The city of Stonegate still carried a chill from the night as Elias Corrin and the Aethermark Forge team crossed the threshold of Deepmere Striders' academy. Banners glimmered blue and silver, catching the morning light, while the academy's crest—now reborn in Dalia's design—watched over them from every archway. The halls buzzed with purpose. Elias sensed, as ever, the old magic of tradition and the sharp hunger for change.
The final meeting was brisk, but electric. The headmaster and his senior staff welcomed Aethermark with a respect that felt earned, not performed. Taran stood tall beside Elias, holding his usual composure, though his fingers twitched ever so slightly with anticipation. The contract was drawn, reviewed, and signed: Aethermark Forge would receive a monthly fee of 20 golden crowns for exclusive kit and Aetherstone supply, plus a fifty-fifty split on all branded merchandise.
In this world, a single golden crown is no small thing; ten gold coins could feed a small family for a year, and twenty crowns each month would see Aethermark grow in ways even Rowan hadn't dared imagine in those early, desperate days. Taran didn't speak, but his eyes betrayed him—brimmed with pride and disbelief.
Then the headmaster cleared his throat, and the room held its breath.
"There's one more matter," he said. "The anthem you brought—it belongs here."
He reached across the table, sliding over a bank draft. The numbers on it made even the ever-unshakable Taran go silent.
One hundred thousand crowns.
"For the anthem. For the song that will be ours alone, sung for generations."
Elias blinked. Lioh, the singer, looked like he'd been hit by a wave of lightning and gratitude. Dalia, usually composed, reached out and squeezed Lioh's arm. Even Jossan looked stunned. Elias only managed a nod, the shock and satisfaction mixing in his chest like molten silver.
This was more than business. This was legacy.
As the team exited the academy gates, Elias paused to look back. The morning light hit the silver crest just right—it looked like fire caught in steel. He returned to Shadestone with a different stride. For the first time, he felt not like a fugitive but a force to be reckoned with.
He requested—not begged for—a meeting with the city council.
In the council chambers, the air was thick with unspoken games. The councilors sat behind their fortress-like desk, their expressions unreadable masks of authority. The same room that had once rejected him now felt smaller. He had changed—but they hadn't.
Elias smiled, deliberately mild. "I'm just here to keep the city informed," he said, hands folded behind his back. "Aethermark Forge has entered an agreement with Deepmere Striders. Nothing more for now."
He let the silence stretch.
Then, as he turned to leave, he paused. Looked over his shoulder.
"One more thing—Deepmere's headmaster offered a separate arrangement. Called it the 'Council Defense Fund.' You'll want to keep that in mind."
The silence was sharp as a blade. Mavren glowered, Triss's practiced smile faltered, and Yarik's knuckles whitened atop his ledger.
"Have a pleasant day," Elias said. He closed the door behind him, not with a bang, but the quiet confidence of someone who knew the rules—and was learning to write his own.
The Rift Break
The next day, Shadestone's sirens cut through the morning quiet.
A rift had opened on the city's southern edge. The alarms wailed like wounded animals, magic and panic entwined. Rowan—once more himself—watched from the rooftop of the academy dorms as the city mobilized.
Streets emptied. Shops slammed their shutters. Children were pulled indoors. Teachers from the Redhollow Knights donned their magical gear, gathering with other academy staff and city guards in a parade of purpose and fear.
He saw one of the Redhollow spellcasters stop mid-preparation to help an elderly woman cross a collapsing rune-bridge. Another chanted barrier wards with a child clinging to her cloak.
He witnessed, for the first time, the uneasy alliance between academy and city—the way ordinary lives turned suddenly extraordinary in the face of a threat no wall could stop.
And for the first time, he felt not pride—but vulnerability. The academy, the team, the business—all of it balanced on the edge of something fragile.
He clenched his fists.
Aleric's Kitchen, Evening
After the chaos settled, Rowan found his father at home. The kitchen smelled faintly of ash and old herbs. Aleric stood at the window, staring at nothing, a teacup forgotten in his hand.
The old man looked exhausted—shoulders hunched, eyes shadowed—but there was a steady pride beneath his fatigue.
Rowan made tea, fumbling a little with the old kettle, and sat across from him at the worn kitchen table.
Aleric broke the silence first.
"It was bad, today. Too close for comfort. The Knights held, though. Your mother would have been proud."
Rowan stared at his hands. So much he wanted to say. About Elias. About the anthem. About the fortune they had just earned that morning. About the council.
But guilt wrapped around his throat. Fear of unraveling the fragile peace they'd found since the collapse.
He chose his words carefully.
"Dad… do you ever regret all this? The academy, the debt, the years of fighting?"
Aleric looked surprised. Then thoughtful.
"Not for a second," he said. "Your mother and I, we started with nothing but a dream and the will to protect this city. We built something—maybe not perfect, maybe not always safe—but it was ours."
Rowan's voice cracked. "I just… wish it was easier. For you. For us."
Aleric reached across the table, gripping Rowan's hand.
"Ease isn't the point, son. It's love. It's legacy. What we leave behind. Your mother—she believed in building something that lasted longer than any one life. The academy was her heart."
The silence stretched again, heavier now.
Rowan almost said it. Almost told him everything.
But instead, he only squeezed his father's hand.
"Thank you," he said.
Later that night, under the cover of darkness, Rowan sent an anonymous donation—ten thousand crowns—to the Redhollow Knights' academy account.
No name. No note. Only relief.
And the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, it would be enough—for now.