[POV Marcelline Third-Person] [Tense: Past]
00:40 a.m. - At Infirmary Narthex, High Temple, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (20 January 2026)
Cold lamp smoke pooled low in the air. The stone seemed to sweat.
"God, please wait." Marcelline had been sleep-talking.
Rhea's words still echoed, but Marcelline's hands had moved before thought caught them. She flung the coarse blanket aside, swung her legs over the cot. Blood-rush prickled her skin; the room tilted, then steadied.
Rhea's hands lifted toward her shoulders.
"High Priestess—"
"Robes." Her tone landed flat, level. "Not the gold. A white robe."
Rhea hesitated, then snatched a folded bundle from the chest. The cloth reeked of smoke instead of incense. Marcelline dragged it over her shift, flinched as the sleeve grazed the raw straps on her wrists, then smoothed the front with careful, deliberate strokes.
"Were the elemental rune-craft codices still safe?" Her voice thinned on the word. "If Belmara took them, Aurelthorn walked into the dark blind."
Rhea swallowed.
"At least they didn't fall into Belmara's hands, but the real problem was the slaughter in the nave."
Marcelline lifted her gaze.
"What do you mean?"
Rhea shifted her weight, fingers worrying the edge of her apron.
"While you slept… the Queen sent her men. Palace scribes. Ward-mages. They came with sealed writs. They took the rune codices and the prototype arms from the lower vault. All under royal lock now."
Her eyes flicked to the barred door, then back.
"They said it was 'for the realm's safety.'"
"And the Temple's?"
"Her Majesty said the Temple proved it could not guard its own house. The… thing… that wore the Pope's face, the demons in the nave, the villagers torn apart on holy ground—" Her voice cracked. "People saw it with their own eyes. They didn't care about Belmara's tricks. They only saw that the Stag's house let a devil in."
Marcelline's hands stilled. Her thumbs pressed the fabric over her ribs until her knuckles paled.
"How far?"
"The castle seized three treasuries. Closed the outer armory. All 'temporary,' they said." Rhea forced the word out like a bone. "They set a royal steward over temple accounts. We'd lost control—by signature."
"The elders?"
"Some ran." Rhea's mouth twisted. "Some were slow. The city guard dragged six of them from their cells. They called it 'inquiry for collusion with foreign powers.'"
Her breath fogged in the cold air.
"In the streets they shouted that the Temple sold Dawnspire to demons. Mothers spat when they passed our cloaks. Stall-men slammed shutters. They burned prayer-strips on the market fire, High Priestess. Not just yours. All of them."
Marcelline drew a slow breath through her nose. Smoke and sweat scraped her throat.
"Names."
Rhea hesitated, then obeyed.
"Elder Joram. Sister Aleni. Father Merk. Two treasurers from the Third House. And… Lord-Prior Helvar. They said the questions were for 'treason' and 'Belmara contact,' but—" Her hands lifted, helpless. "This was power, High Priestess. The Queen's men cut the Temple's limbs while everyone screamed about devils."
Marcelline's jaw tightened.
"Her Grace was my friend, not my gaoler."
Rhea flinched.
"She came herself. To the nave. I swear it. But after… after, she signed every writ they put in front of her. Said the city needed 'one strong hand on the sword and the key.'"
A drop of lamp-oil ticked from the chain and fell, tiny sound in the thick quiet.
Marcelline lowered her feet to the flagstones. Cold soaked her soles.
"The Queen thought she held the key." Her eyes hardened. "Belmara thought it held the knife. The people thought we held the rot."
She looked at her raw wrists, then at Rhea.
"And me? While I lay like a broken offering, they gutted the Temple."
Rhea stepped closer, voice low, urgent.
"You were not here to stand in their way. They said the demon poisoned you, that you might never wake. The Queen used that. Some councillor whispered this was the only chance to pull the Temple's claws. It felt like… like they'd waited years for this."
"Which councillor?"
"I heard only a title, in passing. 'The Iron Chancellor.' A castle man. No temple oath."
Marcelline's gaze turned toward the unseen city, past stone and smoke.
"Belmara carved at our faith. The crown carved at our reach. The mob carved at our name." She lifted her chin. "Very well. If they took what was mine, they became answerable for what was mine."
Rhea's eyes widened.
"What would you do?"
Marcelline reached for the plain cord at the peg, wrapped it around her waist, knot sure despite the tremor in her fingers.
"First, I walked." Her voice cooled. "Then I counted what remained. Then I spoke with Her Majesty."
