Aethermark Forge's upper terrace overlooked the edge of Shadestone's south quarter—where the skyline dipped, and the academy rooftops jutted like broken teeth. Rowan sat across from Taran at a small iron table. The scent of forge-dust and strong tea hung between them.
For once, Rowan looked like himself—no cloak, no illusion. Just a man with too many thoughts.
"I've been thinking," he said, fingers steepled. "About the academy."
Taran raised an eyebrow. "You mean saving it, which you've already been doing?"
"No," Rowan said. "I mean… taking it over. Full time. Headmaster. Coach. Everything."
Taran's chair creaked as he leaned back. Silence hung for just long enough to make Rowan wonder if he'd miscalculated.
Then Taran laughed. Loud and deep. "You absolute madman. That's brilliant."
Rowan blinked. "I thought you'd be furious. I thought you'd say I was abandoning everything we built."
Taran waved a hand. "Rowan, the problem hasn't been what we built. It's where we've been standing."
He leaned forward, eyes alight. "We've been outsiders this whole time—designing kits, building enchantments, branding dreams we don't own. But this?" He pointed toward the city. "Redhollow isn't a liability. It's the cornerstone. We need a foothold in the sport."
Rowan's mind whirled, trying to catch up. "But I can't do both. Not at full capacity. I'd stretch myself thin and ruin everything."
"Then we split the load," Taran said simply. "You run the academy—lead, coach, guide the damn thing. Weekends and downtime, we sync up. I handle the day-to-day at Forge. Orders, logistics, expansions, clients. We set boundaries."
Rowan sat back, stunned. "You already thought this through."
Taran smirked, his tone shifting from amused to razor-focused. "I did. Because I knew it was coming. You were never going to stay on the sidelines forever. Not with your blood tied to that academy and your soul tied to the sport."
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table between them. "This isn't just a pivot, Rowan—it's a full strategy. You, stepping in as the headmaster of Redhollow, are exactly what we need to anchor the Forge to the heart of Aetherstone itself. No more watching from the outside. You become the face of legacy, grit, and resurrection. That's what the council wants to believe in."
Rowan frowned slightly. "The council?"
Taran nodded. "Think about it. Right now, they don't trust Elias Corrin. They don't understand him. But they know Redhollow. They know your father. You stepping in at the academy makes them feel safe. Familiar. Nostalgic, even. You gain their trust as Rowan Keir, the loyal son trying to salvage his inheritance—not as Elias, the otherworldly anomaly."
Rowan leaned in, the pieces clicking together in his head. "So they lower their guard."
"And while they're busy patting you on the head and debating whether Redhollow's worth the ink on their next budget memo," Taran continued, "I'll be solidifying our commercial flank. We've been surging too fast lately—success brings heat. We need a phase of calm, steady growth. Subtle. Professional. Build relationships with mid-tier academies. Offer reliable products. Academy starter bundles, bulk enchantment-free kits, logistics management packages—things no one else bothers to make."
"Play the long game," Rowan murmured.
"Exactly. We become a cornerstone brand in the second and third tiers—make ourselves indispensable. Forge loyalty early. When the time comes to go big again, we'll have a loyal base across the continent. We won't just scale vertically—we'll embed."
Rowan rubbed his jaw. "And Elias?"
"You fading from public view is a gift," Taran said. "The council doesn't know what you're planning—or if you're planning anything at all. For all they know, you've stepped away... or you're about to step over them."
Rowan's hand tightened around his mug. "You really think they'll fall for that?"
Taran's smile sharpened. "They already have. The last two council inquiries were asking if we were still solvent or just lying low. I gave them polite answers and left them wondering."
Rowan's gaze drifted to the rooftops beyond. "You've been playing this chessboard longer than I realized."
"I've been protecting what we built," Taran said. "But I've also been waiting for the moment we stopped reacting and started setting the tempo."
He held out his hand.
"We don't chase fire, Rowan. We tend it. Let it grow. Let it last."
Rowan clasped his hand.
"Alright," he said. "Let's build something we never have to apologize for."
