"Men and Women of North Cove. I am glad you have heeded my summons. Today, we begin something amazing. Today, we lay the foundation for the future progress of North Cove. You have all been selected not just for your intelligence and knowledge in your field, but due to your loyalty towards a cause greater than yourself. Today, we are creating the 'Order of the Reality Benders.'" I said dramatically. Unfortunately, the room remained silent.
"The purpose of this order is to change the world as we know it. To bend reality to our will and accomplish things that others would think impossible. Whether it be creating a new tool to help with farming or a carriage that can move without an animal to pull it, in doing so, you will earn yourself a place in history.
"I will now read the codex of our order."
Let it be known to those who take this oath: the Order of Reality Benders is founded under the hand and authority of Count Amos Bicman of North Cove. By his vision and command are we gathered, and by his will are we guided. We are bound not by public charter nor by royal sanction, but by secrecy, loyalty, and the pursuit of truth. The world beyond our walls is not yet ready for what we will forge. Thus, our works shall be hidden until the appointed hour.
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To seek out knowledge wherever it may be found—whether in earth, flame, glass, or ink—and to shape that knowledge into tools that uplift our people.
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To bend reality to our will, not for idle curiosity or vanity, but to strengthen the realm of North Cove, preserve its people, and secure its future.
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To guard fiercely all discoveries, concealing from outsiders that which would be twisted for greed, tyranny, or ruin.
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To preserve our knowledge against the erosion of time, so that even if one hand falls silent, the wisdom shall endure in the Order.
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Admission into the Order is granted only by Count Amos Bicman. No man, woman, or child may claim a place save by his voice.
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Each member must prove worthy through skill, craft, or knowledge. Mediocrity has no place here; only those who advance the purpose of the Order shall be sworn.
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Membership is for life, save in cases of betrayal, wherein expulsion and ruin shall follow.
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Secrecy – No word of the Order’s existence shall pass to outsiders. A careless tongue shall be deemed betrayal.
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Loyalty – Allegiance is to the Count of North Cove, sole master and protector of this Order. His word is law, his will is command.
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Sharing of Knowledge – All discoveries belong to the Order. No knowledge may be hidden for personal gain. What is learned must be recorded and entrusted to the Count.
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Protection – Members shall guard one another and their works as if guarding their own blood. To abandon a fellow in peril is to abandon the Order itself.
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Restraint – In matters of destruction—gunpowder, poisons, engines of war—none shall act without the Count’s sanction. The power to end lives lies not in the hands of craftsmen but in the judgment of their lord.
Each initiate, upon being received, shall kneel before Count Amos Bicman and speak thus:
“I swear by the Endless One and by my honor,
to guard the secrets of the Order of Reality Benders.
I will not betray nor forsake my fellow members.
I will surrender all knowledge to the Order,
and I will hold nothing back for greed or gain.
I bind my life and my craft to Count Amos Bicman,
who is master of the Order, keeper of its secrets,
and judge of its destiny.
This I swear, upon pain of exile, ruin, and dishonor.”
When these words are spoken, the initiate is marked as a Reality Bender and bound until death.
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Any who break their oath shall be cast out and named traitor. Their name shall be stricken, their works seized, their honor blackened.
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Should betrayal endanger the lives of members or the secrecy of the Order, death shall be decreed by Count Amos Bicman without appeal.
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Let it be remembered: betrayal once given cannot be undone. The stain endures beyond the grave.
The Order shall live beyond the span of men’s lives. Though its works be hidden, though its scrolls be buried in secret places, the Order shall endure. Should the Count fall, his heir shall inherit both the authority and the burden of command. If the House of Bicman itself be extinguished, the last sworn member shall guard the secrets until another patron is deemed worthy.
So it is written, and so it shall be kept, by the will of Count Amos Bicman, founder and master of the Order of Reality Benders.
Fortunately, I didn’t write this myself. Benjamin did. To me, it sounded unbearably pretentious, but he insisted it was necessary. He never did explain why, and at the time I didn’t press him on it.
Once the document had been read aloud, I made it clear that participation was voluntary. Despite the consequences spelled out for breaking the oath, every single person stepped forward and swore themselves to secrecy. This was the beginning of something grand, and no one wanted to be the one left standing on the outside.
