn.
Ember waved a bronze hand in dismissal, the gesture oddly casual for a construct. Then he went back to work.
Carl grabbed his coat from the workbench and left.
The colony halls were familiar now. He'd walked them enough times in the past two months that his feet knew the route without thinking. Past the stoneworker quarters where Thena's sewing room hummed with quiet activity. Through the main corridor where the rune-light strips cast their steady blue-white glow against seamless dwarven stone.
He passed the golem vault. The door stood open now—had been open since Varnak woke Zim. Carl didn't look inside. The memory of that day was still too fresh. Fenn's small hand on bronze plating. Zim's glowing eye adjusting, recognizing, accepting.
The elevator shaft came into view. The glyph-lift platform waited at the base, its fire-aspect stabilizers glowing faint orange in the dimness. Carl stepped onto the platform and pressed his hand to the activation rune.
The lift rose smoothly. Thirty seconds of ascent. Carl adjusted his glasses and checked his coat pockets out of habit—charcoal stick, small notebook, two spare crystals, a cracked battery casing he'd been meaning to toss for three days.
The platform slowed. Stopped. The dwarven door stood before him, its bronze-filigree edges catching the rune-light.
Carl stepped off and touched the resonance plate. The door slid open with the same low hum it always made, revealing the hidden chamber behind the longhouse's rear storage alcove.
Cold air rushed in. Carl pulled his coat tighter and stepped through.
The settlement sounds hit him immediately. Hammering from the housing row. Voices near the barn. The distant bleat of a goat. Somewhere closer, Tor shouted something about beam angles that made Brenn respond with exasperation.
Carl walked through the storage room, past crates of preserved goods and tool racks, and pushed open the door to the outside.
Foroughfore spread before him.
Carl stepped into the longhouse and immediately spotted Mazoga emerging from Edda's office. He raised a hand in greeting.
Mazoga caught the gesture and smiled. "Carl. How're you doing?"
"Doing fine," Carl said, adjusting his glasses. "Jem said the trade goods I asked for are here."
June, who was passing through the main hall with an empty tray, paused and pointed toward the corner near the storage alcove. "Left a few crates over there. Mark said they were yours."
"Thanks, June."
Carl crossed the hall, weaving between benches and side tables. Three wooden crates sat stacked against the wall, each marked with charcoal symbols he recognized from Marron's shorthand. He crouched and pried open the top crate.
Void-iron.
Dark metallic ingots, cold to the touch even through the wood. The surface didn't catch the light the way steel did—it absorbed it. Carl pulled one bar free, feeling the unnatural weight in his hand.
Perfect.
Mazoga walked over, peering into the open crate. "Marron had to wait for these”
Carl nodded, setting the bar back carefully. "These materials are hard to find. But they'll be useful for our current project."
Mazoga's brow lifted slightly. "What project?"
"The militia's new heavy armor set." Carl closed the crate lid and stood. "I call it Power armor. We've been working on it for weeks now." He hesitated, then glanced at the other two crates. "Actually... could you help me carry these down to the colony?"
Mazoga laughed—a short, genuine sound. "I just got back and you're already putting me to work?"
Carl's eyes widened. "Oh—sorry, I didn't mean—"
Mazoga waved him off, still grinning. She crouched and lifted two of the crates with ease, balancing them against her chest like they weighed nothing. "Relax. I'm messing with you."
Carl exhaled, relieved, and picked up the third crate. It was heavier than he expected.
"Lead the way," Mazoga said.
Carl nodded and headed outside, towards the hidden colony entrance.
Carl balanced the crate against his hip and pressed his hand to the resonance plate. The door slid open with its familiar low hum.
The warm air from the colony rushed out. Carl stepped through first, and Mazoga followed, the crates still balanced effortlessly in her arms.
"Down the elevator we go," Carl said.
The platform hummed on the descent. Carl stepped off first, crate adjusted in his arms, and Mazoga fell in behind him down the corridor. Same route as two months ago. Stoneworker quarters. Golem vault. The foundry at the end, bronze-filigree door standing partially open, orange light spilling out.
Carl turned through it. Mazoga followed.
The foundry stretched wide—benches lined with tools, half-finished projects scattered across work surfaces, and at the center, the Forgeheart Engine. Its bronze veins pulsed with faint amber light, steady and rhythmic.
A stocky bronze-steel construct stood near one of the workbenches, adjusting a series of metal plates. Ember-red runes glowed along its limbs.
Beside him, the smaller repair golem worked on a set of tools, its movements methodical.
The stocky bronze-steel construct turned as they entered. His blue eye-glow tracked Carl first, then shifted to Mazoga.
Mazoga set her crates down near the bench, eyes on the construct.
Carl gestured between them. "Maz, Varnak. He runs the foundry with me. Varnak, this is Mazoga."
The construct inclined its head. "Warden."
Maz returned the nod. A talking golem. That was new — though to be fair, last time she'd returned to the settlement, Zim and Ember had been new too, and now they moved around the place like they'd always belonged. She wondered what else had changed while she was gone. Probably more than she could sort out standing here. Questions for Edda, then. Carl would mean well and have her twice as turned around by the end of it.
