The faint glow of dawn had barely touched Sparrow Lane when Elias Corrin finally allowed himself to believe: Aethermark Forge was no longer just a name on a paper. It was real.
The company—designing, manufacturing, and enchanting Aetherstone equipment and regalia—was legally his. The slogan beneath the name felt like a quiet promise:
"For every field. For every dream."
The first kits lay folded on a rough-hewn table, the stones polished to a soft gleam. The hum of potential thrummed beneath every thread, every rune.
But Rowan knew what mattered most was yet to come: the people.
Recruitment in Shadestone was an ancient game, no magic shortcuts or flashy spells—only patience, perseverance, and trust earned slowly. Posters were pinned in dim corners, quiet word of mouth spread through shadowed alleys, and hopefuls trickled in like drops gathering in a storm.
Rowan—now Elias—stood poised, watching hopeful faces flood his small workshop. Most were aimless, chasing easy coin or running from darker debts. Yet among hundreds that had been interviewed, three shone with undeniable spark.
Dalia Stern arrived first. Barely older than Rowan himself, her silver-streaked hair fell in a deliberate mess, and her hands moved constantly—sketching invisible lines in the air as she spoke.
Her portfolio was wild and ambitious: robes embedded with shifting runes, Aetherstones etched with fractal patterns that caught and fractured light like shards of magic itself.
Rowan studied her stats, the system's private overlay flickering only for his eyes:
CA: 182
PA: 950
Traits: Visionary, Meticulous, Tireless, Charismatic
"I don't just design," Dalia said, voice low but fierce. "I create stories. Every stitch, every sigil is a message. Aetherstone is more than a game, it's a legacy. You can't slap a new crest on an old shirt and call it history. You have to breathe life into it."
Rowan nodded slowly, absorbing her words. "And you think the city's ready to listen again?"
"Not yet. But the spark is there. People just need something real to believe in."
They spent hours diving into details—the challenges of enchanted thread that could hold magic without fraying, the subtleties of balancing protection spells with comfort, the ancient symbols lost to time but capable of rekindling pride.
Between plans and sketches, Dalia whispered hints of a deeper past—of legends woven into the fabric of Thalor, of fire that burns not just stone but deception. Rowan caught the words but said nothing. For now, it was enough to know she carried passion that could rekindle a dying flame.
Jossan Hale followed days later, striding into the workshop with the kind of confident swagger that could silence a room.
He hadn't played Aetherstone, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. His stories, spun from growing up near the rift's edge and trading in markets from Mistwood to Shadestone, carried the weight of hard-earned truths.
The system revealed:
CA: 120
PA: 900
Traits: Silver-Tongued, Ambitious, Networker, Unshakeable
"Everyone thinks the city chooses its champions," Jossan began during their interview, voice smooth as silk. "I say the city chooses whoever makes them sing again. Give them a story. A song. A kit they want to wear. They'll follow you anywhere."
Rowan laughed, unexpected warmth rising despite the coldness around them. "You're hired. Don't make me regret it."
Jossan grinned, leaning back, eyes gleaming. "I don't do regrets."
They talked late into the evening—about politics, about how power flows not just through coin but through narrative, loyalty, and belief. Jossan teased out Rowan's hopes and fears, turning doubts into strategy, teaching him how to speak a city's heart.
Subtle hints slipped in—a council that controlled more than it let on, shadows creeping in from the rift's chaos, backers who prized control above all else.
Rowan listened carefully. The city was a song to be learned, and Jossan was its harsh, brilliant conductor.
Mikal Enlow arrived last—a quiet man with calloused hands and a reputation whispered among craftsmen.
His stats were strong:
CA: 210
PA: 930
Traits: Perfectionist, Patient, Loyal, Resourceful
"I don't care about colors," Mikal said softly, rolling a stone between his palms. "The feel—that's what matters. When a kid throws this, it has to fly true. A badge is fine, but the feel is what they'll remember."
Rowan watched as Mikal meticulously worked through prototypes—stones that changed hue with sunlight, that carried faint echoes of music when thrown just so. The weight and balance, the subtle vibrations beneath the smooth surface—they spoke of a craft honed by years of quiet mastery.
Mikal shared stories of broken stones, of games lost not for lack of skill but because of flawed tools. Rowan felt the weight of legacy in Mikal's hands, a tangible reminder that every piece mattered.
The small workshop smelled faintly of wood shavings, fresh ink, and the faint tang of dye. Dust motes danced in the fading afternoon light, settling on scattered sketches and glowing prototype stones. Elias Corrin stood at the head of a cluttered table, facing three faces etched with the same fierce hunger to build something lasting.