Rhea swallowed.
"And this God-thing you just said—'God, please wait'—what did it mean?"
To Marcelline, it had felt like a nightmare just about to strike. Then, suddenly, the evil had vanished before it could touch her. She remembered only a figure, blurred at the edges like the end of a dream. It was no different from waking and trying to catch hold of what had just terrified her.
"I didn't think it was just a dream," she said softly, "but I could barely remember what happened."
Heat flickered behind Marcelline's eyes.
"Where He walked, He wiped out great demons with a simple touch." She smoothed the smoke-stained robe once more. "No stain touched what I kept."
---
[POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
11:30 a.m. - At Merchant Guild Hall, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (20 January 2026)
Rumors flood Dawnspire long before the sun rises. By the time Aidan and I reach the Guild Hall, the streets are already thick with fantasy—Stoneveil is bought out with jewels, or ten war-golems, or even a secret threat from the Crown.
No one comes close to the truth: one gold coin, a contract drafted in a locked room, and a man pushed so far his pride finally cracks.
The Guild feels that truth before we even speak.
Baldric Ironhand stares at us like we've stolen something sacred.
Varena Kestrel keeps a smile thin enough to cut—her months of maneuvering against Technologia suddenly overturn overnight.
Stoneveil's fall should strengthen her. Instead, Technologia now holds his land, his workshops, his routes—and sits under the shield of Crown protection. That shift alone is enough to rattle every ledger in the room.
Aidan and I spend last night rehearsing this moment, heads bent over a dim lamp. He is to stay firm, brief, predictable. Now he carries the royal writ under his arm as though it weighs more than iron.
The boardroom stills when the Crown Herald enters. Even the clerks straighten, as if hoping the decree might forget their names.
"By order of King Aldric Aurelthorn," the Herald declares, "Technologia is removed from Guild authority and placed directly under the Crown."
Shock moves across the room like a cold wind.
Aidan steps forward, voice steady.
"Technologia accepts the separation. Our debts remain—we pay them in full, at fair and public rates. Our suppliers are protected. Our routes, secured."
He glances my way. I offer the small signal we agree on—continue.
Baldric forces out words through clenched teeth.
"Stoneveil owes half this table. What becomes of his men? His contracts? His promises?"
Aidan answers plainly.
"Any worker who wishes to stay keeps his wage—or receives better. As for his contracts—state them. We publish which ones we honor and which we end by week's close."
The room doesn't soften. It simply quiets, because nothing they say can drag a royal decree back across the threshold.
Baldric exhales sharply.
"So the Crown shields you."
Aidan's reply comes without hesitation.
"The Crown wants Dawnspire rebuilt. After Belmara's demons tear the streets open and faith fractures in the High Temple's Sanctum, the kingdom demands stability. Technologia is one of the tools chosen for that work."
The message lands: they may dislike it, but they cannot stop it.
Varena's expression flickers—an adjustment, not acceptance. She is already calculating how to pivot.
The Herald taps the doorframe once.
"The Crown's business here concludes."
He leaves. The clerks scatter. Baldric goes with a final glare; Varena with a gaze meant for future battles.
The room falls quiet, dust drifting in late-morning light.
Aidan finally exhales. "That… could have gone worse."
"You keep your footing," I say. "Close enough to what we planned."
Before he can answer, Saren appears in the doorway. He lingers, unsure whether he's permitted inside.
Aidan turns to him, voice gentler but still firm.
"Saren, Stoneveil's collapse ends your contract. You're released from his employ as a spy."
The words hang in the air—another life shifting because of dirty work he does himself.
---
04:00 p.m. - At Floor Office, Technologia, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (20 January 2026)
Ash-grey light seeps through the tall windows, the kind that makes the world look like someone has smudged chalk across the sky. The factory floor below moves in a slow, winter-worn rhythm—bowls clinking, crates thudding, the hiss and tick of steam lines catching in the corners of the room.
Aidan closes the door with a muted thump and steps inside, a leather folio tucked under one arm. He sets it squarely on the desk, as if the placement itself carries a verdict.
"Mr. Elric."
His voice carries no heat, no frost—just weight and intention.
I straighten from the window, shoulders still heavy from sleepless nights and ash-soaked weeks. Outside, workers pick through snow-slushed light like ants rebuilding after a storm. I watch a heartbeat longer before turning to face Aidan.
