I remember the first time I saw the scrolls that would change everything.
They weren’t impressive at first glance—just brittle rolls of parchment buried beneath a collapsed shelf in the old Archive, half-eaten by time and mice. Dust lay over them like a funeral shroud. The ink, brown and faded, looked as though a careless hand might erase it with a single touch.
I almost walked past. But being who I am, neglected things call to me.
So I pulled them free, sneezing in the dark, and unrolled the first one against the lamplight. The script was strange—angular, disciplined—but the diagrams spoke a language I knew in my bones: geometry, leverage, torsion, force. Machines that hurled death across fields. Machines built by a people long dead, their name written in a firm hand at the top of the scroll:
**ROMANS**. That was months ago.
Tonight, I stood in the Council Hall, facing the men who ruled Ar, and the Captain of the Guards, Viktor, whose opinion carried almost as much weight as theirs. Behind me, waiting in the courtyard like slumbering beasts, were the results of those long months: a Ballista, a Scorpion, and an Onager.
Three machines. Three risks. Three temptations.
The Council chamber smelled of oil lamps, old leather, and fear. Not the wild kind, but the cool, reasonable fear of people who understand numbers, logistics, and consequences. High Councilor Mereth sat at the center of the crescent of stone benches, his white hair braided with silver wire. Beside him, five other Councilors in muted robes. Viktor stood to their right, not seated, towering in his red Guard’s cloak, arms folded across his chest, boots planted solidly on the polished stone floor.
Viktor always looks like he has been carved from a chunk of dark granite and given a barely adequate excuse to move. Scar along his jaw, short-cropped black hair threaded with a few strands of iron gray, eyes like wet flint. He has the kind of stillness that makes other men restless. I know him well. I know the way he studies people when they talk, measuring them—deciding whether to trust, whether to act. I know he doesn’t like uncertainty.
The machines behind me are made of nothing but uncertainty.
Mereth cleared his throat. “Alexander. You asked for this audience. You asked for resources, and we gave them. We now expect to see what you have built, and why we should not regret granting your request.”
I inclined my head slightly. I am not good at courtly bows. I like straight lines and precise angles, not the elaborate curves of ritual. “You won’t regret it,” I said. “Or you will. But if you regret it, you’ll do so alive, behind stronger walls.”
A ripple of amusement ran through the Council. Viktor’s mouth twitched—almost a smile.
“Begin,” Mereth said. I gestured toward the open double doors behind me, where the evening light spilled in. “Then you’ll have to come outside. These machines prefer the sky.” We moved as a group through the doors and down the wide steps into the central courtyard of Ar. The city spread around us, its towers rising like stone spears, the outer wall thick and patient, as if it knew something we did not. Above, the sky burned in streaks of orange and violet, the sun slowly drowning in the western hills.
The three machines waited at the far side of the courtyard, aligned like a strange procession. Workers stood nearby, hands on ropes and winches, nervous, tense. They had helped me build these things, plank by plank, sinew by sinew. They believed in them; I could see it in the way they watched the Council approach. I walked ahead, my boots crunching on the gravel, my heart beat steady but heavy. I always feel this way when I stand beside something I’ve built and people come to judge it. It’s like exposing a piece of my skull and inviting someone to tap it with a hammer to see what echoes.
Viktor came to stand beside me, his gaze roaming across the machines. “So,” he said quietly. “You really did it. You pulled war out of paper.” It took me a breath to realize he was talking about the scrolls. “I didn’t pull war out,” I said. “War was already here. I pulled better tools out.”
His mouth tightened. “Tools that throw stones the size of a man’s chest.”
“Yes,” I said. “That kind.” He grunted, then fell silent.
I raised my voice so the Council could hear. “I found the designs in scrolls from an ancient people called the Romans. They fought with discipline and mathematics. They built machines that made distance meaningless.” I walked to the first creation—a wide-framed, heavy thing of oak and iron, its arms extended, its rope bundles wound tight, a long groove along its spine like a channel carved into the back of a monstrous insect.
“This,” I said, resting a hand on the smooth wood, “is the Ballista.” Mereth approached, eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“The Romans used it to shoot bolts—great spears, essentially—over long distances, with speed and accuracy. It’s driven by torsion—tight-wound rope twisted around two arms. You pull back the rope, lock it, load the bolt, then release. The arms snap forward, the rope unwinds, and the bolt flies.” I nodded to my crew. Two workers slid a thick-shafted bolt into the groove, its iron tip glinting in the fading light. Another man wound back the rope with a winch, the torsion ropes creaking as they strained.