He drew a deep breath. "Thank you all for coming. We're at the start of something hard—something uncertain. But I believe we're here to build more than gear. We need to build soul. Identity. Something for the city to believe in again."
Dalia leaned forward, eyes bright, a pencil poised over her sketchpad. "Soul is right. A kit isn't just fabric and thread. It's a story people wear. Every stitch has to carry weight, every rune a whisper of history. But we can't recycle old symbols blindly. They must breathe new life."
Jossan snorted, tapping the table impatiently. "Idealism is nice, but if we don't sell, none of it matters. People buy stories, yes, but those stories have to be loud and clear. We need to create a movement, something catchy, something that sticks in their minds and on their tongues."
Mikal folded his arms, voice calm but firm. "You can spin stories all you want, but if the kit falls apart after the first game, all that passion means nothing. Quality is trust."
Dalia glanced sharply at Jossan. "And what good is a movement if it's hollow? If the story is just a sales pitch, it will die faster than any trend."
Jossan met her gaze. "Better a loud lie than a silent truth."
Rowan held up a hand. "Enough. Both have merit. We need quality that inspires pride, and a story people want to live. But it has to come from a place deeper than marketing."
Dalia smiled. "Exactly. That's why I've been digging into the histories of every academy I could find. Each has a unique culture, values, even a soul. We can borrow themes, not copy, to create something bespoke for each."
She tapped a stack of rough sketches. "For Dawnreach Pact, for example, we can use silver and gold with motifs of rising suns and mountain peaks—symbols of hope and resilience."
Jossan nodded thoughtfully. "I like that. Gives people something to rally behind. What about Dreadspire Concord?"
Mikal spoke up. "Dreadspire should feel sharp and imposing. Darker tones, reds and blacks, with jagged runes like lightning cracks. The gear has to feel like armor, even off the field."
Dalia grinned. "Frostbarrow Runemasters would be icy ..."
Jossan tapped his fingers. "And for Luminarch Heralds..."
Rowan interjected, "Meridian Arcana should ..."
Mikal added quietly, "Pyrelock Legion ..."
Dalia twirled her pencil. "Glasswind Union ..."
Jossan smiled. "Sablecairn Watch sounds ..."
Rowan nodded. "And Starhollow Chorus, where song and spirit matter—we could incorporate Viking-inspired designs, strong lines, vibrant reds and blacks, echoes of drums and chants woven into the fabric."
Mikal laughed softly. "That's a lot of colors. How do we keep it from turning into a circus?"
Dalia smiled slyly. "By making each kit unique, yes, but all tied together with subtle common threads—runes, style cues, a shared history we invent."
Jossan leaned in. "You think people will buy that? Believe in it?"
Rowan's gaze sharpened. "They will if we make them feel it. Every stitch, every stone has to resonate. Pride isn't given; it's earned, forged by those who wear it."
Dalia sighed. "And the materials matter. We can't just talk. We have to deliver comfort, protection, durability."
Mikal nodded. "I'm testing new composites—stones that glow faintly in sunlight, fabrics that resist rain and mud but breathe."
Jossan smiled. "That's the kind of spectacle that sells."
Dalia shook her head. "Spectacle without soul is empty. We need both."
Rowan took a breath, looking around at the faces filled with fire and doubt.
"This won't be easy. We'll stumble, face rejection, maybe failure. But together, we have a chance to rebuild something true."
Jossan chuckled. "If we don't blow up in the process, I'm in."
Mikal's eyes gleamed softly. "Let's build something that lasts."
Dalia smiled warmly. "A legacy worth wearing."
They fell into a contemplative silence, the weight of their mission settling comfortably between them.
Rowan smiled faintly. "Tomorrow, we start turning these dreams into reality."
It took weeks of aurderous trials and errors. Explosions, redesigns, enhancement durability issues, runic pattern stablity….
But finaly, after nealy two whole months —
The market square buzzed with energy as the Aethermark Forge stall opened for the first time. Bright banners fluttered, and carefully crafted kits hung alongside polished Aetherstones gleaming under the sun.
Within hours, a pair of twins bought matching kits for the Cindermoon Bastion academy. A coach in flowing robes purchased an obsidian kit for her son—a boy not yet in the academy but filled with dreams.
By sunset, one hundred and fifteen kits had been sold, alongside seventy-six stones.
Elias watched from the shadows, heart pounding with every transaction.
Back in his attic, he opened his leather-bound notebook and carefully noted the figures.
115 kits. 76 stone. True progress.