At Lord Lor's Command
At Lord Lor's command, every available forger and mage gathered at the mountain. The bitter mountain air carried the scent of forge fires and arcane herbs as craftsmen trudged up the winding path, their breath forming clouds in the cold. These artisans—men and women who had spent their entire lives shaping swords that could cut through dragon scales, wands that could channel the very essence of the elements, and magical artifacts that defied the natural laws—were bewildered by the sudden summons.
The valley before the mountain had been transformed overnight. What was once an empty expanse now featured hastily erected pavilions, blazing forges, and tables laden with tools. Beyond them loomed the ancient stone table—a relic from a forgotten age, its surface etched with runes that had witnessed centuries of magical crafting.
"Why summon us all?" whispered Elara, a silver-haired enchantress whose delicate fingers had crafted wands for royalty. "The Gold family has never gathered so many of us at once."
Beside her, Darin, a dwarf whose family had been forging for the Gold clan for seven generations, shrugged his broad shoulders. "Something important, I'd wager. Lord Lor doesn't waste resources." His calloused fingers instinctively tapped the hammer hanging at his belt—a nervous habit born from decades at the anvil.
Hushed conversations rippled through the gathered artisans, theories growing wilder with each passing moment. Some spoke of war preparation, others of a magical catastrophe that needed immediate attention. The dwarf contingent, smaller in number but unmatched in skill, huddled together, their bearded faces grave with concern.
Their murmuring ceased abruptly when Steward, the Gold family's butler, stepped forward. Dressed in immaculate gray robes with golden trim that caught the morning light, he carried himself with the dignified air of one who had served nobility for decades. His face, weathered by time yet unmarked by emotion, surveyed the crowd. The silence that fell was immediate and absolute.
"You are all here by Lord Lor's orders," he declared, his voice carrying across the valley with unnatural clarity—a small enchantment, the mages noted. "You will assist Young Master Harry in forging and construction."
The silence shattered. Laughter erupted from several corners, quickly suppressed but telling nonetheless. A ripple of confused murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire. The idea of a ten-year-old boy leading them—master craftsmen with decades, sometimes centuries of experience—seemed not just improbable but absurd.
Thorne, one of the senior forgers, pushed his way forward. A mountain of a man with arms thicker than most men's legs, he bore the scars of countless hours before roaring flames. His thick beard, singed at the edges from forge work, couldn't hide the disbelief twisting his features.
"Sir Steward," he began, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder, "with all due respect to Lord Lor—whose gold has fed my family for thirty years—what can a mere child teach us about forging?" He gestured to the gathered artisans. "There are dwarven masters here whose families have guarded smithing secrets since before humans learned to smelt iron. There are mages who have spent centuries perfecting their craft." His voice lowered, though no less intense. "It would be a miracle if the boy even knew how to hold a hammer properly without breaking his fingers."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. The dwarves, in particular, looked offended, their pride in their ancestral craft visible in their stiff postures and furrowed brows.
Steward's expression darkened, the first real emotion crossing his features. The temperature around him seemed to drop several degrees, though no magic was visible. "Watch your tongue, Master Thorne," he warned, each word precise as a blade. "Speaking ill of the Lord's family is not tolerated within these lands. Young Master Harry has been given full authority in this matter. You will listen, you will assist, and you will obey."
The unspoken threat hung in the air. Everyone present knew that the Gold family's power extended far beyond wealth. Their magic was ancient, their influence vast, and their memory for slights legendary.
Before any further protest could form, the sound of hooves echoed through the valley, bouncing off the mountain faces in a rhythmic cadence. Heads turned as a carriage appeared on the horizon, its polished surface gleaming in the sunlight. Even from a distance, the golden emblem of the Gold family was unmistakable—a roaring lion encircled by ancient runes that pulsed with faint magical energy.
As the carriage drew closer, the craftsmen instinctively straightened, ingrained respect overriding their skepticism. The vehicle, pulled by four horses whose coats shimmered with unnatural luster, came to a halt before the gathering. The silence was absolute, expectation thick in the air.
The door swung open without a touch—a small display of magic that nonetheless reminded everyone of the family's power. From within stepped Harry, heir to the Gold family fortune and, if rumors were to be believed, possessor of magical potential that hadn't been seen in generations.