I turned to Viktor. “This one’s for you.” He raised an eyebrow. “For me to use, or for you to shoot me with?”
“You wouldn’t stand still long enough for the second option.” He snorted, then stepped up to the firing lever. I watched him. I wanted him to do it. He needed to feel the machine under his hands, needed that immediate understanding of power and control.
“Target?” he asked. I pointed to a wooden shield hung on a post set up at the far end of the courtyard, nearly a hundred paces away. “There.” He laughed softly, skeptical, but set his stance, large hands firm on the lever.
“On your mark, Builder,” he said. I took a breath. “Now.” He pulled.
The sound was like a giant’s exhale—deep, violent, sudden. The arms snapped forward, the rope whipped, and the bolt tore through the air with a low, brutal hiss that made the hair rise on my arms.
It hit the shield and didn’t stop. Wood shattered. The bolt tore through the shield, through the post, and slammed into the stone wall behind it, embedding itself half a length into the rock. For a moment, the only sound was the splintered fragments clattering to the ground.
Someone behind me whispered a curse. Viktor lowered his hands slowly, staring at the ruined target. Then, without turning, he said, “That wasn’t full tension, was it?” I smiled. “No.”
He turned to look at me, and for the first time that evening there was something like wonder in his eyes. Not the soft wonder of a child, but the hard-edged, calculating wonder of a man who is suddenly redoing numbers in his head.
“How many of those can we build?” he asked. Mereth’s voice cut in quickly. “We haven’t yet decided whether we should build more than this one.” I stepped away from the Ballista, feeling its lingering vibration in my fingertips. “You’ll decide that after you see the others.”
The second machine was smaller, more compact. Its frame was tight, its components narrow and focused. If the Ballista was a great spear-thrower, this was a precision knife.
“This,” I said, “is the Scorpion. The Romans used it to pick men off walls, to clear battlements, to kill officers at distances where they thought they were safe. It’s similar to the Ballista, but smaller, more portable. Less raw power, more accuracy.” I signaled to my crew. A shorter bolt was loaded, the ropes wound. The target this time was a bundle of straw shaped like a man, set on the parapet of the inner wall beyond the courtyard. A difficult shot—slightly elevated, partially obscured by a decorative stone lip.
I turned to the Council. “Imagine an enemy captain standing there, shouting orders, thinking he is beyond reach. Imagine the confusion when he suddenly has a spear through his chest.”
Councilor Rane, who oversees logistics, frowned. “Alexander. You speak of killing as though you’re describing a new pulley system.” I met his gaze. “Death is already our neighbor, Councilor. I’m describing how to keep it out of our houses as long as possible.”
I stepped back and looked at Viktor. “Care for another shot?” He actually smiled then, quick and sharp. “You’re making this far too enjoyable.” He moved to the Scorpion’s firing bar, took aim, adjusting his stance slightly. He squinted, lining up the groove with the target on the wall.
“Wind?” he asked. “Barely a breath,” I said. “You’ll hit it.” He fired.
The bolt flew with a thinner, sharper sound than the previous one, almost a whistle. It arced up, dipped, and struck the straw figure cleanly through the chest, pinning it to the wall. The bundle flopped, then hung limp, swaying gently.
Viktor exhaled. “Damn.” Someone behind us started clapping, then stopped, realizing this wasn’t a celebration. Still, a murmur of appreciation ran through the watching crowd—the junior scribes, the guards, the workers.
Mereth’s face had gone tight. “This is… impressive,” he said, carefully neutral. “And troubling. These machines give us reach, yes—but they also announce something about us to the world.”
I knew this was coming. I turned so I faced them fully. “The world already knows we’re worth taking. Our walls are thick; our granaries are full; our artisans are skilled. The last raid on the southern farms was not an accident. They probed. They saw how far we could reach. Right now, we have bows, we have stones, we have courage.”
I gestured to the Ballista and Scorpion. “Now we can answer from farther away.”
“And the third?” Viktor asked quietly. His gaze had shifted to the hulking shape at the end of the courtyard—the biggest of the three, a squat, solid monster of timber and rope.
This one had been the hardest to build. Not because it was complex—its design was actually simpler than the Ballista—but because it offended my instincts. I like clean solutions, precise motions. This machine was ugly. Brutal. It solved problems with a fist instead of a scalpel. I walked toward it, feeling its looming presence behind me like a storm cloud.