"So we're calling it even," I say quietly. "You keep the daylight. Dawnspire remains under your hand. I take Frosthaven and the shadow work—quiet routes, the secret research."
Aidan regards me for a long, measured breath. The silence between us feels like a scale settling into balance.
Then he nods once.
"Daylight for me. Shadow for you."
I tap the table with a knuckle.
"In… in words from my old w—world, no, my old family business rules," I tell him. "That makes you the CEO, and me the founder."
Aidan's brow creases. "Cee-ee-oh," he repeats, tasting it. "Founder?"
"The founder is the one who builds it first," I say, "the first vision, the long road in his head. The CEO is the one who runs it every day—makes the big decisions, signs the orders, answers to the Crown and the ledgers. Public face."
He thinks on that, gaze flicking once to the window, then back to me.
"This seems strange," he admits, "but… interesting. I don't know how this kind of business works, but I'll take the honor—as the Mercer family's man in Dawnspire."
Mercer family. My family is just me, a ghost from another world and a fake name on a contract. But to him it sounds like a house, a line, something with banners and oaths.
When I don't have my powers—safe from the spotlight—it feels like that idea has some quiet pull on him.
For a heartbeat I see it: Aidan not as my equal partner, but as a steward under a quiet house called Mercer. His power doesn't vanish, it narrows—sharper, but leashed.
"Then you stay CEO," I say. "I stay founder. That's the point. You stand in the light. I stay where no one looks."
Aidan pauses again. "And from today forward—I call you Mr. Elric."
Safe from the spotlight. Names blur around "Ryan," but "Mr. Elric" will do.
I tap the table again, lighter this time. "Good," I say. "Now—there's something else. A line to build. Paper."
That earns the first flicker of surprise from Aidan.
"A paper line?"
"From wood to sheet," I reply. "Cut and bring the logs in through the south gate. Sort them by grain and color. Chip them, soak them in lime until the fibers loosen. Run the softened chips through water-wheel beaters until they break into clean pulp. Then—settling vats, deckle frames, felt stacks, drying lofts with warm air, and sizing vats to finish the surface. Our own mark on every ream. No calfskin. Not expensive. Cleaner, faster, safer."
Aidan doesn't sit, but he reaches for nib and parchment, pulling them to the desk. As I speak, lines and arrows take shape under his hand—his precise mind translating ideas into workable routes.
"Elric… you have this planned from the start."
"I've had the dream," I allow. "But the city has been burning. Now it's only smoldering. That's enough room to think."
I raise a hand and count the reasons off my fingers.
"Good sheets for good nibs. Less cruelty than parchment. Less price. More production for the people. And—"
I don't finish the last thought. The printing press lives only in my chest, not yet ready for the room.
Aidan's mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile.
"Something better than parchment?" he murmurs.
"We build what lessens pain," I answer softly. "What saves cost. What improves production."
Aidan draws three hard strokes across the scrap—dividing our world.
"Daylight: mine. Shadow: yours. Dawnspire under me. Frosthaven under you. And the paper line goes under people who can learn."
It's the first time we've said it out loud: Dawnspire for Aidan, Frosthaven for me.
Aidan slowly takes more of my nerd energy every day.
For the first time all day, a knot loosens behind my ribs.
I lay out the final conditions—voice steady, uncompromising:
"No chains. Everyone's paid in coin. Small folk first. All promises on paper, never by mouth. Waste water goes to settling pits, not into the Silverwyn River."
Aidan writes each rule with slow, deliberate strokes, as though carving them into stone.
"Done," he says.
Our eyes meet—no warmth, but a new understanding.
"What do you need from me next?" Aidan asks.
I look down toward the yard. A little boy sits on a step with a bowl in his lap, legs swinging as he guards a piece of bread with both hands. Near the gate, an old porter stamps a crate slip with careful pride, aligning the seal just so.
Keep him steady. Keep me honest.
Build something that holds the line.
I push away from the window.
"Hire a wood-pulp master; if you don't have one, you can create one," I say. "Expand land by the river—someplace with wind for the drying rooms. Send word to Frosthaven: Technologia's branch there falls under my key by the end of the week. And have Bromar sketch the forming frames—square corners, nothing decorative."
Aidan notes and reminds me, voice firm.
He caps the charcoal and studies the words as if measuring their weight.
"You're not changing the work much," he says finally.
I shrug. "You're good at the front. I don't need a lack of innovation. I just need a way to build empire."
For a moment we stand in the muted ash-light, listening to the hall steam engine as the day bends slowly toward evening.