The boy who emerged defied expectations. Standing no taller than a short adult's shoulder, Harry moved with a quiet confidence that seemed at odds with his age. His frame was slight, lacking the muscular build one would expect from a forge worker, yet he carried himself with the assurance of someone far older. The wind tousled his dark hair, revealing brief flashes of a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead—a mark that some whispered was proof of his extraordinary magical lineage.
In his arms, he cradled several scrolls, their edges worn but their material clearly of the highest quality. Even from a distance, the mages could sense the subtle preservation spells woven into the parchment—not flashy magic, but careful, precise work that spoke of meticulous attention to detail.
Harry walked straight to the large stone table in the center, unrolling his first scroll with careful movements. The parchment, weighted down with small enchanted stones that glowed with soft blue light, revealed intricate drawings covered in annotations. The boy's emerald-green eyes—eyes that seemed to hold knowledge far beyond his years—scanned the skeptical faces before him.
"I know what you're all thinking," he began, his voice steadier and more mature than his appearance suggested. The slight tremor at the edges betrayed his nerves, but only to the most observant. "What could a child possibly know about forging that master craftsmen don't? What arrogance leads the Gold family to place a boy in charge of masters?"
He paused, allowing the questions to hang in the air, acknowledging the unspoken thoughts of those gathered.
"And my only reply is this—just give me your support for today. Watch, learn, and judge me not by my age but by what I create." His gaze swept over the crowd, meeting eyes both young and ancient. "If, by the end of today, what I've crafted isn't worth your time and skill, you are free to walk away with my apologies and double your usual fee."
The forgers exchanged glances, some hiding smirks behind calloused hands, others openly raising skeptical eyebrows. To many, this was merely an amusing interlude in their work, a story they would tell over ale in taverns for weeks to come—the day they humored the Lord's son and his childish fantasies. The dwarves, proud of their heritage and craft, seemed particularly doubtful, their bearded faces set in expressions of stone.
The mages, however, remained thoughtfully silent. Magic had taught them that appearances could be deceiving, and age was not always a measure of wisdom or ability. They were paid generously to assist, and they would reserve judgment.
With deliberate movements, Harry unfurled the first scroll completely. What it revealed drew gasps and murmurs from even the most skeptical.
The blueprint displayed was like nothing they had ever seen. Precise lines formed a cylindrical object with measurements noted down to the smallest fraction of an inch. Strange symbols—not magical runes or known engineering marks—adorned the corners. The design was elegant in its complexity, every component fitting together with mathematical precision.
"What in the seven realms is this?" Thorne muttered, leaning forward despite himself. His eyes, narrowed from years of examining metal under harsh forge light, couldn't make sense of what he was seeing.
Harry's finger traced the central diagram, a faint smile playing on his lips. "This," he said, tapping the drawing, "is a generator. It will convert wind energy into electricity. No mana, no magic—just pure force from nature, transformed."
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the mountain wind whistling through the valley.
"Electricity?" one of the younger forgers finally asked, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What manner of power is that?"
Harry's smile widened slightly. "Think of it as a power that moves through wires, like water through a riverbed, but invisible to the eye. It can light up lamps without fire, heat furnaces without coal, or even run machines without a single drop of mana."
The gathered craftsmen stared at him as though he had suddenly started speaking in an unknown tongue. In their world, everything revolved around magic. Even the simplest tools required some form of enchantment to function properly. The idea of power existing without mana was not just foreign—it was heretical.
Garran, an elder forger whose white beard reached his belt and whose arms bore the burn scars of sixty years at the forge, scoffed loudly. "Boy," he said, not unkindly but with the certainty of one who knows his craft, "without mana, nothing works. Magic flows through all things. You can't create power out of thin air. That's the first law every apprentice learns."
Several others nodded in agreement, their expressions a mixture of pity and amusement. They thought the boy was simply repeating some fairy tale he had heard, not understanding the fundamental laws of magic that governed their world.
Harry didn't seem offended. Instead, he chuckled—a sound that seemed strangely mature coming from such a young throat. "That's where you're wrong, Master Garran. Let me show you."
From within his robe, he produced several items: a small metal rod polished to a shine, a length of copper wire thin as a strand of hair, and a circular object that several mages immediately recognized as a magnet, though unusually strong.
With deft fingers that belied his youth, Harry wrapped the copper wire around the rod, forming a tight coil. Then, taking the magnet, he moved it swiftly past the coil.
Instantly, a visible spark jumped between the ends of the wire.
The craftsmen gasped in unison. The mages stepped forward, their skepticism replaced by professional curiosity. What they had just witnessed defied everything they had been taught.
