“Congratulations on your impressive second place finish,” Theodore said, his voice carrying just enough to be heard by those nearby. “Your team’s skill is undeniable.”

The Guildmaster, Matthew, nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Lord Theodore. Your... innovation was certainly unexpected.”

Theodore’s smile widened. “Innovation is the future, Guildmaster Matthew. Speaking of which,” he turned to address the team of soapmakers directly, “I couldn’t help but notice your exceptional teamwork and attention to detail. How would you like to be part of something truly revolutionary?”

Matthew’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Now see here, Lord Theodore—”

But Theodore continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“I’m expanding my soap production, and I’m looking for skilled artisans who aren’t afraid to push boundaries. How does doubling your current wages sound? With opportunities for advancement, of course.”

The soapmakers exchanged glances.

“My lord, are you offering us positions?”

“Indeed I am,” Theodore replied, his voice warm but his eyes never leaving Matthew’s increasingly reddening face. “I believe we find ourselves at a crossroads. One path leads to prosperity, the other... well, let’s just say it’s less favorable. For you, that is. Your talents are wasted on outdated methods and rigid hierarchies. With me, you’ll be at the forefront of a new era in soapmaking.”

“Are you threatening us, Lord Theodore?”

“No. I’m offering you an opportunity. But make no mistake. The winds of change are blowing, and they carry the scent of my soap. The crown has taken notice. How long before they wonder why the guilds can’t match our quality or production? I’m eventually going to produce more soap in a month than all your guilds combined in a year. At half the cost. Should be way less, actually.”

“Impossible! You can’t possibly-”

“I just did. And that’s only the beginning. I’m offering you a choice. Join me, and we’ll revolutionize soap-making together. Resist, and... well, I hear chandlery is a growing trade. You have until sunrise tomorrow to decide. Choose wisely.”

Matthew sputtered.

“This is outrageous! You can’t just—”

“Can’t I? I believe I just did. Your people are free to make their own choices, are they not?”

As if to prove his point, three of the soapmakers stepped away from the Merchants Guild group and towards Theodore. Matthew’s face contorted with rage.

“You’ll regret this, Theodore,” he hissed. “The Guild has long memories, and we do not forget slights.”

Theodore’s expression hardened. He stepped closer to Matthew. “Neither do I. Thank you for the free marketing, by the way. Couldn’t have done it without you. You really thought I’d go with the deal after you humiliated my product? Truly, you’re excellent, showing the Merchants Guild’s incompetence and demonstrating how extraordinary my soap is.”

Matthew’s face paled.

Theodore continued, his smile turning cold.

“Surely, the Guild will be pleased.”

“You can’t!” Matthew hissed. “The Guild won’t allow it. We have agreements, treaties—”

“Oh, I can,” Theodore cut him off. “In fact, I just did. I did say there would be consequences, did I not? Or did you forget all that?”

He turned to the soapmakers who had joined him.

“Come, let’s discuss your new positions. I believe we have much to talk about.”

***

Old Man Giles stood at the edge of the crowd.

The boy—no, the man—had played them all like a fiddle.

Giles had been in this trade longer than most of these guildmasters had been alive. He'd seen trends come and go, watched fortunes rise and fall.

But this... this was something entirely new.

He couldn't help but smile.

The competition had seemed like such a boon at first. Win or lose, the Merchants Guild would benefit from the increased interest in soap. The Merchants Guild had been so confident, so sure of their victory or, at the very least, the marketing boost they'd receive regardless of winning or losing.

But Matthew and the others had forgotten one crucial thing: Lord Theodore wasn't bound.

The man could go back on his word.

Giles watched as Theodore addressed the guild representatives. The young lord's tone was polite, but Giles could hear the steel beneath. He saw the moment realization dawned on the faces of the guildmaster of the region’s Merchants Guild branch—the horror, the disbelief, the anger.

And then, the fear.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

It was beautiful, in a terrifying sort of way.

Like watching a storm roll in over the hills—awesome and unstoppable.

"Maybe I should join...?" Giles mused aloud, his voice carrying just far enough for the nearest soapmakers to hear.

They turned, shock written across their faces.

But Giles just kept smiling. After all, he hadn't survived this long in the trade by clinging to the past. And if there was one thing Old Man Giles knew, it was how to spot an opportunity when he saw one.

The soap trade was about to change forever, and Giles intended to be on the winning side.

***

Theodore sat cross-legged on a plush cushion, his brow furrowed in concentration as he listened intently to Derrick’s words. The older man’s voice filled the air as he explained the intricacies of magical theory. The lesson concluded and Derrick smiled. “You’re making remarkable progress, my boy. Your aptitude for magic is truly impressive.”

“I have an excellent teacher to thank for that.”

The [Mage] chuckled, rising slowly to his feet. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Theodore. But I’m afraid our time is up for today. Remember to practice those meditation exercises I showed you. They’ll help sharpen your focus and heighten your sensitivity to mana.”

Theodore stood as well, bowing slightly to his mentor. “I will. Thank you again for everything.”

As Derrick gathered his things and made his way to the door, Theodore called out, “Same time next week?”

The old man turned. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

With a final wave, Derrick disappeared into the hallway, leaving Theodore alone with his thoughts. He stretched, feeling the satisfying pop of his joints as he worked out the stiffness from sitting for so long.

Theodore walked to the window, gazing out at the town of Holden below. He took a deep breath. So much had changed in such a short time.

After a long time, he truly felt at home.

