The sun rose golden over the Aldercrest Manor, but the city of Brighthearth—once quiet and forgotten—was now the heart of a quiet revolution.
The clang of hammers. The hum of tools. The murmur of minds that dreamed of more.
And today… was the day that dreamers would be heard.
They came by foot, cart, and horse. Artisans, blacksmiths, architects, mathematicians, shipwrights, and inventors—young and old alike. Word had spread like wildfire across the duchy and beyond: that the Dragon Duke was recruiting. Not soldiers. Not taxmen.
But minds.
Under the proud twin-sword-and-lion banner of House Aldercrest, long tables had been arranged in front of the manor. Blue and white cloths rippled in the breeze as scribes sat ready, parchment and quills in hand, calling out specialties: "Metalwork!" "Shipcraft!" "Design and Engineering!" "Innovation!"
There were no whips, no barking guards, no nobles scowling from thrones. The guards—clad in sleek black mail—guided the crowd not with force, but calm order.
For many, it was the first time they'd been treated with respect.
Durgrim Flintbarrel – The Disillusioned Hammer
In the dim light of the Ram's Tooth Tavern, an old dwarf with a beard braided in iron beads downed the last of his ale.
Durgrim Flintbarrel, once Master Forgemind of the Northern Dwarven Guilds, now just another outcast.
He leaned back, stretching joints that ached like rusted hinges.
"A Duke who respects craftsmen, eh?" he muttered, tankard clinking against wood. "I've heard finer lies from drunk goblins."
Durgrim's hammer—long, heavy, and etched with a dwarven oath—rested against his stool.
He grumbled, "Still… if there's even a chance he's different…"
He grabbed the hammer and limped into the light, whispering to himself, "One last forge before the dark, old man. Let's see if you still have it."
The Arrival of the Dragon Duke
By noon, the plaza outside Aldercrest Manor brimmed with humanity.
Whispers raced down the crowd like wildfire:
"I heard he abolished work without rest.""They say he pays even for sick days!""Twelve casual leaves! Paid!""If you die on duty, your family is compensated in full!"
They had come expecting another false prophet. Another noble who spoke of vision but only cared for coin.
But then he appeared.
Theo.
Draped in a black coat embroidered with faint silver threads—like circuits of some ancient magical machine—he descended the manor stairs like a man born to lead empires. His raven-black hair caught the sunlight, and those sharp grey eyes carried not nobility—but clarity. Precision. The look of someone who'd seen the future and dared to bring it here.
Beside him strode his shadow. His myth. His monster.
Vaelstrom, the dragon.
Jet-black scales shimmered like oil on water. Wings like folded obsidian. She moved with the grace of flame and the silence of death.
Children gasped. Veterans stepped back. But the beast paid them no mind.
She had a purpose.
The Dragon's Hunt
Vaelstrom paused.
Then turned—tail swishing lazily—and marched toward the far left.
Toward a dwarf with a hammer.
Durgrim raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "You got a problem, lizard?"
The dragon snorted.
Theo followed, amused. "She likes you."
Durgrim scoffed. "She's got bad taste."
"She thinks otherwise." Theo raised his voice. "Durgrim Flintbarrel, son of Forin, former Forgemind of the North—I'm offering you a place in my inner circle. Forge the alloys of the future."
Durgrim dropped his jaw. "How in the blazes—"
"She chose you. Not me."
The Other Chosen
The dragon moved again.
To a shy young man guarding a set of scrolls like they were his own heart.
Ilias Marren. Once apprentice to the royal sage. Now branded a heretic for suggesting symbolic valuation—that money should be valued not by weight, but by identity, seal, and proof.
Theo picked up a parchment. "You want to build a bank?"
"A real one," Ilias said, breathless. "Not one that serves the crown. One that serves the people."
"Welcome to the treasury."
Next came a girl with oil-stained gloves and soot on her cheeks.
Maeve Cindertool, daughter of a village blacksmith, who once suggested flexible horse armor made from folded alloys. The guild mocked her.
"Armor that bends is armor that saves," she'd said once. "A dead knight makes no use of a sturdy plate."
Theo gave her a long look. "Lead my alloy division. Make steel smarter."
She blinked. "Seriously?"
"Deadly serious."
Then a pale, angular man with rolled blueprints tucked under one arm.
Ezekiel Thorne, expelled from three architecture guilds for saying that wind, sound, and light could affect human behavior.
"Buildings aren't just walls. They're moods."
"Good," Theo replied. "You'll design the city that the world will envy."
And then…
A scruffy sailor with a burnt-out pipe and a twinkle in his eye.
Bran Evermere. A cartographer, part-mad tinkerer, who once proposed wind-powered self-navigating ships. They threw him off a vessel for "desecrating the helm."
Theo laughed. "You're the only man I trust to build the fleet."
Bran blinked. "Fleet?"
Theo smirked. "Oh, we're going to sea."
A New Age Begins
As the chosen stood before the crowd—black sheep now reborn—Theo stepped up beside Vaelstrom, her wings casting a half-shadow over the crowd.
"You've all been rejected before," he said, voice calm but piercing. "By guilds, by kings, by stagnant fools who fear change."
"But I? I welcome it."
The wind stirred. His coat fluttered behind him like a banner of a new age.
"You were called lunatics. I call you leaders."
"You were called heretics. I call you visionaries."
"And together—we build the future."
The plaza erupted.
Not in cheers.
But in purpose.
The scribes were overwhelmed with new names.
The bell of the manor rang once. Then twice. A signal:
The Age of Innovation had begun.