"This," Harry explained, his voice gaining confidence, "is called induction. When a magnet moves past a coil of wire, it generates electricity—a form of energy that can be harnessed, stored, and used. This is how my generator will work—but on a much larger scale."
He demonstrated again, moving the magnet faster. The spark grew brighter, more pronounced.
Elara, the enchantress, reached out a trembling hand. "May I?" she asked, her academic curiosity overriding her initial skepticism.
Harry nodded, handing her the simple apparatus. She repeated his movements, and when the spark appeared, her eyes widened. "There's no mana flow," she whispered, her magical senses probing the phenomenon. "No arcane signature at all. It's... purely physical."
The forgers, who had only ever worked with enchanted materials, were stunned into silence. The idea that power could be produced without magical intervention shattered centuries of established knowledge.
"Impossible..." Thorne whispered, his earlier bravado gone. "Yet I see it with my own eyes."
But Harry wasn't done. He rolled out another scroll, revealing a detailed diagram of a strange contraption with large blades extending from a central hub. "This device will use the wind to spin these blades, which will turn magnets inside the generator, creating a continuous flow of electricity."
The skepticism in the forgers' eyes was rapidly fading, replaced by something rarer: wonder. This wasn't just a new tool or weapon—it was an entirely new way of thinking about power.
Darin, the dwarf forger, stroked his beard thoughtfully. "If this works as you say, young master, it would mean villages wouldn't need mages just to have light in the darkness. Common folk could have what only the wealthy enjoy now."
Harry's eyes lit up. "Exactly, Master Darin. And that's just the beginning."
Despite their growing astonishment, the forgers and mages were still hesitant. Understanding a concept was one thing; creating it was another entirely. They had spent lifetimes perfecting their crafts within the boundaries of magical convention. What Harry proposed went against everything they knew.
But curiosity is a powerful force, especially among craftsmen who have dedicated their lives to creation. One by one, they gathered closer to examine the blueprints, their professional interest overcoming their initial doubts.
Harry wasted no time. Moving with purpose, he unrolled the first detailed scroll across the stone table and pointed to the precise drawing of what he called "rotor blades."
"First," he said, his voice clear and commanding despite his age, "we need to forge these blades. They must be shaped perfectly—curved like a bird's wing to catch and harness the wind's power."
The forgers exchanged uncertain glances. They were accustomed to crafting implements of war and magic—swords that could cleave stone, shields that could repel dragon fire, armaments designed for battle and survival in a world where magic determined one's fate.
Garrick, a weathered man with arms like tree trunks and a face lined from decades of squinting into forge fires, crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Blades meant to cut wind? This is foolishness," he muttered, though not as confidently as before.
Harry, hearing this, didn't reprimand the man. Instead, he simply smiled—the patient smile of a teacher rather than the indignant response of a child. "It's not foolishness, Master Garrick. These blades don't cut the wind; they are pushed by it. When wind moves past these specially shaped surfaces, it creates forces that cause them to spin. That spinning motion is what we'll use to generate power—without using a single drop of mana."
He traced the curve of the blade design with his finger. "Think of it like a water wheel in a stream. The water doesn't know it's turning the wheel; it's just flowing downhill. But we can use that movement to grind grain or power machinery."
A few forgers nodded slowly, the analogy making sense. Water wheels were common enough sights in their world, though they were usually enhanced with minor enchantments for efficiency.
One of them, a burly man named Orin with burn scars decorating his forearms like badges of honor, stepped forward. His initial skepticism had given way to professional assessment as he studied the blueprint. "We'd need lightweight yet durable metal for this," he mused aloud, already mentally cataloging the materials at his disposal. "Too heavy, and the wind won't turn it. Too brittle, and it'll snap in the first storm."
Harry nodded, pleased with the observation. "You're absolutely right, Master Orin. I was thinking we should use enchanted steel for this particular component—strong enough to withstand the elements, yet resistant to corrosion and fatigue."
The mention of enchanted steel—a material they were intimately familiar with—seemed to ease some tension among the forgers. They might not understand this "electricity," but they knew how to work enchanted metals. Several nodded in agreement, already envisioning the forging process.
"The enchantment can't be too heavy," added a female dwarf named Grimhild, her arms corded with muscle despite her small stature. "Heavy magic would interfere with whatever physics you're trying to harness."
Harry's eyebrows rose in surprise and respect. "Precisely, Mistress Grimhild. A light touch with the enchantments—just enough to reinforce the metal's natural properties without imposing magical energy patterns that might disrupt the electrical flow."
