John was sitting in his office, a small room located in the heart of the Drakmoor mansion. The space was warmed by the fireplace nearby, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. A pile of scrolls and letters was stacked on the dark wooden desk in front of him, each bringing important information from the kingdom of Ardia and the duchy. The candlelight that illuminated the room seemed dim, almost suffocated by the gravity of the content John was reading.
He ran his hand over his face, reflecting on the latest report from the spies. The Mana disease was spreading in Ardia and the duchy as well, though on a smaller scale for the time being. What shocked him wasn’t so much the advance of the disease, but the brutal and ruthless response from Aurelio and the king. Reports detailed how entire villages were being burned down, their inhabitants mercilessly slaughtered in a desperate attempt to prevent the plague from spreading. It was a common practice in the past, but since meeting Miguel, John knew there was another way, a path that valued each life.
He sighed, tossing the scroll onto the desk, frustrated. How could they compete with such brutality? He knew Miguel’s decisions were based on compassion, not on indiscriminate destruction.
Amelia, who had been quietly observing beside him, made a sharp remark: “If they are taking such measures, it means that perhaps the population is starting to lose trust in Aurelio.”
John looked at her, pondering what that could imply. “What do you suggest?” he asked, knowing that Amelia, with her keen eye, would already have an idea in mind.
She leaned forward, a slight smile crossing her lips. “Well, how about we start manipulating the population against the duke?” Her eyes gleamed with a hint of malice. The atmosphere in the room seemed to shift suddenly, as if the fireplace had sparked a more intense fire in the air.
John narrowed his eyes, understanding where she was going, but not liking the tone. “You know people aren’t tools, right?”
Amelia let out a short laugh, as if she had heard a joke. “Of course I know,” she replied, still smiling. “But it’s people who drive revolutions... And that can help us. Internal unrest could delay the duchy’s new attack. And as a bonus,” she paused, letting the idea form in the air, “maybe we could convince a few more barons to join us.”
John remained silent for a moment, processing the idea. The room seemed colder, despite the warmth of the fireplace. He looked at Amelia, who now had a distant gaze, almost savoring the idea of controlled chaos. She was intelligent, sharp as a blade, and knew how to play with political forces. And although John was someone who valued order and stability, he couldn’t deny that Amelia’s suggestion had some merit.
He stood up and walked to the window. The sky was gray, with heavy clouds gathering. The snow covering Drakmoor seemed so calm, so different from the political and social turmoil that was approaching.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said finally, without turning to face her. “But we need to do this carefully.”
Amelia crossed her arms, satisfied. “Don’t worry, dear,” she said with a touch of irony in her voice. “Care is my specialty.”
---
John was sitting in his office, the soft morning light filtering through the windows, illuminating the scattered documents on his desk. Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the world in a white and silent blanket. The sound of the wind whispered in the distance, reminding him that Drakmoor’s winter was at its peak. The heat from the fireplace, though comforting, barely managed to dispel the intense cold that seemed to emanate from every corner of the room.
As he read a recent report, John frowned. It was a document from Arthur, the master blacksmith, describing the progress on the inventions Miguel had left for them to manufacture. With the blacksmiths’ doubled efforts, Arthur reported that after two weeks, what Miguel called a “cannon” had finally been completed. John knew Miguel had great plans for this weapon, but what caught his attention was another part of the report, something he had never heard of: a “hand cannon” or pistol, as it was described.
“Made by Benjamin, Arthur’s son...,” John murmured to himself, reading more carefully. He knew Miguel had left to find the raw materials necessary for these weapons, but somehow, Benjamin had managed to create a pistol anyway. The idea of such a small and portable weapon impressed him. He had never heard of anything like it in the kingdoms, and his mind began to imagine the impact this invention could have on future wars.
John leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. The report was meticulous, and Arthur seemed confident in the quality of the work. But what intrigued him the most was Benjamin’s capability. The young man, who always worked in his father’s shadow, had now stood out for his skill and ingenuity. John was curious to see these weapons for himself.
He slowly stood up, still processing what he had read. He put on his heavy winter coat, feeling the weight and texture of the thick fabric as he adjusted his belt. Outside, the snow fell in large flakes, covering Miguel’s mansion gardens and the surrounding streets. He looked out the window for a brief moment, admiring the austere beauty of the frozen landscape, before grabbing his cloak and heading for the door.
The cold hit John as soon as he opened the mansion’s door, the biting wind brushing his face with sharp intensity. He pulled the cloak tighter around his body and began walking through the streets of Drakmoor toward the forge. The snow under his boots made a muffled sound as he advanced. The sky was heavy, and the world around him seemed calm, almost suspended.