“This,” I said, “is the Onager.” The name had been written in the scrolls in a different ink, as though someone had added it later. Below, a note explained: *Named after the wild ass for the violence of its kick.* I loved that detail. It told me something about the Romans who’d built it—they’d respected its savagery enough to name it after something untamed.
“The Romans used this,” I continued, “to throw heavy stones—much heavier than a man can manage—over walls and into fortifications. It specializes in causing chaos. It crushes structures. It smashes morale.”
Mereth frowned, studying it. “Explain its operation.” I pointed to the thick vertical arm rising from the frame, the rope bundle twisted at its base. The arm was pulled down and locked, its cup at the top ready to cradle a stone.
“Torsion again,” I said. “We wind this rope tight until it wants to be somewhere else. Then we make it snap back to where it wants to be, very quickly. The arm swings up, the stone leaves the cup, and physics does the rest.”
I looked at Viktor. “We’ve set a target outside the walls, in the scrub beyond the east gate. A pile of old masonry from the broken East Tower foundation. If we misjudge, we’ll just scare some rabbits.”
He grunted. “Rabbits won’t be the ones complaining if you build ten of these.” “True,” I said softly.
We climbed the inner stairs to the wall walkway, passing the guards who had been instructed to stay well clear of the impact zone. From up here, the city spread behind us, warm and alive, while the open land stretched away in front, full of shadows and possibilities.
A signal flag went up. Below, my crew worked the winches, their bodies straining as they dragged the throwing arm down. The rope twisted tighter, tighter. I could hear the fibers groaning from up here, protesting the stress. The arm locked. A stone the size of a small barrel was rolled into the cup.
Mereth’s eyes were narrowed. “Alexander. Before you fire this—answer me something.”
“Ask.”
“Do you enjoy this?”
I considered my answer carefully. “I enjoy understanding the scrolls,” I said. “I enjoy solving the problems they pose. I enjoy building things that work the way they should. As for what they do when they’re pointed at beings…” I shrugged. “Enjoy isn’t the word. Necessary might be.” Rane looked at me sharply. “That’s how dangerous things are always justified.”
“And how survival often is,” Viktor said quietly. Mereth’s gaze flicked to him, then back to me. “Fire your Onager, Alexander.” I breathed in the evening air, tasted dust and possibility, and signaled.
Below, the release lever dropped. The arm exploded upward.
Even knowing what would happen, I flinched. The sound was vicious—like a giant cracking its spine. The rope snapped back with brutal joy, the stone flung forward in a smooth, murderous arc.
We all watched it. There was a silence that wasn’t silence at all, but the absence of anything we could control.
The stone flew.
In that brief flight, I thought about the Romans—about their engineers, their scribes, their commanders. Did they feel this mingled dread and pride as their machines fired? Did they stand on walls, watching stones tumble through the sky, wondering whether they’d built something that would protect their people, or something that would, eventually, destroy them?
The stone came down.
It struck the pile of old masonry dead center. Rock exploded into shards, dust billowed up in a thick, choking cloud. A delayed wave of sound rolled back to us—a deep, earth-hungry thud. Someone behind me swore aloud. Another made a sign against evil.
The Onager’s arm swung back down, trembling in the aftermath. Fragments of stone rained down around the impact site, pattering against the scrub. Viktor exhaled slowly. “Kings,” he said. “Imagine that landing in a crowd.”
“I have,” I said quietly. “Many times. Too many.”
Mereth’s hand tightened on the parapet stone. The old man looked tired suddenly, his eyes lined not just by years but by the weight of seeing possibilities he’d hoped to avoid. Rane spoke first. “Alexander, you’ve shown us weapons that extend our reach beyond anything we currently possess. You’ve shown us how they work. You’ve shown us their power.” He paused. “Now tell me what you think their cost will be.”
I turned to face them fully, the Onager looming silent below.
“We will not be the only ones to build them,” I said. “If we use them openly, if we use them in ways that cannot be hidden, others will notice. Others will seek to imitate. The scrolls I found may not be unique. Or spies may see what we’ve done and carry the patterns back to their masters.” I placed a hand on the parapet stone. “Once we accept these machines into our defenses, we accept that our wars will be fought at greater distances with greater forces. Battles won’t be decided as often by blade and courage, but by angle, range, timing, and supply of rope.”
Mereth nodded slowly. “You speak like someone who’s thought about this.”