Grimhild looked pleased that her insight was valued, her earlier skepticism giving way to professional interest.
The forgers moved to their stations, heating their furnaces with practiced efficiency. As the fires roared to life, bathing the valley in orange light and waves of heat, the craftsmen began their work. They melted the enchanted steel, carefully measuring alloys to achieve the perfect balance of strength and flexibility. Their hammers rang against anvils in a rhythm as old as civilization itself, the familiar music of creation filling the air.
Yet, despite following Harry's designs, doubt still lingered in their movements. They crafted these strange "turbine blades" with the skill honed over decades, but many still couldn't see how spinning metal could create power without magic.
Next, Harry moved to another scroll, unrolling it with care. The parchment revealed an intricate diagram filled with concentric circles and detailed annotations. "This," he said, placing his small hand on the drawing, "is what we call the stator—the stationary part inside the generator. It needs to be wrapped precisely with copper wire, creating coils in this exact pattern."
One of the mages, a younger woman named Celina with bright eyes that betrayed her keen intellect, studied the diagram with intense concentration. "Copper wire?" she asked, tilting her head. "We usually use silver for magical conductivity. What makes copper special for this... electricity?"
Harry pointed to specific sections of the diagram. "Copper is an excellent conductor of electricity—better than iron or steel, and more affordable than silver or gold. When arranged in these coils, it creates a magnetic field. When the rotor blades turn, they'll spin magnets placed here," he indicated another part of the diagram, "inside these copper coils. That movement disrupts the magnetic field, generating electrical current."
Celina's brow furrowed in concentration. "So you're saying the movement alone creates power? Without mana or enchantment?"
"Exactly," Harry confirmed, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice. "It's a principle called electromagnetism. When a conductor—like copper—moves through a magnetic field, or when a magnetic field moves past a conductor, it produces electrical energy. No magic required, just the fundamental properties of materials and motion."
The mages and forgers looked at each other, whispering among themselves. For people who had spent their entire lives working with mana-infused tools and magical principles, the concept was revolutionary. The idea that mere movement and certain metals could create usable power without magical intervention seemed impossible, yet the simple demonstration with the wire coil had shown it was real.
Garrick, who had been listening intently, stepped forward again. His earlier skepticism had evolved into something more complex—a mixture of doubt and fascination. "I've worked metal for over forty years, young master," he said, his deep voice rumbling. "I've forged swords that could cut through dragonhide and shields that could withstand a fireball. Never have I heard of this 'electromagnetism.' You expect us to believe in something invisible, that we cannot sense with our mana perception?"
Harry didn't take offense at the challenge. Instead, he smiled with understanding. "Master Garrick, you already believe in many invisible forces," he said gently. "Fire burns, though you cannot see the heat itself. Wind moves trees, though you cannot see the air. Magic flows through enchantments, yet you don't always see the flow of mana with your eyes. You feel its effects, sense its presence." He gestured to the copper coil. "Electricity is no different. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't real. The spark you witnessed is proof of its existence."
Garrick opened his mouth as if to argue further but then closed it, considering Harry's words. After a moment, he gave a grudging nod of acknowledgment, though not quite acceptance.
As the mages began the painstaking task of wrapping copper wire around the stator, one of them, an elderly man whose fingers moved with surprising dexterity despite his age, looked up at Harry. "Would it not be more efficient to enhance these coils with enchantments?" he asked. "Perhaps a spell to increase conductivity or amplify the energy produced?"
It was a logical question from someone whose entire career had centered around magical enhancement. Why not use the tools they knew to improve this new technology?
Harry shook his head firmly. "No magic," he said, his voice gentle but unyielding. "This must work on its own principles. Adding magic would only complicate matters and might interfere with the electrical current. We need to understand how it functions in its pure form before considering enhancements."
The mage raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. There was something refreshing about trying something entirely new, creating without the crutch of familiar enchantments. One by one, the mages found themselves drawn into the precision work, ensuring the copper wire was wrapped exactly as specified in Harry's diagrams.
As hours passed, the valley transformed into a scene of focused industry. Forges blazed, hammers rang, and delicate fingers wove copper strands with increasing confidence. Harry moved between workstations, checking each component with meticulous care. What impressed the craftsmen most wasn't just his knowledge but his approach to teaching.
