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Chapter 291: Advance Notice

Within the throne room of Graycastle’s Royal Palace, Timothy Wimbledon gripped his scepter with both hands and studied Chief Alchemist Rayleigh Kenneth with the particular attention he gave things he had not yet decided whether to trust.

“Were you able to learn anything about the formula the deserters took?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Rayleigh bowed with the elaborate depth of a man who understood ceremony as currency. “This is the fast-igniting snow powder, the Alchemy Association’s latest achievement. With your permission, I would like to demonstrate.”

Two disciples came forward at his gesture, each carrying a cloth bag. They spread white paper on the floor, then poured two lines of powder — one ash-grey, one a shade darker, almost sooty black.

“The lighter is our standard celebration powder,” Rayleigh said, taking out a flint. “The darker is the new formula.”

He lit both. The grey powder caught slowly, producing thick rolling smoke that climbed toward the ceiling. The black line took the flame and consumed itself in a single breath, the fire racing the full length of the paper and jumping to the sheet beneath.

“What does that prove?” Timothy’s frown deepened. “My dear sister’s toy didn’t merely scorch paper.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty.” The old alchemist’s smile spread. “You may have noticed the quantity of smoke released. The faster a powder burns, the more gas it produces in a short span — and that gas is the source of its destructive force. Allow me to show you.”

This time the disciples produced two fist-sized parchment bags, each sealed tight. They threaded slow-burning fuses into the bags, set each beneath a copper bowl, and lit both. The fuses crept and sparked.

“This time, Your Majesty — cover your ears.”

The warning had barely ended before the first detonation cracked through the hall. One bowl flipped face-down on the granite. The second launched itself at the ceiling, struck, fell back, and bounced twice more across the slate, each impact ringing out with the clarity of a struck bell.

Damn it. Timothy had nearly released his scepter. The fool could have mentioned the noise first.

A disciple retrieved the second bowl and placed it before the throne. Timothy pressed down his fury and examined it. The rim was warped — punched inward, as though someone had driven a hammer through the copper from the inside.

“The powder’s power does not reside in its fire, but in this gas,” Rayleigh said, from his place in the center of the hall. His voice carried the confidence of someone who had rehearsed this many times and found each rehearsal satisfying. “Compress a sufficient quantity into a tight ball and it becomes capable of shattering armor and tearing bodies apart. I believe this new powder will eventually replace swords and arrows entirely. A civilian equipped with these bags would be capable of killing a trained knight.”

The declaration struck the gathered lords and knights like cold water. Faces darkened. Knight Steelheart Weimar shifted his weight — the particular shift of a man who wants to speak and is deciding whether to bother. Timothy struck his scepter against the floor.

“Quiet.”

They bowed.

“Is your formula the same as the one the deserters took?”

“No, Your Majesty.” Rayleigh permitted himself a thin note of disdain. “The formula they took was discovered by accident — our saltpeter stock at the time was insufficient for more than a few trials. My fast-igniting formula is the product of extensive testing. It is the optimal method, and significantly more potent than anything produced by chance.”

Timothy settled back, and something in him eased slightly. He had known for some time that Garcia had planted people throughout the court — but he hadn’t imagined she had reached the Alchemy Association. The man who’d defected had brought a dozen apprentices with him and slipped the city before Timothy’s agents could close the net. In most circumstances, losing an alchemist would be a minor inconvenience. King’s City had twenty. But this one had managed to discover a novel weapon the night before his departure, and had vanished before contributing a single page of notes.

Two months. He’d had his Prime Minister corner every grain of saltpeter in the city and set the Alchemy Workshop to reconstructing the formula from fragments. And now Rayleigh stood here before him, pleased with himself and justified in being so.

“You have done well.” Timothy’s voice warmed, deliberately. “Twenty-five gold royals, paid today. Furthermore, I will open a dedicated production workshop in the inner city for the mass manufacture of this powder. You will continue your research. If this technology can truly allow a civilian to defeat a knight, a title and territory are not out of the question.”

“Your Majesty honors me beyond measure.”

After the alchemist departed, Weimar could no longer contain himself. He rose from his seat.

“Your Majesty — with respect, whatever that demonstration was, it cannot kill a trained knight. The powder requires ignition. Its effective radius at best is an arm’s reach. At that distance, I have a dozen ways to drop an untrained man before he can act. Even if he manages to produce the flame — I have time to strike and step away. Rayleigh has clearly never set foot on a battlefield.”

“We share that assessment,” said others, in the general tone of agreement that courts produce when the powerful want to feel confirmed.

“That is precisely why I have asked him to continue developing it,” Timothy said evenly. “Shorter ignition time. Throwable configurations. I do not doubt a knight’s superiority over a farmer — but weapons improve.”

He said this last with more certainty than he felt. Civilians were cowardly, ignorant, and poorly disciplined — he knew that. But civilians controlled by pills and armed with this powder were a different calculation. Sent against a shield wall or a gate, even a dozen of them, expendable and frantic, could open a gap that real soldiers could exploit. The pills made them tractable. The powder made them dangerous.

He was still turning this over when footsteps came fast from beyond the doors. A personal guard rushed in and dropped to one knee.

“Your Majesty — the militia sent to the Western Territory has returned in defeat. The survivors are at the city gates. They have brought letters. Many people have already heard.”

Timothy’s grip on the scepter tightened. “Keep their mouths shut. Bring every survivor to the castle.”


In the courtyard, they knelt in the dirt — two dozen ragged men, boots split, tunics stained, the particular hunched posture of men whose fear had given out and left only exhaustion behind.

“Your Majesty — please, the pills. We can’t bear it any longer.”

Wastes. They ate resources and produced nothing. He looked at them with the flat patience of a man deciding whether a tool was worth repairing.

“Tell me how you were defeated. Whoever gives me a clear account receives the antidote.”

They spoke over each other, each account stumbling into the next.

They’d been attacked on the water, the fleet broken apart before anyone could organize a response. The lead knight had ordered them ashore to regroup. On land, crossbow fire had come from everywhere at once — dense, unending, no gap to advance through. The knights had surrendered first. The militia had followed.

“And the knights? Their leader?”

No one had seen them after the escort back to camp.

“How did you return?”

“Prince Roland let us go.” The speaker’s voice was small but certain. “He also gave each of us a letter to deliver.”

“Each of you?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I also have one—”

“And I—”

They pulled the letters from their pockets in a mass, creased and slightly damp. Timothy gathered them, read the first, then read the second. The same. He read a third to be certain.

Your stupidity makes me pity you, Timothy Wimbledon. Your repeated invasions of the Western Territory were a grave error, and the price is now due. I will attack King’s City at the start of the second month of autumn. I will show you that your position is far less secure than you imagine. When that day arrives, all of King’s City will witness it.

— Roland Wimbledon

He had sent the same letter with every man.

The audacity of it — not a private warning but a public declaration, distributed to dozens of frightened survivors who would carry it into every corner of the city before nightfall. Every tavern. Every market stall. Every corner where people gathered and whispered.

The beginning of the second month of autumn.

Timothy folded the letter and set it flat against his knee. He sat for a moment in the afternoon quiet, looking at nothing, while the kneeling men shifted in the dirt around him.

Then he rose and went inside.

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