The week Rowan spent forging Elias Corrin left him wrung out, nerves stretched taut as violin strings. By the end of it, he'd become someone new—a man with a name, a room above a bakery, and a tiny web of borrowed memories spun quietly through Shadestone's backstreets.
But survival was only the first step.
As winter's sharp chill softened into the tentative warmth of early spring, Rowan felt urgency rise beneath his fatigue. He needed more than concealment; he needed to build. To create something real—not just for himself, but for the fragile legacy of his father, and for the city that had unwittingly granted him a second chance.
So Elias Corrin slipped deeper into Shadestone's veins, a quiet ghost fueled by resolve and secrecy.
Rowan's first day as Elias, the ofifcial citizen of the nation of Thalor, was a lesson in quiet disappointment.
He woke early in his cramped attic room, damp air clinging to peeling plaster, the faint scent of yeast rising from the bakery below. Before dawn's first light, he set out determined to find a proper Aetherstone set for the children in the square—the same children whose bright laughter had stirred something inside him days before.
He scoured every shop purporting to sell sports equipment, only to find a sad sameness.
Racks of shapeless grey tunics, one-size-fits-none, hanging limp and joyless. Stones chipped and misshapen, covered in dull wax or peeling paint, more likely to cause injury than inspire wonder. No academy badges, no proud house colors, no banners waving with defiant spirit—just bare tools, as if the game itself were an afterthought.
At one stall, a burly shopkeeper snorted dismissively when Rowan asked about Redhollow kits. "Academy gear? Never sells. No one here wants to look like they're training. That's for the rich or the desperate."
In another shop, the girl behind the counter shrugged. "No market for that. Just buy the stone. Paint it yourself if you care."
Rowan bought the cheapest, most battered set he could find and stuffed it into a battered satchel. When he handed it to the children, their faces lit with a joy so pure it almost unraveled his resolve. But the moment turned quickly to sharp anger—a fierce, creative spark flickering to life. Why should this be all there was? Where was pride? Identity? The echo of history?
That night, Rowan lay awake beneath the cracked ceiling, the cold stone pressing into his palm. He reached for his notebook—the leather-bound tome that had become his anchor.
Meticulously, he scribbled a note beneath a cluster of designs:
Potential market opportunity: Aetherstone branding and merchandising gap.
Over the next weeks, Rowan filled notebook after notebook with hastily sketched emblems, logos, and slogans. Shields and hollows. Twisting runes that might hint at legends long forgotten. Each discarded design a lesson etched in frustration.
He dove deep into the histories of every academy he could find—their founding stories, their sigils, their lost glories. He studied faded records, old pamphlets, public murals, and oral legends whispered in taverns. The pride, the colors, the symbols that once rallied thousands—all chipped away by time and neglect.
His sketches evolved—each a tentative step toward rekindling a dormant flame.
He walked the city under Elias Corrin's shadow, watching how people moved, where their eyes lingered, what symbols sparked loyalty. He imagined banners waving from shuttered windows, scarves wrapped around necks on chilly matchdays, stones rolling beneath eager feet marked with a true emblem.
In quiet moments, he calculated costs—dyes, enchanted threads, protective enchantments to guard his designs from copycats. He kept a running tally of suppliers, prices, logistics.
He planned street stalls, market booths, the dream of a proper shopfront, a place where children might one day wear pride on their sleeves.
One afternoon, Rowan watched a rift defense demonstration unfold in the city square. Magicians clad in threadbare robes moved with quiet focus, their allegiance marked only by faint sigils. The city needed more than defense. It needed identity. A reason to believe.
A week later, Rowan stood in a long, shuffling line at the city's Office of Inventions, clutching a heavy bundle of sketches and proposals.
The patenting process in Thalor was a maddening blend of magic and bureaucracy. Forms requiring mundane and arcane approvals were scrutinized under flickering candlelight by clerks whose expressions ranged from bored to suspicious.
He registered his designs one painstaking piece at a time.
Patterns for enchanted Aetherstones—each carefully crafted to enhance balance and durability, designed to catch the eye and inspire fierce loyalty.
Proposals for academy colors and emblems—silver and ocean foam blue to honor tradition while igniting new hope.
A system for enchanted athletic cloth, capable of minor magic—protection from weather and injury woven invisibly into fabric, a subtle safeguard for those who dared wear it.
And finally, slogans and chant lines—words meant to give voice to the city's long-forgotten pride, to echo in crowded stands and quiet alleyways alike.
Each submission was met with varying degrees of dismissiveness.
"Too ambitious," a clerk whispered behind his back.
"Good luck selling dreams," another scoffed as he filed papers away.
Rowan played the role of obsessive outsider well—shrugging, stammering, eager to protect what little he owned.
But each time, he left with stamped approvals and a sense that momentum was slowly turning in his favor.
Weeks turned to months.
Rowan—Elias Corrin to the world now— faced endless lines and even longer nights.
The city's shifting demands kept his steps measured but relentless.
Sometimes, documents vanished mysteriously, swallowed by the labyrinthine archives.
Other times, quiet hints of bribery nudged him through gates that might otherwise have slammed shut.
Recruitment was a slow, brutal test.
There were no easy hires in this world—no resumes sent with a click, no instant acceptances.
He sent letters and messages, waiting weeks for answers.
Promises came and faded like smoke.
One hopeful prospect disappeared without explanation days before a scheduled meeting.
Another agreed but never showed.
Months passed with little progress.
Rowan learned the usefulness of the system in these months. The ability to see potential, current ability and traits of people allowed for a quicker interview and selection process.
And still, he pushed forward, sending new requests, meeting new hopefuls, sifting through those who came and those who vanished.
Amid the struggle, he found small mercies.
The bakery clerk who lent him bread on nights when hunger gnawed too deeply.
The market porter who nodded knowingly when Rowan passed.
A dock worker who offered a wink and a word of encouragement, unspoken alliances forged in quiet acts. An alliance of the dreamers.
Every kindness was a brick added to the hidden fortress Rowan was building—one of resilience, patience, and unyielding hope.
At home, Aleric's health waned.
Rowan saw the subtle tremors in his father's hands, the lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
One evening, under the muted glow of candlelight, they sat together in the small study.
Aleric's voice was rough but tender.
"Rowan," he said, "there are things in motion you cannot see. The weight on this academy grows heavier every day."
Rowan's heart tightened.
"I know you want to fight," Aleric continued, "but promise me once more that you'll stay away—for now. Let me hold the line."
The plea was soft, but beneath it lay a storm of fear and sorrow.
Rowan nodded, voice barely a whisper.
"I promise."
"Thank you." Aleric smiled sadly. "That's all I ask."
That night, Rowan sat alone, pen poised above a fresh page.
His thoughts swirled—dreams of banners, of pride reborn.
He scribbled words, a tentative beginning to the company slogan that might one day set the city alight:
"Strength Forged in Fire. Pride Reborn."
He ripped the page out and threw it in the trash. A long sigh followed.
He closed his notebook, heart steadying.
Tomorrow, the fight would continue.
But for the first time since arriving in Shadestone, Rowan believed he was building something that could last.