Elias had always been fascinated by machines. As a child, he would spend hours dismantling and reassembling anything he could get his hands on—clocks, radios, even the family toaster, much to his mother's dismay. It wasn’t just a curiosity; it was a need to understand how things worked, to see the world through the lens of gears and circuits.

His parents, Thomas and Eleanor, encouraged his passion. They saw in him the spark of ingenuity, the potential to build a future beyond the ordinary. When he expressed an interest in engineering, they supported him wholeheartedly. It was with their encouragement that Elias pursued his studies in mechanical engineering, attending one of the most prestigious universities in the country.

University life was challenging, but Elias thrived in the environment of innovation and discovery. He was known among his peers as the "machine whisperer," the one who could bring even the most complex designs to life with precision and creativity. His professors often marveled at his ability to see solutions where others saw obstacles. It was during these years that he developed his first groundbreaking project: an automated press system designed to revolutionize manufacturing.

Elias graduated with honors, his future bright and full of promise. His parents were there at his graduation, beaming with pride as they watched their son accept his degree. For them, it was a dream realized, the culmination of years of hard work and sacrifices. They had always believed in him, always known that he was destined for greatness.

Shortly after graduation, Elias secured his first job at a leading engineering firm, a position that allowed him to work on large-scale industrial machinery. It was an engineer's playground, filled with the hum of machinery and the scent of oil and metal. He quickly rose through the ranks, earning a reputation as a brilliant, if somewhat obsessive, engineer.

His passion project was his automated press system. He poured every ounce of his knowledge and creativity into perfecting the design, envisioning a machine that could operate with unparalleled efficiency and precision. It was a feat of engineering—a complex interplay of hydraulics, sensors, and mechanics. The system was designed to streamline production, reduce human error, and significantly increase output. It was, in his mind, the future of manufacturing.

When the time came to present his invention, his parents insisted on being there. They wanted to see firsthand the culmination of their son's efforts, the realization of the dreams they had nurtured since he was a child. Elias arranged for them to attend the unveiling at the firm's headquarters—a grand event where industry leaders would witness the potential of his creation.

The presentation was a resounding success. The machine performed flawlessly, exceeding even Elias's expectations. The room was filled with applause, and his parents beamed with pride from the front row. For Elias, it was a moment of triumph, a validation of his life's work. That night, as they celebrated, his parents spoke of how proud they were, how they always knew he would achieve greatness.

But fate had other plans.

The following day, as his parents boarded a flight back home, tragedy struck. The plane never reached its destination. An unforeseen technical failure caused it to crash in the mountains, claiming the lives of all on board. Elias received the news in his office, the phone call that shattered his world. He fell into a silence so profound it seemed to consume him whole.

He was left alone, his parents gone in an instant, their pride and joy turned into a hollow echo. The weeks that followed were a blur of grief and disbelief. He could still hear their voices, see their smiles in his mind, but they were gone. The joy of his achievement turned to ashes, and the machine he had built, once a symbol of his brilliance, now felt like a cruel reminder of everything he had lost.

In his absence, the company continued to develop his invention. They saw the commercial potential and moved forward with production, making modifications and improvements without his input. When Elias finally returned to work, he found himself sidelined, his creation no longer his own. The machine, his machine, was being altered and optimized by others, the very thing he had poured his soul into now just another product on the assembly line.

Anger simmered beneath his grief. It wasn't just the loss of his parents; it was the loss of his life's work, his purpose. He watched as others tinkered with his designs, made decisions he didn't agree with, all in the name of efficiency and profit. They spoke of cost reductions, market strategies, and production quotas, reducing his vision to a mere commodity.

He confronted his superiors, arguing that the changes compromised the integrity of the design, but his protests were dismissed. "It's no longer just your machine, Elias," they told him. "It's the company's now. We're here to make it better."

Better. The word gnawed at him. To them, "better" meant cheaper, faster, more profitable. To Elias, it was an affront to his craft, a betrayal of the principles that had guided him since his childhood days of dismantling clocks and radios. In his mind, they had stolen something precious, twisted it into something unrecognizable.

Depression took hold of him. The once bright, driven engineer became a shadow of his former self, drowning in a sea of anger and sorrow. He withdrew from his colleagues, from the work he once loved, spending long hours alone in the workshop where the first prototype of the press had been built. The hum of machinery, once a source of comfort, now grated on his nerves, reminding him of all that he had lost.

For months, he existed in a haze, going through the motions without purpose or direction. But eventually, the anger turned inward, fueling a desire to reclaim what had been taken from him. If they were going to use his machine, he would make sure it was done right. He threw himself back into work with a fervor that bordered on mania, diving into every aspect of the machine's production. He worked tirelessly, pushing the boundaries of what was possible, ensuring that every mechanism, every gear, operated to his exacting standards.

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Elias stood before the machine that had come to define his life, its imposing frame towering over him like an unfeeling titan. He had spent countless hours refining it, optimizing its every function. It was his masterpiece, his legacy. Yet, in his haste and determination, he had overlooked the signs—the warning signals that something was not quite right.

On the morning, he was particularly irritable. The machine had been experiencing intermittent issues for weeks, and Elias was determined to fix it once and for all. The production schedule was tight, the pressure from management relentless. They needed the machine to run at full capacity, and Elias felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on him.

