THE RUNIC ALCHEMIST

[The Royal Council Chamber, St. James’s Palace – Before the Meeting..]

William Pitt, the Prime Minister, said irritably, “He’s making a spectacle of himself—casting spells in our streets like some stage performer! The people whisper of miracles, the clergy mutters of heresy, and our rivals will soon be listening. We must act before chaos takes hold.”

The Earl of Bute added, “If this man possesses power beyond our comprehension, I do not trust him to wander unchecked. If his magic can build armies, forge weapons, or sway the minds of men—then this is no simple matter of curiosity.”

Admiral George Anson leaned forward. “We must determine whether he is friend or foe. If he seeks to bargain, then let us bargain. But if he seeks dominion over us, we must plan accordingly.”

With a different perspective, John Pringle interjected, “If he offers knowledge, should we not listen? To dismiss him outright would be foolish. If his feats are genuine, he may hold answers that could advance Britain far beyond its rivals.”

Prince George spoke calmly but decisively. “Summon him. If he refuses, let him know he is not welcome here. If he accepts, we will see what kind of man he truly is.”

William Pitt nodded grudgingly. “Then it is decided. We grant him an audience—but under our conditions.”

***

[The Royal Council Meeting – St. James’s Palace]

The heavy oak doors of the Royal Council Chamber creaked open, revealing a grand, candlelit hall lined with gilded portraits of monarchs past. At the center of the chamber, a long table stretched between Britain’s most powerful men—statesmen, generals, scientists, and noble advisors—gathered for a meeting unlike any before.

Seated at the head of the table was Prince George, the heir apparent, his expression composed yet calculating. To his right sat William Pitt, the Prime Minister, his sharp gaze betraying a mix of irritation and curiosity. The Earl of Bute, Prince George’s closest advisor, leaned slightly forward, his fingers interlaced as he studied the situation.

To the left, Admiral George Anson, First Lord of the Admiralty, rested his hands on the table, his demeanor reflecting the caution of a man who had seen Britain’s enemies rise and fall. Beside him, General Ligonier, the Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, remained still, analyzing the implications of the stranger’s power.

Across from them sat John Pringle, a respected physician and Royal Society member, alongside John Harrison, the brilliant clockmaker. Further down the table, men of science—Joseph Black, Henry Cavendish, and others—whispered amongst themselves. Henry Fox, the Secretary of War, drummed his fingers against the table, visibly displeased.

The chamber doors shut.

The guards escorted Damian Sunblade alone into the hall. His striking presence—a man dressed in foreign yet regal fashion, his silver bracers subtly glowing beneath his rolled-up sleeves, his very stance radiating confidence—made an immediate impression. His eyes swept across the room. He did not follow the usual procedures, seeing the man’s status no one even insisted upon it.

Prince George spoke first, his voice measured but firm. “You have made quite the entrance into our city, Sir Damian. Your.. demonstrations have not gone unnoticed.”

William Pitt, ever pragmatic, added with thinly veiled skepticism, “You claim to be an outsider, one with knowledge and power beyond our own. And yet, you say you come only to visit and aid our people? I Apologise but London does not welcome sorcerers without question.”

Damian met their stares evenly. “I come not as a conqueror, nor as a trickster. I am merely a man with gifts—gifts I am willing to share.” He reached into his coat, causing an immediate stir among the guards, but instead of a weapon, he withdrew a shiny steel ingot.

“This is a gift, a demonstration of what I can offer. I can enhance the strength of steel far beyond common alloys and render it impervious to rust.” He placed it on the table.

The scientists murmured excitedly. John Harrison leaned forward, fascinated. Joseph Black adjusted his spectacles. Henry Cavendish remained silent but intrigued.

Admiral Anson frowned. “A trinket is one thing. Military applications are another.”

“Of course,” Damian countered smoothly. “What I bring is advancement. Power, yes—but also progress.”

The Earl of Bute’s eyes narrowed. “And what price do you demand for this.. generosity?”

Damian smiled slightly. “Only cooperation. I have plans—plans that are difficult to achieve alone—that require industry, resources, and intellect. I seek no throne, no crown. But in return for my knowledge, I expect steel, iron—tons of it—and a place where I may work freely.”

A hush fell over the room as they processed Damian’s demand: 80% pig iron in exchange for boosting their production from 30,000 tons per year to over a million tons. Needless to say, their jaws were on the floor. But these were some of the finest liars and diplomats of their time, and their astonishment only lasted a few seconds.

General Ligonier finally spoke. “You ask for enough material to forge an empire’s worth of weapons. You must understand how absurd your claims are—boosting production by such a scale is beyond belief.”

John Pringle, always one to consider scientific potential, interjected, “If his knowledge can propel Britain beyond its rivals, should we not hear him out? If he speaks truly, rejecting him would be a mistake.”

William Pitt exhaled sharply, running a hand over his chin. “Your presence alone is already shifting the balance of power. France, Spain, Prussia—any one of them would kill to control what you offer. Even 20% of millions of tons would leave the others far behind in the arms race. Still, such claims cannot be taken at face value, nor can we be satisfied with these fixed numbers. We will be the ones doing all the work..”

Prince George nodded, absorbing every word. He turned to Damian. “We do not yet know if you are a harbinger of fortune or of disaster. You must understand our hesitation…”

Damian looked around the room and simply raised his hands. The officials shouted warnings and reached for their guns—yet Damian ignored them entirely. Instead, a waygate materialized, a swirling black and purple portal connecting his side of the room to the far end. The air itself seemed to ripple.

Their faces turned ashen as they saw his hand emerge from the other side. Realization dawned—they were no match for his strength, no matter what they did.

With a calm yet imposing presence, Damian canceled the spell and said, “I call it a wormhole.. or a waygate. This is just one of the things you will gain if we move forward quickly. It can connect not only a few meters.. but cities, kingdoms, continents—even two separate worlds.”

The weight of his words pressed down on them. Half the council members unconsciously rose from their seats.

“What will become of the world.. if there are no limits to how far a man can reach in a second?”

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