When he spotted an error in the curvature of a blade, he didn't simply point it out. Instead, he explained why the curve mattered: "See this angle? If it's too steep, the wind will push against it too forcefully, creating strain. Too shallow, and it won't catch enough wind to generate movement. The precise curve creates lift, like a bird's wing, allowing the turbine to spin efficiently even in gentle breezes."
When a mage had trouble with the copper wiring pattern, Harry demonstrated with patient hands: "You see this?" he said, pointing to a bent section. "If this wire isn't perfectly aligned with the others, the current won't flow properly through the entire coil. Think of it like a river. If there's a rock blocking the way or the riverbed suddenly narrows, the water becomes turbulent. Electricity flows best through smooth, unobstructed paths."
The craftsmen found themselves nodding in understanding, their respect for the boy growing with each passing hour. This wasn't a child playing at being a master; this was someone with genuine knowledge sharing it without arrogance.
As the sun began its descent toward the western mountains, casting long shadows across the valley, the first wind turbine took shape. Standing taller than three men, its blades perfectly balanced and shaped to catch the mountain breezes, the generator housed within its core crafted with precision beyond what many thought possible in a single day's work.
The assembled craftsmen stepped back, admiring their creation. Despite their initial skepticism, there was unmistakable pride in their eyes. They had created something entirely new, something that defied the conventional wisdom of their world.
Harry stood before the turbine, his small frame dwarfed by the massive structure. Yet in that moment, he seemed to stand taller, his presence filling the space around him. "Now," he said, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet valley, "we test it."
A hush fell over the gathering. Even those who had remained skeptical throughout the day found themselves holding their breath, waiting to see if this strange contraption would actually work as promised.
The mountain winds, as if sensing the moment's importance, picked up. The turbine's blades, perfectly balanced and aligned, began to move—slowly at first, then with increasing speed as they caught the full force of the air current. The gentle whooshing sound they made was oddly satisfying, a physical manifestation of invisible power being harnessed.
Inside the generator's housing, carefully crafted magnets spun past copper coils, creating invisible fields of energy. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, with a sudden brightness that made several craftsmen step back in surprise, a small crystal attached to the wiring illuminated—not with the gentle glow of magical enchantment, but with a steady, unwavering light powered purely by the wind's motion converted to electricity.
The gathered artisans erupted in astonished exclamations. Some laughed in disbelief, others simply stared, their worldview shifting before their eyes. Several mages instinctively reached out with their magical senses, trying to detect the flow of mana—only to confirm what Harry had claimed: this was power without magic.
Thorne, who had been the first to doubt, now stepped forward, his weathered face split by an incredulous grin. "By the ancient gods," he breathed, watching the light grow brighter as the wind increased. "It actually works."
Elara, the enchantress, shook her head in wonder. "Not a drop of mana," she confirmed for those still doubting. "This is... revolutionary."
Harry smiled, though there was no triumph in his expression—only the quiet satisfaction of a teacher whose students have grasped an important lesson. "This is just the beginning," he said softly. "Imagine what else we might create using these principles."
From the edge of the gathering, unnoticed by most, Lord Lor watched. He had arrived silently, without fanfare, preferring to observe rather than announce his presence. His eyes, the same emerald green as his son's, reflected pride, but also something deeper—perhaps recognition of a turning point, a moment when the course of their world began to shift.
As the sun set behind the mountains, bathing the valley in golden light, the wind turbine continued to spin, its constant motion a symbol of change. The light it produced shone as a beacon, illuminating not just the gathering darkness but the dawn of a new age—one where power might no longer be the exclusive domain of those gifted with magical ability.
The dwarven forgers, smaller in number but unmatched in their metalworking skills, gathered around Harry, their earlier skepticism replaced by professional curiosity. Grimhild, who had recognized the importance of light enchantments, now bombarded the boy with questions about scaling the design for dwarven settlements deep within mountains where wind was scarce but water flowed in abundance.
"Could this principle work with falling water instead of wind?" she asked, her practical mind already adapting the concept to her people's needs.
Harry's eyes lit up. "Absolutely. The same principles apply—motion creating power. A water wheel connected to a generator could provide even more consistent electricity than wind."
As darkness fell completely, the turbine's light grew more prominent, a steady beacon in the night. For many present, it represented more than just a new invention; it symbolized possibility—a world where those without magical talent might still harness power, where technology might stand alongside magic as a force for progress.
And in the center of it all stood Harry, a child in years but something else entirely in knowledge and vision—a bridge between worlds, between what was and what could be.