Chapter 45: Ace Is Useful

The success at the Well of Sorrows had been a spark in a dry forest. Now, the desperate fire of hope was spreading everywhere.

From every corner of the North, messengers arrived on exhausted horses, all bearing the same plea:Water. Give us the iron monster. Give us a miracle.

But miracles, as Evelina frequently reminded Victor Thorne, were expensive and required an infuriating amount of manual labor.

"The second and third units are assembled," Victor reported, his voice cracking from a mix of exhaustion and newfound fervor. He looked less like a ghost now and more like a man possessed by a holy mission,

"But the bedrock at the Iron-Claw Pass is thrice as thick. At this rate, the installation will take two weeks. The people there... they don’t have two weeks, Your Grace."

Evelina looked at the maps. The stability metrics were fluctuating wildly, "Then we don’t give them two weeks. We give them three days."

"With what army?" Victor asked, gesturing to the weary smiths, "We need hands. We need strength to haul the main cylinders through the silt."

The Iron-Claw Pass was a brutal stretch of vertical rock and sun-baked mud. By the time the wagons reached the site, the laborers were already flagging. The heat was making every breath feel like inhaling molten lead.

The primary cylinder of the second pump, a three-ton beast of reinforced iron was stuck. A wagon wheel had shattered in a ravine of dried mud, and the heavy chains were groaning under the tension.

The laborers, skin blistered and eyes bloodshot, pulled with a dying strength, but the heavy iron monster didn’t budge.

Then, a shadow fell over the trench.

Ace stepped off his stallion. To the laborers, he was a figure of myth; the Duke who commanded legions and sat in high halls. But today, Ace seemed less like an immortal and more like a god within their reach.

Without a word, he unbuckled the heavy, jeweled belt of his office and tossed it onto the dry grass.

He stripped off his military coat, tossing the expensive wool aside as if it were a rag. His white linen shirt followed, revealing the powerful, scarred body of a warrior’s torso, shoulders that were built by a thousand sword-strokes and a muscular back that had carried the weight of the North’s defense.

"Make room," Ace barked.

The laborers scrambled back, eyes wide. The Duke stepped into the knee-deep, scorching mud of the ravine. He grabbed the primary iron chain, wrapping the cold links around his forearm.

"On my mark!" he roared, his voice cutting through the haze of the heat., "Pull!"

Ace’s muscles bunched and surged, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

With a cold command, he threw his entire weight into the haul. The chain bit into his skin, drawing a bead of blood, but he didn’t flinch.

Slowly and agonizingly, the iron monster groaned. The wagon tilted, the wheels cleared the ledge, and with an earth-shaking thud, the pump settled onto level ground.

Ace didn’t stop there.

For the next twelve hours, the High Duke of the North lived in the dirt. He hauled timber, he hammered rivets alongside Master Alfred, and he carried sacks of coal that would have snapped a lesser man’s spine.

He was covered in soot, grease, and the salt of his own sweat as his once-pristine hair matted against his forehead.

Evelina watched from the ridge, a parasol shielding her from the sun, though her [Merchant’s Eye] was focused entirely on the man in the pit.

[Target Status: Physical exhaustion 70%, Mental focus: 100%]

She walked down the slope as the sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the site. The pump was nearly secured. Ace was currently tightening a massive brass bolt with a wrench that looked like it weighed about fifty pounds.

He sensed her presence before he saw her. He straightened up, his chest heaving, a streak of black grease smeared across his jaw.

He looked rugged, filthy, and entirely un-ducal. He looked at her, his eyes searching her face with a silent hope that made Evelina’s heart skip a beat.

She reached out, taking a clean silk handkerchief from her sleeve. She didn’t say anything as she stepped closer, reaching up to wipe the grease from his cheek.

Ace froze. He didn’t breathe. He looked down at her, his towering frame casting a shadow over her, his heart thudding so loudly she could almost hear it over the hiss of the nearby boiler.

"The installation is ahead of schedule by four hours," Evelina said, her voice cool and professional, though her fingers lingered a second too long on his skin.

She stepped back, tucking the soiled cloth away, "Good job, Ace. You’ve proved yourself quite... useful."

She said it those words in a way a master might praise a loyal hound for fetching a particularly difficult kill.

It was devoid of the romantic fluff he had tried to offer in the tent, yet the effect on Ace was catastrophic.

A brilliant, dorky, and entirely genuine grin broke across his face.

"Useful, am I?" he rasped, his voice thick with a mix of fatigue and exhilaration.

"At the very least," she retorted, turning to check Victor’s pressure gauges, "Though I expect the next pump to be done in three hours. Don’t get lazy just because you’ve had a bit of exercise."

Ace let out a short, bark-like laugh, grabbing a water skin and dousing his head.

The water splashed over his shoulders, making his skin glisten in the twilight. He didn’t care that she was treating him like a high-end laborer. He didn’t care that he was the Duke of the North and he was currently covered in filth.

He lived for that nod of approval she sent his way.

If she had asked him to dig a trench to the center of the earth with his bare hands just to see that tiny quirk of her lips, he would have started digging without a second thought.