“I’m going to hand them over to the Imperial Palace,” I said, answering the question that had been burning in his eyes.
Barakiel’s mouth twitched, his monocle nearly slipping again. “But the Emperor... His Majesty has already made his stance clear. He finds them vulgar and dangerous.”
“The Emperor doesn't like firearms because he hasn't encountered *your* firearms yet,” I said, leaning back. “The weapons he was shown were matchlocks—clunky, unreliable things that take a minute to reload and misfire if there’s a light drizzle. They’re no threat to a knight, only a nuisance.”
I knew the power of the weapons Barakiel would eventually create. Before my return, I’d seen a single man with one of his revolvers hold off an entire squad of trained soldiers. The technology was there; it just needed refinement and a patron who wasn't blinded by tradition.
“The Emperor’s primary concern is control,” I continued. “He’s afraid that if he equips the army, the weapons will inevitably find their way into the hands of the commoners. And a commoner with a gun is a commoner who no longer fears a knight’s sword.”
I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hum. “So, we don't give them to the army. We give them to the Central Knights.”
Barakiel looked as if I’d hit him over the head with a mallet. “The Central Knights? But they’re the elite. They pride themselves on their swordsmanship.”
“Exactly. They’re high-status, loyal to the crown, and their every movement is monitored. If we equip the palace guard first, the risk of leakage is non-existent. We prove their effectiveness in the heart of the Empire. We show the Emperor that these aren't just 'commoner’s tools'—they’re the ultimate weapon of the sovereign.”
Barakiel sat in silence, his mind clearly racing through the logistics. I could see the cogs turning. He’d spent years being treated like a dangerous crank; to have a princess sit in his workshop and outline a viable political strategy for his life’s work was more than he’d ever dared to hope for.
“But the swords...” he started.
“The knights already carry crossbows for range,” I interrupted. “Why carry a clunky, slow-loading bow when you can carry a pistol that fits in your belt and can punch through plate? It’s not about replacing the sword, Barakiel. It’s about ensuring that the sword actually reaches the enemy.”
I watched him, letting the silence stretch. I knew I’d won. The resentment that had built up in him over years of rejection was being replaced by a fierce, desperate ambition.
“You’re really going to do this?” he asked, his red eyes searching mine. “You’re going to stake a million gold on a weapon the Emperor has banned?”
“I’ve already told you,” I said, my voice turning soft and sincere. “I believe in your skills, Barakiel. I’ve seen the future you’re building, even if you haven't yet.”
I saw him shudder, a look of profound, stunned recognition crossing his face. *She believes in me? The daughter of the man who called my work a 'waste of the budget'?*
“I want stability, Barakiel. The current prototypes have too much recoil and the rate of fire is abysmal. And the misfires... they’re a death sentence in a real fight. I want you to fix it. I want a weapon that even a 'delicate' woman can use to protect herself when the world falls apart.”
Barakiel’s expression hardened. The sarcasm I’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by the intense, clinical focus of a master craftsman.
“It will take time,” he said. “Reducing the recoil while maintaining the piercing power... it’s a matter of metallurgy and the chemical composition of the powder.”
“A moment ago, you were so confident,” I teased, my violet eyes dancing. “Now you’re making excuses?”
Barakiel’s face flushed red. “I’m not making excuses! I’m stating facts! I can do it, but I need resources. I need high-grade steel, and I need a secure laboratory.”
“You have both,” I said.
I reached into my sleeve and pulled out a bank draft, slamming it onto the scarred wooden table between us.
“Two hundred thousand gold,” I said. “Consider it a down payment on the future. The rest will follow as you hit your milestones. Do we have an agreement, Master Alchemist?”
Barakiel stared at the check, then up at me. He didn't say a word, but he reached out and took the paper, his fingers trembling.
“I’ll start tonight,” he whispered.
I stood up, adjusting my shawl. “Good. I’ll be back in two weeks to see your progress. And remember, Barakiel... don't let anyone else see what you’re building. Not even the other alchemists.”
I walked out of the inner room and back into the cosmetics shop, where Sardin was still waiting, his face a mask of restless anxiety.
“We’re done here,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
As I stepped into the carriage, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. I had the mine, I had the jewelry store gossip working in my favor, and now I had the weapons of the future in development.
*I’m coming for you, Eric,* I thought, looking out at the passing streets. *But not with a poison. I’m coming with a world that you won't even recognize.*