Regarding the matter of Theron’s son, Elias Thorne truly possessed minimal data. The few tattered journal entries and haphazard notes left by the original occupant of this body offered only fleeting, almost dismissive, mentions. A detached observer might conclude that Theron’s interest in his own progeny had been less than substantial, prioritizing instead his grand, if ultimately unfulfilled, aspirations. The son’s name, Arthur Thorne, was one of the scarce details Elias had managed to extract from the chaotic scrawl. The name itself, a rather unremarkable designation, offered little insight into the boy, but it did serve as a stark reminder of Theron’s central obsession: the pursuit of the 'Grand Mechanist' title, a recognition bestowed upon those capable of imbuing clockwork with truly profound, world-altering metaphysical properties. Theron had, it seemed, intended for his son’s name to mirror his own ascent to such an esteemed, almost mythical, status – a testament to a future that never materialized for the failed artificer. “My thanks,” Elias articulated to the courier, a lean man in the drab, oil-stained livery of the Aetheria Ward’s postal service. The words, uttered with a quiet clarity entirely alien to Theron’s usual bluster, seemed to momentarily short-circuit the courier. Finch, as his badge identified him, paused, a flicker of surprise in his perpetually weary eyes. Since when had Master Theron, the ward’s most notorious ne’er-do-well, bothered with civility towards a mere message-runner? “You’re… most welcome, Master Theron,” Finch stammered, recovering quickly. He offered a curt nod, then scurried away, his boots echoing on the slick cobblestones as he hurried to complete his rounds. The Aetheria Ward, a labyrinth of steam-belching foundries and soot-stained workshops, rarely fostered such polite exchanges. Elias, his movements now precise and economical, tore open the envelope. Inside, nestled amongst cheap, rough-spun paper, lay a single Veridian sovereign coin and a brief, almost perfunctory, note. He unfolded the paper, his gaze sweeping over the hurried, economical script. The message, he quickly discovered, was a rehash of sentiments he had already encountered in the handful of other letters he’d found scattered throughout Theron’s squalid apartment. Arthur, it seemed, adhered to a strict, perhaps even ritualistic, schedule of communication. *Father, I remain in good health at the Citadel of Gears. Enclosed are this month’s living expenses. I recently completed an Aetheric Flux Calibration project, for which the collegiate awarded an additional stipend. I have included an extra twenty sovereigns; please endeavor to spend them judiciously. I regret my absence prevents me from looking after you properly, therefore, take care of your health, and do not overly concern yourself with my welfare.* Elias held the sovereign coin, its engraved gears and cogs catching the dim light. Seventy such coins, the note implied, had been sent this month. While his understanding of Veridian City’s complex economy was still nascent, the sheer numerical value struck him. Seventy sovereigns. For an ordinary household in the working-class districts, such a sum would represent a considerable fortune, enough to secure food, lodgings, and perhaps even a modest clockwork convenience for several cycles. Yet, Theron’s journals—those lamentable chronicles of self-indulgence—had consistently decried these monthly remittances as woefully inadequate. Theron, Elias recalled from the entries, had required vast quantities of ‘arcane filaments,’ ‘bespoke gears,’ and ‘exotic catalysts’ for his ‘groundbreaking’ (and inevitably abortive) artificing projects. The reality of Theron’s financial ruin, Elias surmised, had little to do with the inadequacy of the funds and everything to do with the exorbitant cost of chasing an impossible dream. He flipped through the journal pages again in his mind’s eye, the spectral ink of Theron’s complaints forming a clear pattern of self-pity and entitlement. Theron had repeatedly referred to Arthur as a ‘miserly wretch’ who sent ‘paltry sums,’ utterly heedless of his father’s ‘lofty endeavors.’ There were records of increasingly desperate letters demanding more, always more, to which Arthur had evidently never capitulated. Conversely, Theron, despite Arthur’s consistent monthly missives, had not bothered to reply to his son in almost a full year. The sheer imbalance of the exchange, the one-sided demand and the unrequited provision, was a stark testament to the previous occupant’s character. One could almost hear the deep, weary sigh Arthur Thorne might one day produce if recounting this period. A cold, analytical anger, devoid of human warmth yet potent in its precise indignation, settled within Elias. “This Theron,” he muttered, the name leaving a bitter taste, “was truly an ungrateful drone.” He contrasted Theron’s disdain with the quiet desperation of his own past life, where a fraction of such filial loyalty