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As he walked, he observed the houses with smoking chimneys, one of the innovations Miguel had brought to the kingdom, saving many residents from the relentless cold. Drakmoor, despite its isolation, seemed to have found a steady rhythm, but John knew that with the new weapons being produced, the city’s and the kingdom’s future could change drastically.
The air was heavy, filled with promises and uncertainties. The trees along the street were covered in snow, their branches drooping under the thick white weight. Some residents ventured out onto the streets, moving slowly, wrapped in thick cloaks. John passed soldiers on patrol, their armor partially hidden by woolen cloaks. Everyone seemed aware of the Mana disease nearby, but the city was focused on preparing for whatever was to come.
When he finally reached the forge, a light smoke rose from the chimney, the heat of the furnaces competing with the relentless cold. John paused for a moment before entering, taking a deep breath of the cold air. He was about to witness something that could change the course of Drakmoor’s history.
With a decisive move, he pushed the forge’s door open and stepped inside, immediately feeling the strong, welcoming heat of the furnaces warming the space.
John entered the forge, the warmth from the furnaces quickly dissipating the cold from outside. The sound of hammers echoed through the space, and he spotted Arthur in the center of the workshop, talking to some of the blacksmiths. The structure of the forge was large and sturdy, with several furnaces and workbenches where the blacksmiths worked hard. The air was filled with the smell of heated metal and burning coal.
Arthur looked up and saw John approaching. He seemed surprised, as he hadn’t expected to see him so soon.
“John! I wasn’t expecting you now,” said Arthur, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
John smiled, extending his hand to greet him. “I was curious to see what you and the other blacksmiths have managed to produce. How are you, Arthur?”
“I’m well, much better now that the heavy work is almost done,” Arthur replied with a slight smile. “I can show you some things.”
John looked around, and his eyes were soon drawn to a large cannon suspended by chains, ready to be placed on a sturdy wooden cart with robust wheels. The cannon was impressive, about two meters long and with an internal diameter of around 12 centimeters, enough to fire a devastating projectile. The metallic body gleamed under the furnace light, and the support cart made by Marcus’s carpenters seemed extremely sturdy, capable of withstanding the weight and recoil of the cannon.
“So, this is Miguel’s famous cannon,” John remarked, impressed. “It looks formidable.”
Arthur nodded, approaching the cannon. “Yes, it’s an impressive piece. According to Miguel’s sketches, this cannon can fire a metal projectile with great speed and impact. Marcus and his carpenters did an excellent job with the support, ensuring it’s stable and easy to maneuver, even with its size.”
John leaned in for a closer look. “And have you tested it yet?”
“Not yet,” Arthur replied. “We’re ready to take it to the testing field. We just need horses to pull it.”
John straightened up and looked at Arthur. “I can arrange that. Some well-trained horses should do the job.”
As they discussed the details of the transport, Benjamin appeared from the back of the workshop, greeting John with a slight nod.
“Ah, Benjamin,” John said, turning to him. “I hear you’ve got something interesting to show as well.”
Benjamin smiled with a hint of pride and pulled a metal pistol from a leather bag. “It’s this,” he said, carefully handing the weapon to John. “Miguel called it a pistol; it’s something he designed, and I built it. But before you handle it, let me show you how to hold it.”
John took the weapon cautiously as Benjamin demonstrated the correct hand position.
The pistol had a metal body with refined details, and the wooden grip was made of oak, carved with precision by Marcus’s carpenters. It was compact and lightweight but exuded power. Benjamin also pulled some cartridges from a small compartment.
“These are the cartridges,” Benjamin explained, handing one to John. “Each contains the gunpowder and the projectile. The firing is simple, you just pull the trigger, and after each shot, you’ll have to reload manually, but that takes less than ten seconds.”
John turned the pistol in his hands, impressed by what he saw. “Can this… can this pierce armor?”
Benjamin nodded. “Yes, it can. Of course, some thicker armors might resist, but most of the ones common soldiers wear… this pistol would go through them.”
John examined the weapon closely, feeling the precision with which it had been assembled. “Miguel is certainly a visionary,” he remarked, still absorbed in the details of the pistol. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Arthur, who had been listening to the conversation, added: “Miguel has that gift. He sees what others can’t.”
John handed the pistol back to Benjamin, who carefully put it away. “Thank you for showing me this, Benjamin. It seems like we’re ready to revolutionize warfare.”
With that, John smiled at both of them, knowing that Drakmoor’s future was in good hands, not just with Miguel’s ideas but also with the skill and dedication of men like Arthur and Benjamin.
As they prepared to continue their work, John left the forge, the cold snow greeting him once more as he opened the door.