She set the thought aside.
Carl set his crate beside Mazoga's and pried the lid open. "Got what you asked for."
Varnak moved closer, his heavy frame shifting with surprising quiet. He leaned over the crate, the glow from his chest casting orange light across the dark metal bars inside.
"Void-iron." Varnak's tone carried satisfaction.
"Yeah." Carl pulled one bar free, testing its weight. "Took longer than expected, but he came through."
Varnak took the bar from Carl's hands, turning it slowly. His fingers—bronze and articulated—traced the edge.
"This will help," Varnak said. "Stabilization. Dampening."
Carl nodded. "That's the idea. The Mark Four kept overloading. Tri-core battery couldn't regulate the draw. But void-iron should dampen the magical feedback—keep the channels from bleeding off energy too fast."
Varnak set the bar down on the bench. "It will require experimentation."
"Always does."
Mazoga crossed her arms, watching the exchange. "Mark Four?"
Carl glanced back. "The power armor prototype. Fourth iteration. Last one... didn't work."
"Exploded," Varnak corrected.
Carl winced. "Yeah. That."
Mazoga raised a brow. "You okay?"
"Got out before it went critical," Carl said quickly. "Varnak pulled me."
Varnak's eye-glow pulsed once. He turned back to the bench and began sorting through the void-iron bars, stacking them with care.
Ember rolled closer, humming softly, and extended a tool arm to assist.
Mazoga glanced around the foundry. More scattered than she remembered. Half-assembled components. Diagrams chalked onto stone. A breastplate covered in runes sat near the Forgeheart, its surface etched with patterns that hurt to look at directly.
"Mind if I look around?" Mazoga asked.
Carl didn't look up from the bench, already sketching something in charcoal on a scrap of parchment. "Go ahead."
Mazoga moved deeper into the foundry, her boots quiet against the stone floor. The space was organized chaos—every bench claimed by a different project, each surface covered with tools, diagrams, or half-assembled devices.
She stopped at the first workstation.
A sketch of the militia armor spread across the table, rendered in charcoal with Carl's careful hand. The breastplate. The limb plating. The helmet with its integrated lens array. Notes filled the margins—rune channels, battery placement, servo joints. Different variants branched off to the side: standard, scout, heavy.
Mazoga traced one finger along the scout variant's outline. Lighter plating. Dampening runes. Movement enhancement over raw strength.
She'd seen Riona wearing the standard version. She has yet to see the scout version, she wondered who had it.
She moved to the next bench.
Battery diagrams covered the surface—dozens of them. Carl's handwriting filled the margins, tracking failures and successes across iterations. Mark I through Mark VIII. Sketches of dual-core configurations. Triple-spiral quartz lattice. Dampening channels. Each design built on the last, refining, improving.
The Mark VIII diagram sat at the center, circled in fresh ink.
Mazoga studied the notes. Stable output. Rechargeable. Efficient draw. Compatible with rifles, launchers, armor.
Mazoga kept walking.
A radio sat on the next bench, its bronze casing polished but dented. The internal components were exposed—crystal arrays, copper channels, resonance matrices. A note beside it read: field test—twenty-day continuous operation. Success.
Beside the radio, a larger device sat half-assembled. Mazoga didn't recognize it. A circular dish mounted on a rotating base, wired into a bronze housing where a projection plate had been mounted but not yet keyed in. Notes surrounded it — diagrams showing arcs and angles, crossed-out runic sequences, fresh attempts inked beside them.
One word repeated across the sketches: Radar.
Mazoga didn't know what that meant.
But Carl had drawn detection arcs. Distance measurements. Notation about tracking movement through terrain.
She moved past the launcher prototypes. Past the field stabilizer components. Past the enchantment matrices for armor runes.
Every bench. Every project. Every diagram.
Carl's work.
Mazoga stopped near the foundry's far wall and turned back.
Carl stood at the bench with Varnak and Ember, the three of them bent over the void-iron bars, discussing something she couldn't hear from this distance. Carl gestured, animated.
A halfling engineer.
Mazoga crossed her arms, watching them work.
She'd fought a Greater draugr, survived the Hollow Vale, hit level forty-six through blood and endurance.
But Carl?
Carl was changing the world.
Not with a hammer or a blade. With ideas and the belief that if something didn't work, you tried again.
Radios that let them coordinate across mountains. Batteries that powered tools no one else had imagined. Armor and weapons that turned low level farmers into high level warriors.
And now—whatever Radar was—something new.
Mazoga's eyes moved across the benches — diagrams, notes, and half-finished work everywhere.
Doc had brought knowledge from another world.
Carl then turned it into something people of this world could use. Something that kept them alive.
She looked back at the three figures working together.
If anyone was going to keep Foroughfore standing through what was coming—
It was him.
A halfling with charcoal-stained fingers and ideas that wouldn't stop.
Mazoga allowed herself a small smile.
Then she turned and walked back toward the corridor, leaving them to their work.
Thanks for the chapter!