“I’ve thought about it every night,” I said. “I am Builder. I make bridges, aqueducts, mills. I build things that make life easier, safer. These machines… they complicate that.”
Viktor shifted his stance. “What happens if we do nothing?”
I looked at him. “We stay as we are. We rely on bows, stones, and courage. The next raid might be bigger. The next war might come with siege towers, or with their own versions of these. If they bring them first, we’ll wish we had done what we are now hesitating to do.” He nodded once, firmly. “So either we choose to be at the front of this, or we choose to be at the mercy of someone who is.” “Exactly.”
Silence settled over the wall. Below, the workers began resetting the Onager, their movements smaller now, as though they were wary of what they had helped unleash. Mereth looked down at the courtyard, then at the machines, then at me.
“Alexander,” he said, “Your work gives shape to this city’s future. You have shown us three weapons that can change how we fight—and how others will fight us.” He drew in a slow breath. “Do you, personally, believe we should adopt these fully? Build more? Integrate them into our defenses?”
I felt every eye on me. Viktor’s. The Council’s. The workers’. The guards’. The stones themselves seemed to listen. I didn’t rush my answer. I owed them honesty, not comfort. “Yes,” I said. “I believe we should.”
Rane’s eyes narrowed. “Even knowing what that might mean?”
“Especially knowing,” I said. “We aren’t choosing whether these machines exist. They exist now. We’ve built them. We know how. That knowledge will not disappear. We’re choosing whether we face the coming years with tools adequate to the threats we already know are out there.”
I looked toward the east, where the sun had finally dropped below the hills, leaving behind a smear of red.
“I can’t unlearn what the Romans knew,” I said quietly. “I can’t go back to a world where I haven’t traced those diagrams, where I haven’t felt the grain of the wood under my hands, where I haven’t stood here with you watching stones fly.” I turned back to Mereth. “What I can do is ensure that if these machines exist in this world, they exist first in the hands of people who understand the cost of using them.”
Mereth studied me for a long moment. His gaze slid to Viktor. “Captain.”
“Yes, Councilor.”
“You’ve seen what these weapons can do. You understand how your men fight. You know our enemies and their likely responses. Give us your view.”
Viktor rested both hands on the parapet, broad fingers splayed on the stone. He looked out at the shattered masonry, the dust still hanging faintly in the cooling air. “I am Captain of the Guards,” he said slowly. “My duty is to keep the people inside these walls alive, for as long as they can live. My duty is not to protect the purity of old ways, or the comfort of those who like wars fought at arm’s length and no farther.”
He turned his head, looking at the Ballista, the Scorpion, the Onager, then at me. “I say we build them,” he said. “We integrate them carefully. We train crews. We keep their numbers limited at first, until we learn their rhythms. We guard the designs. We keep their existence quiet until we must use them loudly.” He nodded to me. “And we keep the Builder close, in case we need to build stronger walls to survive what he’s unleashed.”
Mereth’s mouth twitched. “You mean what we have unleashed by accepting his work.” Viktor’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. I mean what another world has already unleashed, far from here, in some other age. We’re just catching up.”
Silence again. Then, finally, Mereth straightened. “Very well,” he said. “The Council will convene at dawn to formalize our decision. But I will say this now, Alexander: I do not believe we will forbid these machines. I believe we will embrace them—with teeth clenched and eyes open.” He rested a hand on my shoulder. His grip was light but steady. “You have given Ar a new language of war,” he said. “Pray that we never become fluent in it.”
I looked down at the Onager, at the Ballista and Scorpion, at the men adjusting ropes and iron fittings. Then I looked out beyond the walls, where shadows gathered and roads led to other cities and other armies and other choices.
“I’ll keep building,” I said softly. “And I’ll keep worrying. It’s all I know how to do.” Viktor stepped closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “Welcome to my world,” he said. “I’ll take worrying with you over dying without you.”
I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I listened to the creak of wood, the whisper of rope, the distant call of a night bird, and the quiet, unseen turning of history’s gears. Somewhere, long ago, a Roman engineer had watched his first Ballista fire and felt something settle in his chest like a heavy stone. I understood him then.
We stood on the wall, looking out at the cooling land, with three new shadows behind us—shapes of wood and rope and iron, shaped by dead hands and echoed by mine.
The Onager still trembled faintly below, as if remembering its kick. Named after a wild ass because of its recoil, the scroll had said. Appropriate, I thought.
Because tonight, a wild thing had been brought into Ar. And I, had opened the gate.
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