would have been met with profound, unreserved gratitude. It was a peculiar cosmic irony, he mused, that in his past existence, a son’s lack of care had been a source of quiet anxiety, while now, the evidence of overwhelming, underserved filial piety stirred a discomfort bordering on revulsion. Elias, the former watchmaker, understood the mechanics of sacrifice. As a junior Chrono-Engineer Apprentice, likely based at the Veridian Collegiate of Applied Aetherics, Arthur would undoubtedly be operating on a tight budget. The stipend provided by the Collegiate, Elias knew, was rarely sufficient for anything beyond basic needs and essential experimental components. For Arthur to consistently siphon off a portion of those crucial funds, funds that could be invested in his own career advancement—perhaps securing access to a more advanced temporal coil or a rarer aetheric resonator—to support Theron’s self-indulgent pursuits, spoke volumes of his character. It was a level of sacrifice that Elias found profoundly unsettling, a stark contradiction to Theron’s perception of his son as ‘miserly.’ He inhaled sharply, a physical manifestation of the internal discord. This complex interplay of guilt, responsibility, and an almost clinical assessment of Theron’s moral bankruptcy, caused a distinct grinding sensation within the framework of his new consciousness. Arthur was not his son, not biologically, not emotionally. Yet, he now inhabited the body that received this dutiful, sacrificial income. The philosophical knot tightened. In his past life, receiving such a windfall from a devoted child would have elicited unadulterated joy. Now, the weight of those seventy sovereigns pressed down with an almost unbearable density. Elias’s analytical mind began to extrapolate Arthur’s likely circumstances. An ordinary apprentice, without significant influence or exceptional innate talent, navigating the cutthroat academic politics of the Veridian Collegiate—his life could hardly be a bed of roses. And yet, he siphoned his meager resources to prop up a father who, by all accounts, considered him an inconvenience. “Damn it,” Elias articulated, a sharp, almost percussive sound as his palm connected with the rough wooden table. “In the past, a son’s lack of filial piety made me uneasy. In this life, a son being too filial still makes me uncomfortable!” He pushed the remainder of his half-eaten oatmeal aside. Though still not satiated, the analysis had entirely consumed his appetite. “The price for this?” Elias inquired, his voice flat, to the Innkeeper of The Gilded Gear, a stout man with a perpetual sheen of sweat on his brow, who had been nervously observing Elias’s sudden, quiet intensity. “Eight pennies, Master Theron,” the Innkeeper replied, his voice a cautious murmur. Elias, still a stranger to Veridian’s currency, produced a single sovereign coin from the small leather pouch he’d found tucked into Theron’s waistcoat pocket. He tossed it onto the counter, noting its weight, estimating its value against the small, copper discs that passed for common coinage. “A moment, Master Theron,” the Innkeeper said, his eyes widening at the unexpected sum. He bustled behind the counter, rattling through a drawer filled with smaller coins. After a brief but frantic calculation, he returned, depositing a small stack of nine shillings and ninety-two pennies onto the counter. It was then, as Elias watched the copper and brass discs glinting, that the true scale of Veridian’s economy, and Theron’s prior profligacy, clicked into place. One sovereign, Elias now understood, was roughly equivalent to one thousand pennies. Seventy sovereigns, the sum Arthur had sent, was not merely ‘considerable’—it was truly immense. The journal entries detailing Theron’s ‘insufficient’ funds now read as outright farcical, the laments of a man actively bleeding himself dry on extravagant, ultimately pointless, pursuits. Having concluded his meal, and with a newfound, almost mechanical, clarity of purpose, Elias decided to embark on a reconnaissance of Veridian City. He could not, would not, follow the previous occupant’s path of idle indulgence, chasing chimerical dreams while draining the lifeblood of a dutiful son. The thought alone was anathema to his newly awakened, hyper-efficient sensibilities. The city was a sprawling, grimy testament to human ingenuity and ceaseless toil. Elias walked for what felt like hours, traversing several Industrial Districts, each a cacophony of steam-driven hammers, clattering gears, and the distant, rhythmic hum of aetheric generators. He passed by countless faces, some of whom recognized and nodded to ‘Master Theron,’ their expressions ranging from wary deference to outright pity. Elias, however, recognized none of them, nor could he access any corresponding memories within Theron’s fragmented mind. It was a blessing, he decided, that Theron had evidently been a rather aloof individual, possessing few genuine connections; explaining his sudden transformation to a multitude of acquaintances would have posed an inconvenient logistical challenge. As he navigated the bustling Cogsworth Bazaar, a more refined district where artisan workshops and specialized emporiums lined the soot-dusted streets, a voice called out, “Master Theron!” Emerging from a narrow doorway adorned with intricate brasswork was a short, rotund man with a perpetually cheerful, almost avaricious, smile. It was Master Elms, proprietor of ‘Elms’ Arcane Instruments & Components.’ His hands, plump and manicured, clasped together in an almost obsequious gesture. “Your son’s remittance must have arrived today, eh, Master Theron? Do come in, do come in! I’ve just received a fresh consignment of Aether-Tuned Chronosilk. It’s perfect for those grand mechanisms you envision, absolutely ideal!” Elias, intrigued by the mention of a material he vaguely recalled Theron obsessing over, stepped into the shop. The interior was a dazzling display of precision and artistry. Gleaming chronal gears lay in velvet-lined cases, miniature kinetic automatons whirred softly on display pedestals, and vials of luminous, exotic dust shimmered on polished mahogany shelves. There were precision tools, micro-lathes, and etching styluses of such exquisite craftsmanship that a flicker of his past life as a watchmaker, a genuine appreciation for the mechanics of creation, stirred within him. Yet, through the filter of his new abilities, he also perceived the subtle, complex metaphysical energies interwoven into each item, far beyond the mere physical properties. “What is the cost of a length of this Chronosilk?” Elias inquired, his voice devoid of the eager desperation Master Elms was accustomed to hearing from Theron. Master Elms’s smile widened, a calculating glint in his eye. “Ah, the Aether-Tuned Chronosilk! A rare commodity, Master Theron, and one you’ve often admired. Given your esteemed patronage, I’m prepared to offer you a slight reduction: three sovereigns per length. An absolute steal, wouldn’t you agree?” Elias felt a sharp, almost physical jolt. Three sovereigns. For a single length of filament. The internal image of the oatmeal he’d barely touched, the eight pennies it cost, flashed through his mind. “Three sovereigns,” he articulated, the words tasting like lead. “For one length of filament?” “Indeed, Master Theron! For others, of course, it’s three sovereigns and five shillings,” Elms confirmed, a slight puzzlement now replacing his cheerful demeanor. He regarded Elias with a furrowed brow. This was not the Theron he knew. Normally, the artificer would be practically salivating over the Chronosilk, the price a mere trifle in his boundless ambition. What could be amiss? Elias stared at the shimmering filament, the intricate, almost impossibly fine material. Now, he understood. Not just the magnitude of Theron’s financial recklessness, but the sheer, unforgiving cost of the artificer’s path. The dream of becoming a Grand Mechanist was not merely difficult; it was a financial abyss, a bottomless pit that would swallow any fortune, no matter how substantial. “My apologies,” Elias stated abruptly, a pre-programmed excuse forming on his lips. “I have a… a very sensitive mechanism on the verge of dislodging at home.” With a swift, almost mechanical pivot, he exited the shop, leaving the befuddled Master Elms staring after him, Chronosilk still clutched in his hands. As he resumed his walk, Elias’s analytical mind began to process the data gathered during his city reconnaissance. He had traversed several market squares and industrial districts, observing the wares and services on offer. It became evident that while there was an abundance of raw materials, gears, and clockwork components, there was a noticeable scarcity of smaller, more personal, imbued mechanisms—items akin to kinetic sculptures, or intricate, aether-responsive automatons that served as both art and practical, if subtle, tools. The market, it seemed, was saturated with grand, often dysfunctional, projects, but overlooked the niche for smaller, precisely crafted, and metaphysically imbued trinkets. His thoughts rapidly coalesced. If he were to apply his innate, newly awakened understanding of mechanics and the subtle forces of the world to crafting such bespoke items, would there be a demand? The more he considered it, the more logical the prospect seemed. At the very least, it represented a tangible means of self-sufficiency, a way to escape the degrading reliance on Arthur’s dutiful remittances. The thought of forever subsisting on his son’s sacrifices was, to Elias, utterly intolerable. With newfound determination, Elias turned, redirecting his precise steps towards a Precision Toolmaker’s forge he had observed earlier. To craft his new line of unique mechanisms, he would first require a specific set of instruments: micro-etching styluses, perhaps, and a miniature kinetic lathe. He would begin, as any master watchmaker knew, with the right tools.

The Weight of a Sovereign