By the time I turned twelve and a half, things had... escalated.
What began as a few nifty inventions for the homestead had snowballed into a localized industrial revolution. Under Tolan's guidance—or at least under the umbrella of his title—I had officially filed patents for the solar rune lamp, the mana-fueled hotplate, the refrigeration charm-box, and of course, the infamous mana-cycle. Each design bore my signature: elegant, efficient, and childproof. Mostly.
Tolan, to his credit, didn't try to claim them as his own. He simply facilitated the legal side. Being his disciple meant he could file on my behalf, and as far as the kingdom's registry was concerned, Elara was now the most prolific young inventor on record in the past century.
And that... had consequences.
At first, it was flattering. We'd get a letter every few days: a baker requesting a cooling box to keep cream from curdling, a farmer who wanted a lamp that could charge during the day and glow at night, a merchant needing a portable heat plate for cooking on the road.
Then came the flood.
I had to upgrade my Lab's mailbox. Twice.
We got commissions from nobles. From foreign merchants. Even a representative from the royal household sent a gilded note requesting ten solar lamps with elegant filigree on the casing and personalized family crests etched on the side.
Mira nearly fainted.
"The Queen uses our lamp!" she squealed, spinning in circles until she tripped over Leo's chicken-chasing golem.
I wasn't sure if I should be proud or terrified.
Because it meant I had work. So. Much. Work.
Tolan did what he could—he fielded orders, handled payments, and tried to slow the deluge with polite delay letters. But there were only so many hours in the day, and I couldn't exactly clone myself. (Yet.)
"You know," I muttered one night, slumped over a pile of half-etched rune plates, "this would be a lot easier if I could just... stamp them."
"Then do it," Tolan said simply.
I blinked at him. "You're serious?"
He shrugged. "You made a chicken-chasing golem. Why not an etching machine?"
Thus began the Rune Etching Press Project.
I wanted precision. I wanted speed. I wanted to never again hand-carve a zigzagging mana vector onto the side of a copper pot at two in the morning.
My first blueprint was crude: a series of moving arms holding my old laser wand, following etched guides over a metal plate. It was slow, and the margin of error was catastrophic.
The second prototype involved a gear-driven armature and rotating stencils. Too heavy, too inaccurate, and I accidentally lasered through a table.
The third? Oh, the third was beautiful.
With Tolan's help—and by "help" I mean he fetched materials while gaping at my equations—I created a press that combined variable-focus mana lenses, multi-axis moving arms, and adjustable rune templates.
Each object to be engraved was placed into a slot beneath the arm. Above, a crystal lens focused a series of low-heat mana lasers. The operator (usually me) would select a stencil with the desired rune layout. The press would scan the template, align its engravers, and fire.
The result? Perfectly etched runes, over and over, on whatever material I fed it. Clay, copper, tin, even treated wood.
It was glorious.
I named it: The Arcane Pattern Imprinter. Leo called it "Rune Spitter 9000." Mira painted little flowers on the side.
The first batch of solar lamps took just three days.
By the end of the week, I'd filled the royal order, plus three merchant requests, and still had time to test a cooling box prototype that also brewed tea. (It needed work. Cold tea was not the goal.)
Tolan watched all this unfold with a mixture of awe and mounting existential dread.
"You know," he said one evening, nursing a cup of Mira's latest floral tea, "I've lived over sixty years. Studied with the best. Held the title of Master Tinkerer for longer than you've been alive."
I raised a brow. "And?"
"You make me feel like I've been playing with rocks in a sandbox."
"Well," I grinned, "some rocks are conductive."
He laughed, but his eyes were serious.
In the weeks that followed, Tolan began teaching me about advanced runes—the ones that didn't just glow or heat or chill, but altered perception, adjusted weight, even bent directional force.
And he shared stories.
About the Dragonkin, who could manipulate stone and fire by sheer will.
About Elves, who lived for thousands of years and had mana pools so vast they could bend light into illusions and shield entire forests from storms.
About Dwarves, who carved runes so dense into their armor that it could shrug off dragon breath.
I listened, wide-eyed, as he described the way other races felt magic. It wasn't just calculation and refraction—it was emotion, instinct, music.
"Their mana pools are huge," he said. "That's part of why they live so long. Magic sustains them. Heals them. Reinforces them."
"So if I expand my mana pool," I said slowly, "I live longer?"
He hesitated. "In theory. Especially if you can generate mana efficiently. But most humans don't bother."
"Why not?"
"Because it's hard. Painful. Takes decades. And most give up before they see results."
I tapped my chin. "Challenge accepted."
Tolan groaned.
Later that night, while Mira braided flowers into my hair and Leo babbled about racing golems, Tolan pulled me aside.
"There's something else. A girl—Dragonkin. She's your age. She arrived in the kingdom last season."
My ears perked. "Really?"
"She's… different. Quiet, stoic. Her aura is overwhelming. Supposedly she has a temper, but controls it. The nobles are watching her. Everyone is."
"Why tell me this?"
"Because you're no longer just a tinkerer in a shed. You're a name. If she's your peer… she might also be your rival. Or your friend. Or both."
I considered that. The idea of meeting another young prodigy—especially one with a dragon's mana—filled me with both excitement and dread.
Another part of me wondered if she also didn't feel like she belonged.
Another girl.
Another misfit?
Despite everything, Tolan remained dedicated to his original mission: turning me into a respectable lady.
"You're a Master Tinkerer's disciple now," he'd say, straightening my posture. "You can't just stomp around barefoot and covered in soot."
"Watch me," I'd reply, then promptly trip over a wrench and fall into a soot pile.
My parents tried too. They'd been quiet at first, unsure how to handle my rising notoriety. But now? They fully leaned into it.
They bought me dresses.
Dresses.
"You'll have to attend a ball one day," my mother said, beaming.
"No," I muttered. "I'll build a golem to go for me."
Mira, ever the traitor, added glitter to the hem.
Still, it wasn't all frustration.
I loved learning. Loved building. And with each passing week, my Runic Lexicon expanded. I compiled a grimoire—half spellbook, half engineering manual—that documented every symbol, vector, and layering technique I'd invented or learned.
With Tolan's help, I cross-referenced elvish root runes, dwarvish compression glyphs, and even dragonkin mana pressure scales.
He'd ask, amazed, "How do you absorb this so fast?"
"Simple," I replied. "You're 200 years behind."
And we'd both laugh.
But beneath it all, the identity crisis never faded.
I still woke up in a girl's body every day. Still felt like a man trapped in lace and long lashes. Still didn't know how to balance me with her—with Elara, this strange, brilliant girl the world now expected so much from.
I wasn't sure if I'd ever reconcile that.
But I was sure of this:
If I was stuck in this life, I'd make it mine.
And if the world wanted my magic tech?
They could have it.
Printed, pressed, and Rune-Spitter-9000 approved.
To be continued...