The old Meridian Theater sat in the heart of Tradespire's Fourth Circle like a faded jewel, its once-grand facade now weathered by decades of neglect. As Zeke approached the building that evening, he could hear the murmur of voices echoing from within.
He paused at the side entrance, taking a moment to center himself. Three days. That was all the time Akasha had needed to spread word of his lectures. And by today, you could hear chatter about his lessons wherever you went.
Already, this tasty piece of news was drowning out the other rumors that had been circling about him recently. A pleasant side effect, but not the reason he’d gone to the trouble.
The lecture itself would be where he made the real difference.
Zeke straightened his robes. He'd chosen simple charcoal-gray cloth, elegant but not ostentatious. Tonight, he was a teacher, not a Merchant Lord.
The theater's backstage area smelled of dust and old wood, with just a hint of the lamp oil that illuminated the corridors. As they made their way toward the stage entrance, the voices from beyond grew clearer. Excited chatter mixed with nervous murmurs, punctuated by the occasional laugh.
Zeke stepped to the edge of the curtain and peered out at his audience.
The theater's main floor was completely full, perhaps three hundred people scattered across seats that had seen far better days. His golden eyes moved methodically through the crowd, cataloguing what he saw.
In the front rows sat his wards, their matching robes a splash of ivory against the mottled browns and grays of working clothes. They had come accompanied by his parents and some of the guards. Maya tried for a calm expression, but her eagerness was clear. Beside her, Lue practically vibrated with excitement. The twins sat with perfect posture, their expressions attentive yet unreadable.
Behind them, the crowd became more varied. Weathered faces that spoke of years spent in honest labor mixed with younger ones still bright with ambition. He spotted the calloused hands of stoneworkers, the ink-stained fingers of scribes, the careful posture of shopkeepers who'd closed early to attend. Near the back, a cluster of adventurers sat together, their leather armor and visible weapons marking them as clearly as any uniform.
Ages ranged from barely past childhood to well into old age.
A gray-haired woman in the third row clutched a worn notebook, her attention fixed on the empty stage with an intensity that spoke of long-deferred dreams. Beside her, a boy who couldn't have been more than sixteen stared with the guarded eyes of someone who didn’t quite know if he should dare to hope.
Most interesting were the ones who tried to hide their eagerness. Merchants from higher up who'd dressed down to blend in. Former students of lesser academies whose rigid postures betrayed their formal training. Even a few figures whose quality clothing spoke of higher circles, though they'd chosen seats in shadow near the walls.
What drew them? Some were sent as spies, no doubt, but certainly not all.
The name von Hohenheim still carried weight, especially with the common folk, where Maximilian’s memory remained strong. But Zeke suspected his own name carried just as much. After all, he was an accomplished Mage in his own right, holding two records on the continental rankings.
He stood motionless behind the curtain, watching and waiting. The murmur of voices continued, a blend of speculation and nervous energy as the appointed hour drew near. Some called out to their neighbors; others sat in contemplative silence.
Then the clocktower struck.
Zeke stepped onto the stage.
No dramatic entrance. No flourish of magic or theatrical gesture. He simply walked to the center of the platform, hands clasped behind his back, and studied the faces turned toward him.
Gradually, the conversations faded in his presence. Zeke said nothing. He just stood there.
By the time true silence descended, you could have heard a pin drop on the theater’s worn floorboards.
The moment stretched.
Then finally, he spoke.
"How many of you," Zeke said into the quiet, "have been told that Magic is a gift? That it's something you're born with or born without, and that's simply your fate?"
Dozens of hands rose, then more as people gained confidence.
"How many have heard that magical talent is mysterious? That it can't be understood or explained, only accepted?"
More hands. Nearly half the crowd now.
"And how many," his voice hardened slightly, "have been told that if you weren't born to the right family, if you don't have the right connections, if you can't afford the right schools, then Magic simply isn't for you?"
This time, almost every hand in the theater rose. The air grew heavy with old frustrations, buried resentments, dreams deferred.
"All lies," Zeke said flatly.
The words hit like a physical blow. Yet instead of recoiling, people leaned forward.
