Even if it meant dragging the truth through smoke.
Leonel stood still as the door slammed open.
The thick wooden frame crashed against the stone wall, sending a puff of dust spiraling through the workshop haze. Smoke coiled low across the cracked floorboards, curling between the broken table legs, licking at the scraps of parchment scattered across the ground.
In the doorway stood Lord Varnhart.
Half-shadowed by the drifting smoke, the man looked carved from stone. His dark coat hung heavy off broad shoulders. One hand rested lightly on the hilt of the sword at his belt—not in threat, but in readiness, in habit. His sharp gaze scanned the room, the wreckage, the half-doused fire, and landed—finally—on Leonel.
He didn't move.
Didn't shout.
Didn't even blink.
Leonel straightened, sleeve scorched up to the elbow, fingers blackened with soot, another blank alloy frame clutched steady in his hands.
The failed pen—the first explosion—lay hidden under the table, its melted body leaking a thin line of gray smoke. Leonel's body ached from the blast, his ears still rang faintly, but none of it showed in his face.
They stared at each other across the scorched room, father and son, broken past and uncertain future.
The silence between them stretched, tight as wire.
The candle beside Leonel flickered, painting wavering shadows across the blueprint pinned to the wall—what little remained of it.
Outside, the estate stirred, voices shouting orders, servants rushing to and fro. Someone would bring water. Someone would ready bandages.
But neither of them spoke.
Neither moved.
After a long moment, Lord Varnhart's mouth pressed into a thin, grim line.
He turned without a word.
Boots echoed down the hall, fading into the heavy hush of settling dust and dying embers.
Leonel didn't move until he was sure the sound had fully disappeared.
Only then did he allow himself to exhale—a shallow, controlled breath.
No orders to stop.
No accusations of madness.
No dismissal.
That silence was worse than a blow. Worse than anger.
It meant, for the first time, he was being judged by his results, not his excuses.
Leonel set the blank frame on the table, steadying it with both hands. His fingers shook slightly from residual adrenaline, but he tightened his grip until the tremor faded.
One success wasn't enough.
Not if he wanted to survive in this place.
Not if he wanted to be more than a failed name stamped on a crumbling family line.
He uncorked another vial of ink and rolled his shoulders back, ignoring the tug of burned cloth against raw skin.
There were adjustments to make.
The failure hadn't been random. It hadn't been chance.
The second pen frame—melted now in the rubble—had a flaw he'd overlooked. The grain of the alloy had shifted irregularly during forging, warping the mana flow. The stabilizer rune hadn't compensated. Instead, it had magnified the instability until the circuit collapsed.
Earth techniques weren't enough here. Not raw. Not without adaptation.
He dipped the inscriber again, violet ink catching the candlelight.
No hesitation this time.
He carved the Flow glyph first, shallower than before, allowing for imperfect mana absorption.
Next came the Conduct rune, adjusted to track with the grain rather than across it.
He added a Retain anchor, splitting it into dual minor nodes to share stress across the frame.
Then—slowly, carefully—he traced a new stabilizer glyph around the primary core. A bubble rune, crude but functional, designed to absorb ambient surges for five seconds at a time. Enough to prevent a catastrophic feedback loop if the frame's mana signature wavered.
Each line, each curve, demanded absolute focus.
There were no second chances inside the lines.
Sweat beaded at the base of his spine, damp beneath the torn shirt. His throat was dry. His fingers cramped by the time he finished the last connecting line, sealing it with a delicate pressure twist that locked the ink into the alloy's upper fibers.
The pen shuddered once in his grip.
Violet light pulsed softly along the rune tracks.
For a breathless second, it flickered—then stabilized.
A soft, persistent hum filled the air.
No bubbling. No sharp whine. No rupture of mana pressure.
Leonel sat back, ink-stained hands falling limp in his lap.
This time, the glow stayed lit.
The pen lived.
He allowed himself one breath. Not a gasp, not a cheer—just one breath, slow and steady, drawn through grit-stained teeth and clenched jaw.
Then he stood.
Gathered the two working prototypes—the first and the second—carefully into a small wooden tray, wrapping them in cloth and setting them aside.
The ruined pen could stay buried under the table a little longer.
No one needed to know how close failure had come.
He moved stiffly across the room, unpinning the burnt blueprint from the wall. Only half of it survived, the rest charred into useless curls.
He folded what remained into his coat pocket.
He'd redraw it tonight. Smarter. Sharper. With the lessons earned by fire and near-ruin.
The rest of the day bled into one long haze.
He cleaned what he could.
Airing out the workshop. Scrubbing ink stains from the floorboards. Repacking vials. Sharpening the inscribers. Restocking parchment.
By the time the sun dipped low, throwing blood-orange light across the fields beyond the estate, the room smelled less like smoke and more like oil and ambition.
Leonel rolled his shoulders, flexing fingers still aching from effort.
Tomorrow, he would approach the merchant guild.
Tomorrow, he would see if the world had any interest in what he'd built.
But tonight?
Tonight, he'd proved to himself that he could still rise from his own ashes.
Even if the world wasn't watching yet.
He turned back toward the cot where the pens rested, wrapped in their humble cloth, humming softly under the last lingering rays of light.
The future didn't come crashing down in grand victories.
It came one stubborn breath, one trembling line, one second chance at a time.