"Something's off with the hydraulics," he muttered to himself, standing over the control panel. He could feel the eyes of the line workers on him, their unease mirroring his own. But they didn't understand the machine like he did. To them, it was a complex piece of equipment. To Elias, it was an extension of himself.

He noticed a slight misalignment in the press—a small deviation that could lead to catastrophic failure if not corrected. Without a moment's hesitation, he grabbed his toolkit and moved toward the machine, waving off the workers' concerns.

"I'll handle it," he said, his voice edged with impatience. "Just keep an eye on the control panel. Shut it down if anything looks wrong."

The worker hesitated, glancing nervously at the emergency stop button. "Are you sure, Elias? Maybe we should wait for—"

"No time!" Elias snapped. "This needs to be fixed now."

He slid beneath the press, the hum of the machinery filling his ears. It was a sound he knew well, one that had once brought him comfort. Now, it only served to heighten his anxiety. He began adjusting the hydraulics, his hands moving with practiced precision. Every part had its place, every gear its purpose. He just needed to—

The clicking noise was faint, almost imperceptible beneath the drone of the factory. Elias's heart skipped a beat. The machine was rebooting. How? He had issued a shutdown command. There was no time to think, only to act. He scrambled to move, to get clear, but it was too late.

The press came down with a force that could crush steel. Pain seared through his body, a white-hot agony that blurred his vision and stole his breath. He was pinned, trapped beneath the very machine he had created. In those final moments, as the darkness closed in, his thoughts drifted to his parents, to the pride in their eyes, to the life he had lost, and to the machine that had been his obsession.

And then, there was silence.

A NEW BEGINNING

The castle walls seemed to breathe in tandem with the storm raging outside. Sheets of rain lashed against the stone, and the wind howled like a mournful dirge. Inside the birthing chamber, the air was thick with tension, each minute stretching into an eternity. Queen Ailith lay on the bed, her face pale and glistening with sweat. Her breathing was labored, each breath a struggle as she clutched the sheets, her body racked with pain.

Outside the chamber, King Cedric paced the length of the corridor. He paused now and then to listen to the muffled cries and shouts from within. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat a reminder of his helplessness. He was a king, used to commanding armies, negotiating with foreign dignitaries, ruling with a firm hand—but here, now, he was powerless. He could not fight this battle for her.

The door creaked open, and one of the midwives emerged, her face drawn and tense. Cedric stopped, his eyes locked onto hers, searching for some sign of reassurance.

"Your Majesty," she began, her voice low and urgent, "the birth is proving difficult. The child is breech, and the queen... she is losing strength."

Cedric felt the floor tilt beneath him. "Do something," he commanded, his voice breaking with the strain. "Save her."

The midwife bowed her head. "We are doing all we can. But you must prepare yourself... for the worst."

Cedric stared at her, his expression a mix of fury and fear. "No," he whispered harshly. "I will not lose her."

The midwife nodded, retreating back into the chamber. Cedric resumed his pacing, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He could hear the agony in Ailith’s cries, the desperation in the midwives’ voices. He wanted to burst through the door, to be at her side, to tell her everything would be all right. But he couldn't. All he could do was wait.

Minutes stretched into an hour, and then another. The storm outside showed no sign of abating, as if the heavens themselves were mourning. Finally, the room fell into a sudden, jarring silence. Cedric stopped mid-stride, his heart hammering in his chest. The door opened once more, and the head midwife stepped out, her face a mask of sorrow.

"It is done," she said quietly. "The child is born... a boy."

Cedric took a step forward, his breath caught in his throat. "And the queen?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

The midwife's eyes filled with tears. "She... she did not survive. We did everything we could, but..."

Cedric staggered back as if struck. His legs felt weak, and he leaned against the wall, his mind struggling to comprehend the words. A son. He had a son. But Ailith... his Ailith was gone. The woman who had been his strength, his partner in all things, was gone. He felt a wave of grief crash over him, threatening to drown him in its wake.

"Take me to him," he rasped, his voice hollow. "Take me to my son."

....

The birthing chamber was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of blood and sweat. The midwives moved quietly around the room, cleaning up the aftermath of the struggle. Cedric entered, his gaze drawn to the bed where Ailith lay, her face unnaturally still. His heart twisted at the sight, a silent scream tearing through him. But beside her, swaddled in blankets, lay the child.

One of the midwives approached with the newborn in her arms. "Your Majesty," she said softly, "your son."

Cedric reached out, his hands trembling as he took the child from her. The baby was small, his skin flushed pink and his eyes tightly shut. Cedric held him close, feeling the fragile warmth of this new life.

"He is healthy," the midwife continued, her voice gentle. "But, Your Majesty, he is still fragile."

Cedric looked down at his son, the weight of responsibility settling upon him like a shroud. Ailith had given her life for this child. Their son. He should feel joy, he knew, but all he could feel was an overwhelming grief that threatened to consume him.

"I am here, my son," he murmured, his voice breaking. "I will protect you. I will... do my best."

The baby stirred, letting out a small cry. Cedric felt a tear slip down his cheek as he cradled his son closer. "You are Eamon," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Eamon, son of Ailith. You are the light she has left me."

For a moment, he stood there, lost in the swirl of grief and love. Then, with a deep breath, he turned away from the bed where Ailith lay. There was no time to mourn, not as a husband should. He was the king, and this child was now the future of Calradia.