***

The earth trembled beneath Baron Montague’s feet like a living extension of his will and power. Around him, the forces of the Night Whispers lay scattered and broken, their black-clad forms little more than smudges against the ravaged landscape.

Montague stood tall, his weathered face set in a grim expression. Despite his years, there was no hint of fatigue in his stance, no tremor in his hands as he surveyed the battlefield. His eyes—sharp as a hawk’s—locked onto a hulking figure emerging from the chaos.

Brutus “The Hammer” Graw charged towards Montague with a roar that shook the very air. His massive hammer swung in wide, devastating arcs. However, Montague did not flinch. He did not retreat. Instead, a small smile played at the corners of his mouth.

A predator’s grin eying its prey. For it spoke of battles won and enemies vanquished, Brutus visibly seemed to slow down, but with a growl, the man closed the distance. Montague’s hands moved as he used his skills. The ground beneath Brutus’s feet suddenly shifted, sand turning to glass in an instant. The brute stumbled, his momentum carrying him forward as his footing betrayed him.

Montague’s voice cut through the din of battle, calm and measured. “Is this truly the best the Night Whispers can muster? I wonder why Thomas didn’t deal with you guys any sooner—he alone would’ve been enough.” He sighed. “Why must you bother an old man like me?”

Brutus snarled, regaining his balance and charging once more. “You know nothing of our power, old man! I’ll crush you like the insignificant bug you are!”

The baron’s eye twitched, and his pupils narrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “Don’t interrupt when I talk, child.”

With a gesture that seemed almost lazy, Montague called forth his true power. The earth split open at his command, and from its depths rose a torrent of molten rock. The air shimmered with intense heat as rivers of magma snaked across the ground, cutting off Brutus’s advance.

Brutus’ eyes widened in shock and fear. “Impossible! You... you’re an earth [Mage]! How can you control magma?”

Montague stepped forward, the sea of lava parting before him like obedient servants. “Did you really think someone of my standing would be limited to a single element? Your ignorance is matched only by your arrogance.”

Brutus’s mighty swings were met with walls of hardened lava, his every step hindered by suddenly unstable ground. And all the while, Montague pressed his advantage, hurling spears of obsidian and waves of scorching magma. It was over in moments. Brutus fell to his knees, bruised and broken. Montague stood over him, disappointment etched on his face.

“Weak. Utterly weak,” the baron spat. “I’m surprised Thomas didn’t deal with you lot sooner.”

Brutus, his breath coming in ragged gasps, looked up at Montague with hateful eyes. “You... you don’t understand. We’re not just some common bandits. We’re—”

His words were cut short as Montague crushed his head with a boulder, ending his life. Brutus’s massive form toppled backwards, his eyes staring sightlessly at the smoke-filled sky.

Montague sighed, suddenly looking every one of his years. “Now an old man like me needs to deal with all this nonsense,” he muttered, shaking his head. “As if I didn’t have enough to worry about with harvest season approaching.”

Surely, if someone from outside heard him, they’d wonder where his priorities lay. But truly, for the baron who’d lived long, harvest season indeed matter more than some random organizations.

He turned, surveying the devastation around him. The battlefield was silent now, save for the occasional groan of a wounded Night Whisper or the pops of still-cooling lava.

Montague closed his eyes for a moment—and sighed.

Suddenly, the sky erupted in a brilliant flash of light. Montague’s hand instinctively went to shield his eyes, but he forced himself to look, to witness. A massive, intricate pattern of light stretched across the heavens, connecting the lands of Westford, Argent, Holden, and Corinth in a glowing web of magical energy.

“By the gods,” Montague whispered, calm yet curious. “What manner of sorcery is this?”

As quickly as it had appeared, the light faded, leaving Montague blinking. Whatever had just happened, he knew in his bones that it meant more work for an old man like him.

***

In a dimly lit chamber deep within the heart of Westford, Thomas stood over the battered form of Alden Luther. His fists, raw and bloody. He’d just done a brutal interrogation. Yet despite the beating, a grin spread across Alden’s bruised face.

“You think this pain means anything to me?” Alden spat, blood staining his teeth. “You have no idea what’s coming. None at all. We failed! We did! But do you know what that means?!”

Thomas frowned. “What are you babbling about, you treasonous dog?”

Before Alden could respond, a blinding light flooded the room. Thomas whirled around, his eyes widening as he saw the magical pattern etched across the sky through the small window.

“No,” he breathed.

Alden’s cackled behind him manically. The sound was so garroting it echoed off the stone walls.

“Witness,” Alden screamed. “Witness our failure—!”

Thomas knocked him out with a brutal slam.

***

Roland stood at attention outside Theodore’s chambers. His posture was perfect. He was thinking, at the moment, about—

A flash of light caught his peripheral vision. Roland turned, his training kicking in as he assessed for potential threats. What he saw instead left him breathless. The sky itself seemed to be on fire, crisscrossed with lines of magic that pulsed with otherworldly power.

***

“Jack, look!” Rosemary gasped, pointing towards the sky visible through the window.

They stood transfixed, as the magical light show played out above them. When Rosemary looked back, Jack was already gone, running out of the workshop, the toward slammed behind him—and toward Lord Theodore.

***

Theodore stood by the window; his eyes fixed on the sky. The massive magic circle hung there, impossibly vast. Its intricate patterns told a story he was now beginning to understand. He sighed heavily.

“So that’s how it is,” he murmured to himself, “it begins, it seems.”

There was work to be done, and precious little time to do it.