As the last oath was spoken, a chill ran down my spine. I was getting uncomfortable Illuminati vibes. A secret organization, cloaked in secrecy, convinced it was acting for the greater good—history hadn’t exactly been kind to those. I couldn’t help but wonder what the Order of Reality Benders might become a hundred years from now, once my intentions were nothing more than a footnote.
Still… it had an amazing name.
I wish I could take credit for it—but I stole it outright from one of my favorite authors.
“Now that we have all the signatures on this document,” I said, “I’d like to give a small demonstration of what I hope we can accomplish in all of your fields by working together. Jorb, would you bring up the springs?”
He laid three pieces of metal on the table. One was a compression spring, like you’d find in a shock absorber. Another was an extension spring—the kind you’d use on a trampoline, which immediately went onto my growing mental list of future projects. The third twisted inward on itself.
A torsion spring. Or a torque spring. One of the two. The clothespin kind.
“Jorb,” I said, “I want you to explain how each of these was made. From the creation of the steel, through quenching, reheating, and everything in between. Then we’ll demonstrate what they do and how they can be used. I don’t expect all of you to take insight from how they were made—but some of you may see how they can be applied in your own fields.”
Jorb nodded and began speaking in broad strokes, starting with the mining of the ore and moving through forging and heat treatment. I was absurdly proud of myself when I remembered the word tempering. That had to be pulled from some half-buried memory. Possibly from the one time I’d watched that Forged in Fire show.
He spoke plainly, without embellishment, explaining both their successes and their failures.
“At first, we made a piece of iron bend the way you wanted,” he said. “We thought we had discovered the secret. But the more we tried to replicate it, the more we realized how lucky that first piece had been. We’ve learned several things that affect how firm the metal is, and how flexible. The amount of carbon in the iron. The temperature of the first heating. Whether we quench in oil or water. The temperature of the second heating.”
He hesitated, then added, “There are other factors we’re still trying to work out. But since we started, we’ve run more than a hundred separate tests.”
“Hold up the book,” I said.
Jorb raised his hand, lifting a well-worn notebook.
“You’re all familiar with these,” I said, letting my gaze move across the room. “I issued them to each of you. Many of you have already begun using them. This one contains three days’ worth of experiments. By measuring everything and writing it down, Jorb and the others are stripping the guesswork out of the process.”
I turned back to him. “What problems are you working on now?”
“Consistency,” Jorb answered without hesitation. “We’ve been testing the springs. Some last longer than others. Some fail after a thousand pulls. Some make it to two thousand. The best one survived three thousand.”
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“And why do you think that is?” I asked.
“We believe it’s the ratio of iron to carbon.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“We’re going to find a more consistent way to work the metal,” he said. “Try to mix it better.”
I turned to the room. "Now I want you to ask questions—either about the process itself, or about other things Jorb could try."
I was met with dead silence.
They were completely unprepared for this. Cross-field research wasn’t a concept this world understood, let alone something you asked of craftsmen pulled far from the scholars and courts of the realm. The room remained quiet for nearly five fractions before a weaver near the back finally spoke.
"Is it like kneading dough?" she asked carefully. "If you knead more, you get better consistency—but if you knead too much, it becomes tough?"
"Maybe," Jorb said after a moment, clearly thinking it through. "That does sound similar."
"Excellent question," I said at once, seizing the moment. "This is exactly what we need. You all come from different crafts. That gives you different ways of seeing the same problem. Sometimes a question is more valuable than an answer." I gestured toward the springs. "And she raises another point—how much pounding is too much? At what point does it make the metal brittle instead of stronger?"
That seemed to break something loose.
Questions began coming rapidly. What was the temperature of the water? Did different oils behave differently? What would happen if the metal were fully melted and then quenched? Should it be reheated between hammering, or worked continuously while hot?
Some of it Jorb could answer. Much of it he could not.
After about half a bell of discussion, someone asked. "If you are not getting a consistent amount of carbon with heating it in a box, why not melt the wrought iron completely with charcoal, or just add in some pig iron or cast iron with it?"
That blew up into another conversation on how to verify the amount of carbon in the cast iron and the quantities needed. Also, how to build a furnace that can melt the two together.
The engineers were salivating not just at the idea of using springs but also at the fact that we had made harder steel as well. At some point, they had pulled away from the main conversation and were having their own little discussion.
After nearly an hour focused on springs and steel, we moved on to something even more dangerous.
We released the knowledge of the printing press.
