The new headquarters of Aethermark Forge towered over the heart of Shadestone—a building Rowan never could have imagined inhabiting just months ago. Morning sun cast long shadows across the city, lighting up the massive banners in red and silver that now fluttered from every window and awning, stitched by Dalia's tireless crew. Inside, the place bustled: enchanted drafting tables hummed, the air was scented with ink and magic, and everywhere Rowan looked, he saw the faces of people he'd brought together—some nervous, most determined, all growing with the company.
At his office door, Taran Lys waited, a mug of bitterroot coffee in one hand, the other clutching a folder of expense reports.
"You're up early," Taran said, grinning as Rowan rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.
"Didn't sleep," Rowan admitted, voice low. "Growth is a blessing and a beast."
Taran raised his mug in silent salute. "I'll drink to that."
Rowan let his gaze drift across the open floor ahead—staff darted from desk to desk, prototypes of kits and Aetherstones glinting under morning light. The system's overlay, always there at the edge of his vision, displayed a roll of stats for the nearest workers:
Varel – Sales: CA 142 / PA 780, Tireless, CheerfulMarin – Logistics: CA 178 / PA 790, Precise, CalmElsin – Shop Floor: CA 160 / PA 710, Inventive, Trustworthy
Every face was a story, every talent hard-won.
The company had ballooned to 55 staff—many plucked from obscurity, all burning with potential. They filled roles Rowan hadn't even imagined at the beginning: design, logistics, enchantment, sales, coaching camps for city kids. Most importantly, every one of them carried something that no rival could mimic—a sense of pride.
But with every advance, the city council fought back.
They stonewalled permits, pressured suppliers, and did everything short of outright sabotage to slow the Forge's rise. In the last month, four new brands had launched in Shadestone alone—over-polished, gaudy, each with suspiciously deep pockets and not a drop of soul. Their names appeared on hastily printed banners, their wares displayed in hollow imitation of Aethermark's artistry.
And yet… none caught on. Their kits didn't fit right. Their stones felt dead in the hand. The city's children preferred last year's Aethermark prototypes to anything the newcomers produced.
Rowan had to admit he found it satisfying—but the council's efforts were relentless. Some nights, he lay awake, feeling every small loss. Supplies delayed. Whispered rumors of "unsafe enchantments." A rival's PR stunt where a famous local played in a rival's kit—only for the crowd to laugh at its ugliness and chant Aethermark's anthem instead.
Through it all, Taran was Rowan's anchor.
Late one night, when the last of the staff had left, Rowan sat slumped over a pile of ledgers, eyes gritty and shoulders knotted with tension.
"I'm losing ground, Taran," Rowan muttered. "Every step forward, they knock me two back. Some days I think I'm not made for this. Maybe I'm more suited to… I don't know, just watching from the stands."
Taran settled beside him, elbows on the desk, voice gentle but unyielding. "You ever seen a river cut through stone, Elias?"
Rowan managed a tired smile. "You're saying I need to be patient?"
"I'm saying the only thing that beats the old is something that endures. You've built a home here—fire in the hearth, people who believe. When storms come, you don't run. You stoke the flames."
They sat in silence for a moment, the old city's noise drifting through the open windows. Rowan realized, not for the first time, that Taran was more than a business partner—he was a friend. Perhaps the first Rowan had made since his other life, the only one who understood the weight of legacy and the risk of hope.
Not all news was about business. The Redhollow Knights—still battered, still underfunded—had scraped out three wins in the Rift Conference, and Rowan, disguised as an anonymous fan, wept in the stands as children paraded in hand-sewn Aethermark kits, the old Knights crest gleaming against new cloth.
Aleric, still fighting illness, found himself in his office late one night, turning over an anonymous letter and a donation slip—ten thousand crowns sent with no sender, just a simple message: For hope, for the future. He whispered a thank you to the empty room, hoping the benefactor would somehow hear.
The effect of Aethermark's Deepmere anthem continued to ripple outward.
In Stonegate, the Deepmere Striders' stadium thundered every match with fans singing "Raise your voice, let thunder find us!" Opponents spoke of their dread facing the Striders at home, where even the walls seemed to sing. Sales of kits and stones reached levels that forced the Forge to triple production, and children in a dozen cities begged their parents for new gear. Even the AA—Aetherstone's governing body—sent word, inquiring about official partnerships for their youth development programs.
Meanwhile, in Shadestone, rumors of the "Council Brands" persisted. Rowan and his most trusted staff (including Dalia, Jossan, Mikal) staged quiet, clever counter-campaigns: free youth camps, surprise giveaways, and design contests where the winners saw their ideas become real kits. No amount of gold from the council could fake what the Forge had: community, soul, and a sense that every child in the city could be a champion.
A scene in a local tavern summed up the moment: a rival brand threw a launch party, fireworks and all—only for the guests to chant the Deepmere anthem and demand the bard play the new Cloudpine Seekers song.
At the Forge, every week brought new challenges—staff training, magical mishaps, council-driven headaches—but the company was alive.
Rowan checked his notes on updates:
[Aethermark Forge]
Sales: +33% month-on-month Staff CA (avg): 162 ↑ Staff PA (avg): 735 ↑ Council Interference: High Public Sentiment: Warming
Standing on the HQ's balcony at sunset, Elias and Taran watched children run through the streets below, singing snatches of anthem and waving homemade banners.
Rowan felt the old ache in his chest—a blend of pride and fear and longing. For the first time, he dared to hope that they were winning not just a business fight, but the soul of the city.
Taran nudged him. "You did this, you know. Not by beating the council, but by giving the city something real."
Rowan nodded, the city's noise washing over him like a blessing.
"Then let's keep the fire burning," he said. "Let them come."
And in that moment, Shadestone felt alive—Aethermark's flame refusing to be stamped out, hope carried on every chant and every song.