The north tower of Ashbourne was less a room and more a vertical tomb. It smelled of ancient dust and the sharp, metallic tang of the coming storm. Outside, the sky was the color of a fresh bruise, clouds churning with a violent, kinetic energy that made the air feel thick enough to chew.
Olivier stood in the center of the room, his fine silk shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked less like a prince and more like a man possessed. Spread across a massive oak table—dragged here at the cost of two guards' strained backs—was a chaotic array of "refuse."
"Your Highness," Gaston wheezed, leaning against the doorframe as he caught his breath. "The Commander is at the gate. He has brought Bishop Vane. They are not... they are not requesting entry. They are demanding it."
Olivier didn't look up. He was busy filing the tip of a long iron rod into a lethal point. "Tell them I am in deep prayer. Tell them I am flagellating myself for my sins. Tell them whatever keeps them on the other side of that door for another twenty minutes."
"They have brought the Light-Bringers," Gaston whispered, his voice cracking. "The Church's elite inquisitors. If they find you here, with her..."
Olivier finally paused, the rasp of the file silenced. He looked toward the corner of the room.
Elara sat on a stone plinth, wrapped in a copper-threaded tapestry he'd looted from the main hall. He had spent the last four hours constructing a crude "cage"—not to keep her in, but to keep the energy from leaking out. He had used silver wire stripped from the seams of his own royal capes to create a path from her chair to the iron rod protruding out the narrow window.
"Elara," Olivier said, his voice dropping the frantic edge. "How is the hum?"
She looked at him, her amber eyes shimmering in the dim light. "It's... quiet. For the first time, it's going somewhere else. Into the wires."
"Good. That's the grounding at work. But we're about to ask for more."
A heavy thud echoed from the base of the tower. The sound of a ram or a heavy boot against the reinforced oak. The confrontation had arrived.
"Gaston," Olivier snapped, pointing to a series of glass jars filled with vinegar and lead plates—his makeshift Leyden jars. "When the Bishop enters, stand exactly where I told you. Do not touch the copper leads. If you do, your heart will stop, and I don't have the equipment to jump-start it yet."
The door at the base of the tower shrieked open. Heavy footsteps ascended the spiral stairs—the rhythmic clank of Commander Hugo's plate armor and the soft, ominous shuffle of silken robes.
The door to the chamber burst open.
Commander Hugo Llorente stepped in first, his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. Behind him stood Bishop Vane, a man who looked like he had been carved out of cold marble. His white robes were immaculate, and around his neck hung the Sun-Wheel of Saint Lumen.
The Bishop's gaze swept the room, landing on the wires, the jars, and finally, the Soulbound girl. His lip curled in a mixture of pity and loathing.
"Prince Olivier," the Bishop said, his voice a melodic baritone. "We heard rumors of your... eccentricities. We did not realize you had succumbed to madness so quickly."
"Madness is a matter of perspective, Bishop," Olivier said, casually leaning against the table. He picked up a small glass bulb he'd spent the last hour trying to vacuum-seal with wax. "I call it research."
"You have brought a blight into this tower," Hugo growled, stepping forward. "You have defied the King's law and the Church's mandate. Step aside, Your Highness. We will cleanse this room."
"Cleanse it?" Olivier chuckled. "With what? Fire? Swords? You're so primitive."
"Enough!" Vane's voice boomed. "The Soulbound are a corruption of the natural order. They steal the light of the Creator and twist it into a mockery. To harbor one is to invite the Great Dark."
"Actually," Olivier said, standing straight, "she doesn't steal light. She's an organic conductor for the ambient electromagnetic potential of the atmosphere. But I suspect 'magic' is an easier word for you to pronounce."
The Bishop blinked. The words were gibberish to him, but the confidence in Olivier's voice was a threat. "Arrest the girl," Vane commanded. "And escort the Prince to the chapel for 're-education.'"
Hugo moved.
"Stop," Olivier said. He didn't shout. He said it with the quiet authority of a man who knew exactly how much voltage was currently sitting in the room.
Outside, a crack of thunder shook the tower. The sky opened up, and the rain began to lash against the iron rod protruding from the window.
"Hugo, if you take another step, you're going to die," Olivier said. "Not because I'll kill you, but because you're wearing a six-foot suit of highly conductive steel in a room that is currently becoming a localized high-pressure zone."
Hugo paused, his brow furrowed. "Is that a threat, boy?"
"It's a mathematical certainty."
Olivier turned to Elara. "Now."
He had taught her the mental trigger—not a spell, but a release. In her mind, she had been holding back a dam. He told her to let the water flow.
Elara closed her eyes.
The air in the room suddenly hummed with a low, bone-shaking frequency. The Bishop's hair began to stand on end, his white robes fluttering as if in a phantom wind.
"What... what sorcery is this?" Vane stammered, clutching his Sun-Wheel.
"It's not sorcery, Bishop. It's the future," Olivier said.
A bolt of lightning struck the iron rod outside.
The room didn't explode. Instead, the energy was funneled through the silver wires, surging into the array of glass jars. The jars glowed with a ghostly, flickering blue light.
Olivier grabbed two insulated leads—wrapped in thick, dried leather—and pressed them against a frame he'd built. In the center of that frame was a thin, hammered sliver of carbonized bamboo.
For a second, there was only the sound of the rain.
Then, there was Light.
It wasn't the flickering, orange-red of a torch. It was a blinding, steady, white-blue glare that turned the shadows of the room into sharp, jagged lines. It hissed with the sound of a thousand angry hornets.
The Bishop fell to his knees, shielding his eyes. "The Sun-Wheel... the Creator's eye..."
Hugo stumbled back, his sword clattering to the floor. "Sorcery! He has captured a star!"
"No," Olivier said, his face illuminated by the harsh radiance of the first incandescent bulb this world had ever seen. He looked like a god, or a demon, depending on how much you feared the truth. "I've just harnessed a fraction of the power you've been using to scare peasants for centuries."
He turned the light toward the Bishop. The man was trembling, his "divine" authority melting under the glare of a simple filament.
"The Church says the Light belongs to God," Olivier said, his voice cold and echoing. "I say it belongs to anyone with a wire and the courage to hold it."
He looked at Hugo. "Commander, the girl stays. This tower is now the sovereign laboratory of the Fourth Prince. If any man enters without my leave, I will show him what it feels like to be struck by the heavens."
The light flickered once, twice, then stayed steady. It was a small, fragile thing—a prototype held together by wax and prayer—but in the darkness of Ashbourne, it was the brightest thing for a hundred miles.
The Bishop scrambled to his feet, his face pale with a terror that went deeper than physical pain. He looked at Elara, then at Olivier, then at the glowing bulb.
"The King will hear of this," Vane hissed, though he backed toward the door. "This is not progress, Olivier Cinderfall. This is war against the heavens."
"Good," Olivier said, turning back to his table as the Bishop and the Knight fled the room. "I've always found the heavens to be poorly managed anyway."
The door slammed shut. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the steady, artificial hiss of the light.
Gaston was shaking so hard he had to sit on the floor. Elara looked exhausted, her head lolling back against the stone, but the "hum" in her eyes had faded to a peaceful glow.
Olivier reached out and touched the glass bulb. It was hot—terribly hot. He pulled his hand back, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Efficiency is terrible," he muttered to himself. "Ninety percent heat loss. We need a better vacuum and a noble gas."
He looked at his hands—the hands of a prince, stained with carbon and silver.
"But it's a start."
He looked at Elara. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we build a bigger one. I want this tower to be visible from the capital."
In the dark, damp heart of a dying kingdom, the Fourth Prince had just flipped the switch. And he had no intention of ever turning it off.