Redhollow Academy: Training Grounds
The morning sun glazed the pitch in a sleepy gold, catching the rising haze of early spellcasts. The practice field, still uneven in places, was marked with chalk glyphs and half-functioning mana pylons—barely good enough for tactical drilling, let alone competitive simulation.
Rowan Keir stood near the sideline, arms behind his back, a passive smile on his face. He wore the old Redhollow badge, its threads frayed but resolute. They'd never gotten a redesign, never had the funds for it—and maybe, Rowan thought, maybe they didn't need one yet. Maybe this emblem still meant something.
His coat flapped in the breeze, worn and dark, the symbol of the forgotten stamped over his chest like a vow. Players ran drills. Spells flickered across the field. No one noticed that Rowan was already scanning everything.
System HUD: Activated.
A neat row of icons hovered in his periphery—top-left, like clockwork:
→ Academy Gambits: unlocked
→ Facilities: Training (1.5★), Medical (1★), Lodging (2★), Tactical Chamber (N/A)
→ Morale: Low – Anxiety/Instability Detected
He frowned slightly. No tactical chamber at all? That would need fixing immediately.
His gaze shifted to a group of younger players running pattern drills near the edge of the second pitch. The system pinged several names.
Kessa Rahl – CA: 102 | PA: 216 | Role: Reactive Enchanter | Trait: Inquisitive, Team-Oriented
Tomas Venn – CA: 98 | PA: 210 | Role: Support Sentinel | Trait: Calm Under Pressure, Poor Mana Control
Both raw. Unrefined. But promising.
Rowan nodded quietly, saving them for later evaluation.
He checked the Gambit page—three formations registered from last season, two clearly outdated, and one incomplete. He sighed, made a note to rewrite everything from scratch.
Still… it wasn't hopeless.
This place just needs structure. Discipline. Belief.
He stepped farther down the field, watching small skirmishes play out. Shouts rose, spells danced, one mana burst veered too far and exploded a boundary cone.
Rowan smiled.
He'd missed this—the smell of grass, the hum of motion. Burned mana still caught him off guard, bitter and sharp, but even that felt like home now. This was where Aetherstone lived.
Then he heard them.
Three players, gathered at the benches near the southeast corner, speaking in low, casual voices.
He slowed. The system pinged.
Lain Dravyn – CA: 178 | PA: 242 | Role: Shadow Arcanist | Trait: Visionary, Low Resilience
Calyre Voss – CA: 165 | PA: 230 | Role: Wide Reclaimer | Trait: Mercenary, Ambitious
Theren Jale – CA: 172 | PA: 248 | Role: Sentinel Captain | Trait: Loyal, Overthinks Big Moments
Rowan paused.
Lain was leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Fathomroot Knights are circling again. If I don't hear from them by next week, I'm sending a message myself."
Calyre stretched, grinning. "Their scouts are everywhere right now. If it's not them, it'll be someone else. Maybe Mirelight Sentinels. They just upgraded their wing roster. That slot's open."
Theren gave a half-shrug. "Honestly? I'm not staying if we're circling relegation again. I'll take a transfer clause if I have to."
Rowan stared, blood gone cold.
They weren't planning their future here.
They weren't worried about rebuilding Redhollow.
They were preparing to leave.
His mind flashed—not to the system. Not to tactics.
To Aleric.
Collapsed on the field.
Dying under the weight of this exact fear.
Was this what they thought of all his father's sacrifice? Of everything left unsaid in that hospital room?
Rowan's expression hardened. His steps were sudden, precise.
*"WHAT THE ACTUAL F#K IS GOING ON HERE!!!"
The field went silent.
Whistles cut short. Conversations stopped.
Lain turned mid-sentence. Calyre's grin vanished. Theren sat up straighter, face blank.
Rowan's voice tore through the morning air. The mana emanating from him made the air feel like syrup to breathe.
His coat flared in the wind. The old badge—tattered, defiant—seemed to burn against the morning light.
And for the first time, the players saw not a grieving son,
Not a mysterious figure with a history of power—
But a Headmaster.
And he was done watching.