The office was quiet, save for the soft scratching of quill on parchment.
Rowan sat hunched over his desk, sleeves rolled, coat draped on the back of his chair. Morning light bled through the shutters in long, dusty shafts. His tea had gone cold an hour ago.
The first ad was simple.
Redhollow Knights Seeking Staff
He scrawled the key words in bold ink: Analyst, Tactical Mage, Fitness Enchanter, Medical Officer, Emotional Resilience Coach. Below that, the non-negotiables: clean soulmark, minimum of three years in field operations or academy-level coaching. And one final line, underlined three times:
"Character matters. This is a forge. We don't bend."
But then he paused. Stared at the ink. Was this enough? Was a list enough to attract the kind of people he needed—the kind who'd bleed for something broken, who could teach and inspire and rebuild alongside him?
He ran a hand through his hair. The reality hit him again. He had no recruiters. No established pipeline. He was fishing in the dark.
So he began again. At least he had today. The squad was on break for recovery after the game.
The second set of scrolls were for courier hawks. They would travel to smaller leagues, war-touched regions, even the outer rings of the trade union where rogue tacticians sometimes peddled minor enchantments for coin. The message was adjusted slightly:
Looking for forgotten talent. Burnt-out brilliance. Broken geniuses. If you can teach, endure, and believe—Redhollow has space for you. No promises. Only purpose.
Then he drafted another—this one targeted at the major guild boards:
We're building something from ash. If that frightens you, stay away. If it excites you, apply.
Each scroll took time. Not just the wording, but the feeling. He needed to write with honesty, vulnerability, strength. The kind of voice that might make a stubborn healer pause, or a jaded ex-coach think twice.
He scribbled, rewrote, discarded. Dozens of crumpled drafts littered the floor. The wastebasket overflowed.
Taran entered sometime before noon, balancing two tin mugs of darkbrew and a cloth-wrapped bag.
"Thought you might still be alive," he said casually. "Your office smells like parchment hell."
Rowan barely looked up. "Can't stop now. If I don't cast this net today, we lose another week."
"You haven't eaten," Taran said, setting down the bag. "Don't make me feed you like a wounded bird."
"I'm serious," Rowan said.
"So am I." Taran dropped into the chair across from him. "You're not their savior if you burn out halfway through the season. You're just another ruin."
Rowan finally exhaled. Took a sip of the offered darkbrew.
"I don't even know who I'm trying to find," he muttered. "We need healers who won't crack under pressure. Analysts who can run field data on glyphs that don't even register half the time. Coaches who can teach without turning green at the smell of mana scorched leather."
"So?" Taran shrugged. "That's the job. Find ghosts and convince them to live again."
Rowan almost smiled. "That's your most depressing advice yet."
"I try," Taran said, finishing his drink. "Finish your scrolls. I'll have the first batch sent by sundown. And Rowan?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not alone. Stop acting like you are."
Dawn came red.
Rowan stood at the edge of the training grounds before the first bell had even whispered across Shadestone. The pitch was bathed in ghost-light, the boundary wards flickering faintly like sleeping embers.
He waited. Arms folded. Coat sealed high.
He expected shadows to move toward him. Energy. Hunger.
But as the sun crested and the sky paled, the players trickled in like leaves caught in a slow current. One by one. Silent. Tired. Haunted.
Juno walked with a limp in his step, eyes down. Dara avoided everyone's gaze. Cival's usual grin was a phantom, flickering in and out of memory.
Rowan's jaw tightened.
This—this wasn't grief. It was something worse. A void.
He stepped forward, boots crunching softly on gravel. He didn't yell. Not yet.
"I want coffee," he said. "Anyone else is welcome to follow."
The walk through Shadestone was long and unhurried.
They weaved through market squares, past schoolyards where early spells sparked in the air, through alleyways where painted murals whispered of fallen heroes and dead teams.
Some citizens noticed them.
Most didn't.
A few nodded in recognition—shopkeepers, old matchgoers, students with eyes wide and mouths slightly open. They didn't cheer. But they looked.
And for the observant few—like Juno and Tenri—they saw it.
Hope. Not loud. Not flashy. But there. Quiet, unspoken, patient.
At a corner stall, an old man selling grilled pears handed one to Dara and refused coin. "Saw that play," he muttered. "That angle… beautiful."
They arrived at The Lantern Cup just as the second bell rang. The café looked the same as when Rowan had first stepped foot in it months ago, if not for all the Aethermark Forge merch. A place of quiet warmth and polished wood. The barista offered no fanfare, just a professional nod and their orders taken without hesitation.
No one asked for autographs.
But no one turned them away either.
They sat in near-silence. Coffee cups steaming. A single ray of sunlight caught the brass wall fixture shaped like a phoenix.
Rowan let them sip. Then stood.
"Back to the academy."
The players gathered in the strategy hall, boots still dusty from the road.
Rowan didn't stand at the front this time. He walked among them.
"No one really cares," he said.
The words cut sharper than if he'd shouted.
"If you have nothing, you can lose nothing. That's what this city believes. They don't expect anything from us. Not the council. Not the leagues. Not the fans. Nothing."
His voice rose, slow and coiled.
"But that's the trick, isn't it?"
He turned.
"Because if no one expects anything from you… then every inch you take is rebellion."
He stopped. Let that sit.
"I saw it in the streets. In the people's eyes. They want a reason to hope again. A reason to cheer again. They just don't believe they're allowed to. Not anymore."
His fist clenched.
"And you. You sit here. In self-pity. Licking your wounds when the fight hasn't even begun yet."
The room went still.
Rowan's tone sharpened into iron.
"You're professionals. Act like it. You signed up for this. To wear this badge. To carry this legacy. And if you think that means looking sad in a hallway or slumping in drills, then rip your crest off now and walk."
He pointed to the exit.
"Go. Now. No shame. I'll even write your transfer requests myself."
No one moved.
Cival was the first to straighten. His eyes glimmered.
Then Juno. Then Dara.
Even some of the reserves sat taller.
But not all.
Lain stared ahead, jaw tense.
Calyre picked at his glove strap, face unreadable.
Theren leaned back, smirking faintly—as if the fire didn't touch him.
Rowan noticed.
He didn't say a word. Just walked to the center of the room, picked up a chalk, and drew a line down the floor.
"From here forward, the forge is real. You show up late again, you run. You skip a cast, you sit. You act like passengers—you burn."
He dropped the chalk.
"Welcome to the real start of the season."