Aside from Edward—whom I had placed in charge of the project—only Emily and the engineers even knew it existed. Construction of the first press was slow and frustrating. It demanded a level of precision that pushed the limits of what our craftsmen were used to. One of the reasons I had introduced springs first was to see if they might help solve some of those problems.
“One issue we’re having is the ink,” Edward said. “The ink we use for writing is too thin. When it’s applied to the stamps, it runs and makes the letters illegible.”
Roger the fuller spoke up. “When we dye cloth, we add linseed oil to thicken it. There are also a few resins that might help. I can’t show you everything here, but if you come to Cofi, you’re welcome to tour the shop. I’ll share what supplies I can.”
Edward bowed his head. “Your help would be greatly appreciated.”
I felt a brief stab of embarrassment. I used linseed oil myself when making paints, and it hadn’t even crossed my mind. Another quiet reminder of why this gathering mattered.
As the room buzzed with new ideas, a memory surfaced from my final year of school. They’d bought a 3D printer, and during the demonstration someone had stressed the importance of keeping the bed perfectly level. They’d used screws compressing springs to fine-tune it. I began sketching almost without thinking.
When I was finished, I handed the drawing to the engineers.
Since springs were entirely new to them, it took some time for the idea to fully sink in. But once it did, the effect was immediate. It was like telling a child that Christmas would come twice.
I had a feeling I’d need to sit down with them separately—probably lose an entire day—just answering questions and exploring every place a simple coil spring might improve an existing tool or process.
I was almost certainly getting ahead of myself.
“Hey,” one of the explosives experts said, leaning forward, “can you make a long tube of that steel? And I’ll need one of those springs. I have an idea.”
I groaned inwardly.
This was how we lose people.
****
Over the next few days, we had the first annual conference of the "Reality Benders." We discussed all the projects we are currently working on, how they might fit in with North Cove's current projects, and what we need for the future. A thousand ideas were generated, and almost as many were thrown out. I was constantly pushing them to think bigger.
Of course, the new shiny object, the coil spring, got the most attention. Everyone wanted to figure out how they could use it in their own equipment. Everything from the flyer on the spinning wheel to absorbing vibrations on the reapers.
When we started discussing the plow, Henry asked whether it could absorb the shock of the soil's bumps and rocks. This took us off track of whether a coil spring or a leaf spring would work better. We realized that the steel leaf spring would be best. Then started designing it.
Then, as Henry felt the newly polished spring, his eyes lit up with excitement.
"This metal is very smooth," he said.
"Yes," I said as if that should be obvious.
"And will it be durable if we make it as a large piece?"
I turned to Jorb for the answer. "It doesn't matter the size, it should be durable and smooth, no matter how large you make it."
"Can you make a plow head out of it?"
Jorb scratched his beard. "I suppose, but are the plows you have not good enough?"
"They are excellent. However, the soil sticks to them, so it is slower, and we have to use two mules to plow the field instead of one. If this steel is smooth, maybe the soil will not stick. If this is so, we may not need to be constantly cleaning them, and not wear out the mules."
"I love that idea," I said. "It would also apply to other tools that we use in this marsh. However, due to the limited amount we produce, I think we should focus on the most essential things and then create a few for fall planting to see how they work."
I especially liked the idea since we were now short on mules again.
It wasn't just the springs; we came up with a list of things to try and add to anything we melted. Overall, I think the meeting went very well. A smaller session would also be held once a month with anyone available. This would be to discuss not new things yet to be done, but any results they had found.
I saved one last thing until the very end.
Tumlus stood up and, in a very shaky voice, said, "We were having trouble creating what Count Bicman wanted us to create. He wanted a clear glass disk. I… Um, we tried a lot of things, but our glass came out in all different shades of green and foggy. Also, it was either too brittle or very bubbly. We overcame this issue by adding extra ash. The new furnace allowed us to reach a higher temperature and maintain it for a longer period. When we did that, more of the bubbles came out. However, we have not found a way to remove all the impurities. We need, um, something to either remove them or find more pure sand. We found that the sand with fewer black grains is not as green. But we can't find one that is perfect. We did manage to make one batch, though that must not have had as many black grains, or we added something by accident, and because that batch came out a lot clearer. So if anyone knows where to find sand without the black grains or something that will make it go away in the furnace, will you let me know?"
He was about to continue when Mathew, Jorb's son and the person who handled most of the finer metal work, spoke up. "You need a lodestone."
