The Court of Industrial Records was a vast, open-air amphitheater at the base of the Sun-Palace. Usually, it was used to settle patent disputes between minor alchemy houses, but today, the atmosphere felt more like a military tribunal. Five pedestals sat in a semicircle, representing the Five Guilds: Iron, Glass, Chemistry, Loom, and Clockwork.
In the center of the arena, two distinct workspaces had been prepared. On the right, Grand Master Belasco and a team of twelve master alchemists from the Silver Circle stood surrounded by glowing braziers and intricate, hand-drawn scrolls. On the left, Deacon stood alone with Julian and Miller, who had arrived overnight with the heavy components for the High-Pressure Steam-Stamp.
The Empress sat on a high dais, her face unreadable. "The challenge is simple," the High Steward announced. "The Royal Mint requires a new commemorative issue for the Solstice Festival. Each side has three hours to produce one hundred identical coins. The coins must match the weight, purity, and detail of the Royal Master."
Belasco stepped forward, his silver robes catching the light. "Your Majesty, the Silver Circle shall utilize the 'Breath of the Sun'—a precise alchemical casting method. Each coin will be born from a liquid state, blessed by the spirits of the forge to ensure perfect purity."
Deacon simply adjusted his leather apron. "Oakhaven will use cold-pressure striking. We don't need blessings. We need force."
The signal was given. The Silver Circle began their work with a choreographed grace. They melted the silver in small, magically heated crucibles, pouring the liquid metal into individual clay molds. It was a beautiful, slow process. Each mold had to be broken, the coin cleaned, and the edges filed by hand.
On the Oakhaven side, Deacon and Miller were ignored by the crowd as they focused on their "ugly" machine. They had spent the night connecting a vertical boiler to a massive iron frame.
"Pressure is at eighty PSI, David," Miller whispered, his eyes glued to the brass gauge. "The seals are holding, but the vibration is rattling the floor plates."
"Stabilize the feed-line," Deacon commanded.
He picked up a strip of pre-rolled silver—another innovation from the lathe—and fed it into the mouth of the Steam-Stamp. He didn't use a hammer. He pulled a single lever.
THUMP.
The sound was a deep, metallic heartbeat that shook the amphitheater. A single, perfect coin dropped into the collection tray. Deacon pulled the lever again.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
By the time the Silver Circle had finished their first twelve molds, the Oakhaven tray was already filled with forty coins. The crowd, initially mocking the "clumsy" machine, fell into a stunned silence.
Belasco's face turned a mottled purple. "Stop! Your Majesty, I protest! Look at the coins! They are born of violence, not craft! They must be flawed!"
The High Steward descended to the floor, picking up a handful of coins from both sides. He placed them on a balance scale.
"The Silver Circle coins..." the Steward began, his voice wavering. "They vary in weight by the thickness of a hair. Some are slightly skewed in their casting."
He then placed the Oakhaven coins on the scale. He added ten, then twenty. The scale didn't move. He swapped them out for twenty others.
"Every Oakhaven coin is... identical," the Steward whispered. "To the tenth of a grain. The detail is sharper, the edges are perfectly milled. It's as if they were made by a single thought."
Deacon stepped away from the machine, the steam hissing as he bled the pressure. "The difference, Grand Master, is that your men are trying to be the tools. My men use the tools. If you want a hundred coins, Belasco can do it in a day. If you want a million, Oakhaven can do it in a week."
Belasco turned to the Five Guilds, his desperation palpable. "Masters! Do you see? He intends to replace your hands with iron! He will turn the Empire into a cold, heartless factory! Will you stand by while your traditions are ground into the dirt by this... Northerner?"
The Master of the Loom Guild stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the precision gears of the Steam-Stamp. "Tradition is the memory of how we worked yesterday. But my weavers are blind by the age of thirty from the strain of the needle. If this man can make the iron do the work, maybe my people can finally see the sun."
One by one, the heads of the smaller guilds began to murmur. The monopoly was cracking. But Belasco wasn't finished. He looked at the Empress, a dark, fanatical light in his eyes.
"The Trial is not over," Belasco hissed. "The third requirement is 'Durability and Purity.' The coins must survive the Aether-Bath. If they are truly 'pure,' the alchemical acid will not mar them."
Deacon narrowed his eyes. He knew his silver was pure, but he saw the way Belasco was gripping his staff. The Grand Master wasn't relying on the acid; he was preparing a sabotage.
"Bring the bath," Deacon said, his hand sliding toward the wrench at his belt. "But I want the High Steward to pour the acid. No alchemists within ten paces of the trays."
The tension in the arena spiked. The "Trial" had moved past engineering and into the realm of survival.