Delivery from the Forge

They wouldn't be laughing when they saw what came next.

Leonel told himself that again as he stood just inside the gate, arms crossed, watching the old cart rattle up the gravel path. The wheels creaked like bones grinding in their sockets. Iron fittings clanged against rusted wood. The ox leading the charge snorted once and then settled back into its trudge.

At the reins sat Old Man Haldrik, hunched beneath a wolf-pelt cloak, beard trailing like smoke. He pulled the cart to a stop without a word, jumped down, and slid a bundled satchel from the back.

It landed with a thud—solid. Heavy.

The old smith didn't speak immediately. Just wiped his hands on his apron and narrowed his eyes.

"You'll regret it if you don't check 'em now," he muttered, voice like cracked gravel. "Ain't fixing fifty of 'em if your fancy designs turned out crooked."

Leonel knelt beside the satchel, undid the leather straps, and unwrapped the oiled cloth.

One by one, the pens gleamed in the morning light—sleek alloy bodies, engraved channels for rune lines, each tip as narrow as a needle's eye. He picked one up, weighing it in his hand.

Cold. Balanced.

The chamber cap unscrewed smoothly, threads perfect. The ink cartridge socket was clean. The base rune groove sat flush—waiting for inscription.

Exactly like the blueprint.

A breath slipped from his chest, barely audible.

"You did good work," Leonel said without looking up.

Haldrik grunted. "A pen's still a pen."

"Not for long."

The blacksmith narrowed his eyes. "You talk like the future already belongs to you."

Leonel stood. "No. I talk like I'm building it."

That earned a grunt that could have been approval—or indigestion. Either way, Haldrik turned, climbed back onto his cart, and rolled away without another word.

Leonel waited until the sound of creaking wheels disappeared beyond the hill before gathering the pens back into the satchel and heading for the west wing.

The workshop had grown darker since his last visit.

Sunlight filtered weakly through the high window, slanting in like a scolding finger. Dust drifted through the beam, catching on the air. Shelves sagged with rusted tools and forgotten parts, but the center table had been cleared—cleared and claimed.

Leonel set the satchel down with care. He placed one pen frame on the table, lining it up beside the parchment blueprint now pinned to the wall. The edges had curled with humidity, ink faded just enough to look ancient.

This room smelled like memory. Like the ash of failed inventions and old obsession. But to Leonel, it was beginning to smell like potential.

He slid open the case of ink vials—each one filled with the faintly glowing violet fluid he had brewed by hand. He chose one at random, popped the cork, and set it aside.

Then came the runework tool.

The inscriber was delicate—thin-pointed, silver-tipped, bound with a stabilizer ring near the base to hold his hand steady. A throwback to Earth's circuit-etching pens, but reimagined for magic flow.

He dipped it gently into the ink.

Not too deep. Just enough to coat the tip.

The pen frame lay still. Cold. Blank.

"This is it," Leonel murmured under his breath, knuckles white around the inscriber. "Let's see if theory survives contact with reality."

His hand hovered.

For a moment, his fingers wouldn't move.

What if it failed?

What if all of it—Sable, the blueprint, the coin, the risk—was just noise? A fever dream in a dying house?

What if this world didn't care what he tried to build?

He forced the thought down.

Then pressed the tip to metal.

The first stroke slid across the groove with a soft hiss, violet ink meeting silver with an almost magnetic pull. The alloy responded instantly. A faint glow ignited beneath the line, following it like a pulse.

He continued, steady. The main glyph first—Flow.

Then the two anchors—Conduct and Retain.

His hand shook on the last curve. He adjusted. Dipped again. Drew the closing arc.

As the final stroke locked into place, the entire rune array shimmered.

It glowed once—bright enough to sting his eyes.

Then dimmed… and held.

No sparks. No cracks.

The pen hummed, just faintly. A soft vibration through the frame.

Leonel exhaled, slow and shallow.

He set the inscriber down beside it.

And smiled—not wide, but real.

It wasn't just a prototype anymore.

It was alive.