Everyone turned to look at him, and he immediately looked down. There was silence that seemed to drag on forever. Finally, I broke the silence. "What does a magnet do?" I asked, already thinking I knew the answer.
"Well, we use sand in the molds and some other things at the forge, and one time I was playing with a lodestone and stuff started sticking to it. I began to collect it into a pile by running it around on the sand and wiping off the black stuff. I got a big pile of black sand in a jar. Father says it's just bits of iron. It has to be a strong magnet rock, though not the weak ones."
I started to laugh. "Well done, Mathew. You were pulling the iron out of the sand. Looks like you have another experiment to run, Tumlus."
I clapped my hands to make sure everyone was paying attention Now, I think you have something to present?"
That woke Tumlus from his shock. He shook his head as if trying to reset himself. "Yes, like I said, we had a batch that was mostly clear and were able to get a large enough space that didn't have bubbles in it, so we could make your disk. We had to remelt it and start over a few times, but we were finally able to polish a piece down that did what you wanted it to."
He stood up with a small box and walked over to me with it just as I had instructed him to. He opened the lid and presented a small, round piece of very pale green glass to me. I held it up to the light and admired it. Then I looked at the charter I had in front of me and saw the words enlarge. I smiled as I looked through the world's first-ever glass lens. It was about five centimeters in diameter, and compared to modern Earth standards, it was nothing special, and you could see the obvious flaws where there was some slight warping, but you could definitely burn some ants… I mean, start a campfire with it.
I turned to Benjamin, who was sitting next to me. "Take this."
He leaned over and gently grabbed the lens by the edge. I helped show him how holding closer or further from the page changed the focus. "Now move it until the words come into focus."
I knew exactly when it happened because he suddenly dropped the lens in shock. He quickly picked it back up while apologizing to me. Then he held it up again, and I could see him mouthing the words as he read the paper.
"Sure beats squinting at the pages, doesn't it?" I said with a grin.
"I am sorry, my lord," he said as a tear left a trail down his face. "I am so sorry for doubting you. Y-you promised me that it wasn't a problem. You said that you would make it so I could see the words. I-I…" He paused and took a deep breath. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you for this miracle."
"Tumlus and his glassmakers are the miracle workers. I just pointed them in the right direction. But seriously, Benjamin. If you think this is a miracle, wait until you see what they are going to do next."
Jonathan of the Mit Trading House
It had been three days since the old man found him, and still, everything hurt. Jonathan had been a fool to go back onto the road after what he had heard. Those men had been looking for him specifically. And why wouldn't they have been? Random people headed to North Cove was one thing, but a person who traveled by ship and arrived in Vaspar would obviously be more important to the Count than some peasant fleeing a bad situation.
Fortunately, other than his purse and all his clothes, Vaspar's men hadn't done more than rough him up. He was surprised his throat hadn't been slit. The peasant, Greg, had brought him to his home, where he lived with his wife and adult son. His son's wife was dead, but they had four teenage children. They didn't have a whole lot they could feed him other than mash. There were some local herbs to help with the scrapes and bruises. The most generous gift was a pair of pants and some worn-out sandals that they were able to offer him. It was time to leave, though.
"I am sorry we could not offer you more," the old man said as he stood in the doorway of the hovel.
"Nonsense, Greg, you have done more than most would do. When I arrive at my sister's place, I will be scolded for a few days before she bothers to get me any clothes to wear. And when things calm down, I will be sure to return and reward you properly for your kindness." Jonathan said with a wave.
"As you wish. Next time, I recommend traveling the mountains of Yarbeth and Decmoore. There is supposedly a trail that leads into the land of North Cove. If you are looking to flee your past master, I hear there is a community in a valley of three rivers in a land they now call Plimgus."
Jonathan felt guilty about the story he had told the old man about how he was fleeing a lord who had demanded more than Jonathan could pay. "And Count Bicman doesn't mind?"
The old man chuckled. "Son, I don't think you realize how large the land of North Cove is. It is also very empty. I am sure that the people there have some sort of understanding with the guards of that barony that keep them looking the other way. Though from what I hear, the count wouldn't mind if he had a few extra people living on his lands."
"Thank you again, Greg, and I will keep that valley in mind," Jonathan said as he turned to leave. He, of course, would not be trying his luck with that route. He had a better idea. He had been hesitant to try at first due to the extra price of a ship's passage, but he was going to try to convince a captain in Vaspar to travel straight to North Cove.