The city of Shadestone, for all its ancient stones and winding lanes, had never felt so heavy. The summer's heat settled in alleyways, thick with the scent of iron and anticipation. In the cramped, humming back rooms of Aethermark Forge, Rowan felt the pressure in every bone.
A few weeks ago, it had all seemed so simple. A company born from nothing, a wave of excitement, kits flying off shelves. Now, every forward step was met with a wall—council-imposed, deliberate, and cold.
Rowan, or rather Elias Corrin in public, had never been more aware of the city's invisible hands. There were new regulations overnight. Paperwork missing from files. Permits delayed by clerks with knowing, apologetic eyes. Shipments delayed by a single, well-timed signature. Suppliers called to say, "Sorry, but your orders have been rerouted by city request." It was all perfectly legal, and perfectly designed to strangle.
Inside the Forge's narrow main office, Taran Lys stood by the window, arms folded, watching the city bustle with a hawk's stillness.
"They're not just squeezing you," he said, voice low. "They want to see if you'll break."
Rowan snorted, the old edge in his voice—half defiance, half weariness. "I've broken before. But I built myself back, didn't I?"
Taran gave a rare grin. "You're stubborn, I'll give you that. But sometimes stubbornness gets you stuck."
Rowan shot him a look—irritation, but softened by a flicker of respect. This, he realized, was why Taran mattered. No one else on the staff dared to talk back. Not like this.
"It's not just pride," Rowan muttered, pacing. "If they win, the Forge dies. All of it—every kit, every camp, every kid dreaming in the park. They don't care about the sport. Just the old ways, the money."
"And what do you care about?" Taran asked quietly.
Rowan paused. It was an honest question. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat on his brow. "I care that it matters. That we change things. That we make them dream again."
There was silence, the air thick with their shared stubbornness. They disagreed—often and fiercely. Taran was cautious where Rowan rushed, pragmatic where Rowan burned. But never, in all their debates, did the respect falter. They'd forged a friendship out of friction, each trusting the other to hold the line.
A week remained before the meeting with Deepmere Striders—the most important deal yet. Every hour counted. The workshop was a flurry of sketches, prototypes, and exhausted, hopeful staff.
The presentation was nearly finished: new kits, engraved stones, a pitch deck swirling with magical highlights. Dalia and the design team had worked until dawn, and even Jossan, who could sell sand in a desert, admitted it was their best work yet.
But Rowan saw the flaw—the hollow in the heart of it all. "It's good," he said, voice flat, "but it's not unforgettable."
Everyone groaned. Even Taran looked at him sideways. "We can't polish it forever, Elias. At some point, you have to let it go."
But Rowan couldn't. The obsession, the urge for something transcendent, gnawed at him. "They want to build a legacy, not just win games. It has to… feel like history. Like power."
He worked through the night, flipping through notes, listening to replays of old games, searching for the thing he couldn't name.
Two nights later, when the heat finally broke, Rowan led the staff out for a rare drink at the The Moonstained Mug—a reward, or perhaps an apology, for his intensity. The tavern was packed, laughter and smoke swirling under enchanted lanterns.
It was there, in the crowded corner by the stage, that he heard the voice.
The song began soft, almost whispered—a slow, rising melody that seemed to draw every eye and ear in the room. It wasn't just music; it was something older, something that stirred memory and longing. The crowd fell silent as the chorus rose, every note laced with hope and loss and pride. When the last chord faded, Rowan felt chills prickling his skin.
He habitually burnt down the veil that hide people true potential. He activated the system and checked.
Name: Lioh Sarn
CA: 500
PA: 950
Traits: Creative Genius, Inspiring, Emotion-Evoker, Crowd-Binder
For a moment, Rowan just watched, struck dumb. Here was the piece he'd been missing—not a product, but a feeling. The soul of a club, the echo that would linger long after the match.
The music had barely faded when Rowan caught Lioh by the bar, heart hammering in his chest. The room's chatter seemed to dim as he approached the man whose voice had just stirred the crowd like a rising storm.
"Your music," Rowan began, voice low, "it's wasted here. I need you to write an anthem—not for me, but for a team. Something alive. Something fierce. Something that binds history and hope, that fans will sing until it shakes the earth."
Lioh's grin flickered, mischievous and sharp. "An anthem, huh? You want a song to rattle bones and rouse ghosts. Most folks settle for a catchy tune or a few rhymes about beer and victory."
Rowan's eyes narrowed. "I want more than easy. I want a fire that won't die, a roar that echoes in every heartbeat."
Lioh stretched his arms wide as if conjuring invisible flames. "You want a tempest in a tavern, a storm to shake the stones. A song so loud the gods themselves would raise a glass."
Rowan couldn't help but laugh, the tension easing. "Exactly. Not just words, but soul."
Lioh's fingers danced in the air. "But first, I need to know the bones of the story. Who is this team? What ghosts and dreams do they carry? What scars do their anthems have to heal?"
"They're hungry," Rowan said quietly, voice thick. "Hungry for pride, for something real. For a place to belong when the world has too often told them they don't."
Lioh nodded, eyes gleaming with a spark Rowan hadn't seen before. "Then we'll give them a song forged in fire and forged from ash. A song that carries their broken pieces and makes them whole."
Rowan's tone sharpened. "I want you to be more than the composer. I want you to be the voice—the soul. The singer who breathes life into that fire."
Lioh threw back his head and laughed, wild and free. "You want me to be the bard, the madman who scares the tavernmaids and charms the ghosts. That's a tall order, friend."
"Because I've seen what you can do," Rowan said steadily. "I need that now. Not later. Now."
Lioh tapped a finger on his chin, mock serious. "Well, if you want a song that makes the mountains tremble and the oceans rise, you'd better be ready for the noise. I don't do whispers."
Rowan's smile was slow but sure. "I don't want whispers."
Lioh's grin turned sly. "Between your stubborn fire and my reckless howls, we might just set the world ablaze. Or get tossed out of every tavern."
Rowan chuckled. "Then let it burn."
They stood for a moment, the bustle of the Moonstained Mug fading to a distant hum as two sparks found their match.
The next days blurred with music and magic. Lioh moved into the Forge's workshop, working side by side with Dalia and Taran. The anthem took shape—sometimes shouted, sometimes whispered, hammered out on enchanted drums and sketched on scraps of parchment. Rowan pushed them relentlessly, obsessed with every detail.
Taran, ever the anchor, kept the team sane. He'd challenge a lyric, defend a melody, refuse to let the process grow toxic.
Rowan's temper flared more than once. "It's not right. It's too safe."
Dalia would snap back, "Safe sells. Not everyone wants a war cry!"
Lioh's laughter would break the tension, weaving hope back into the room. "Let's scare the old guard a little. Give them something they can't buy."
On the fifth night, just as dawn crept in, they had it—a song that rose and fell like the tides, fierce as storm winds, steady as the stones of Stonegate. A chorus that would linger in the bones.
The morning of the trip arrived. Rowan, Taran, Lioh, and a small team boarded the shimmering, rune-etched train to Stonegate. The city faded behind them, replaced by rolling fields and distant mountains.
As the countryside flashed past, Rowan finally let himself relax. Taran clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You did it. No matter what the council throws at us, this—" he gestured at the anthem, at the team—"is what they can't touch."
Rowan smiled, the first real smile in weeks.
For once, he believed it too.