“Ever since I began my education, I uncovered a secret that few are willing to admit: Magic isn't mysterious. It isn't some divine gift reserved for the chosen. It's a skill, like any other, that can be developed through proper understanding and dedicated practice."
"You're saying anyone can be a Mage?" The question came from a middle-aged man, his massive forearms bearing witness to years of hauling cargo.
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"Can't anyone with hands become a scribe?" Zeke asked in return as he faced the man directly. "Tell me, friend, what's your trade?"
"I work the docks, my lord. Have for twenty years."
"And when you started, could you lift as much as you can now?"
The man barked a laugh. "Not a chance. Could barely handle half loads when I was green."
"What changed?"
"I got stronger."
Zeke nodded, then turned to address the entire crowd. "This isn't surprising to anyone, is it? Through hard work, this man developed his muscles and now he can lift twice as much. It's a story as common as they come."
The crowd nodded, though he could see they were unsure where he was going with this.
“What if I told you that your Core works exactly the same?”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. In the front row, several of his wards leaned forward with interest. This was knowledge they'd been hungry for. After all, growing your Core was what they all needed right now.
"When you first awaken to magic," Zeke continued, "your Core is weak, undeveloped. Like the muscles of a child or someone who's never done physical labor. But just as muscles grow stronger with proper exercise, your Core can be trained to handle more energy, process it more efficiently, and respond more readily to your will."
An elderly woman in the third row raised her hand. "But what about the grade of affinity? They say that determines everything."
"An excellent question." Zeke's eyes lit with genuine pleasure. "Affinity is indeed important, but not in the way you've been told. Think of it as your natural talent for a particular type of physical work."
He gestured toward the dockworker again. "Our friend here has the build for heavy lifting, broad shoulders and a strong back. If he'd chosen to become a scribe instead, he might still have succeeded, but it would have taken more effort to develop the dexterity that kind of work requires."
Understanding began to dawn on several faces.
"Magical affinity works the same. If you have a Greater affinity for Fire, you'll find those spells easier to learn and less tiring to use. But that doesn't mean someone with a lesser Fire affinity can't become skilled with flames. They simply need longer to achieve the same result."
"What about those of us with weak affinities?" called out a young woman whose voice carried a note of old pain.
Zeke's expression gentled. "What do you call a dockworker who can carry two barrels instead of four?"
"Still a dockworker," someone answered.
"Exactly. Still valuable. Still capable of meaningful work." His voice carried absolute conviction. "Most academies would have you believe that magical talent is binary. You either have it or you don't. I disagree."
The words rang through the theater with the force of a challenge to established wisdom.
"Now, I won't try to sugarcoat this: If you awakened with a weak affinity, it is highly unlikely that you will ever ascend to the highest ranks of Magic. So, if you came here expecting to become Monarchs, you'll be sorely disappointed."
That drew a chuckle from the crowd, easing some of the tension.
"However," Zeke continued, "if your goal is to wield Magic, to strengthen your body, improve your health, or add a few dozen years to your lifespan, then what I am going to teach you will make that possible."
"How?" The question came from multiple voices at once.
"The same way you train any muscle: through progressive resistance and proper technique." Zeke began moving again, his hands sketching shapes in the air as he explained. "Your Core draws in the energy that surrounds us all the time. We call this ambient mana. The more you practice drawing it in, holding it, and shaping it to your will, the stronger your Core becomes."
A young man near the middle of the crowd raised his hand. "Is it safe? I've heard stories about people burning out their cores."
"A valid concern," Zeke acknowledged. "And yes, there are dangers if you approach training carelessly. But again, it is not a difficult concept to understand. A laborer who tries to lift twice his capacity will injure himself. But the same laborer who starts with manageable weights and gradually increases the difficulty will grow stronger without harm."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"The key is understanding your limits and respecting them while you work to expand them. Your Core will tell you when you're approaching dangerous territory. You simply need to learn to listen."
"What does it feel like?" asked the elderly woman with the notebook.
"Like muscle fatigue, actually." Zeke smiled at the aptness of his metaphor. "When you've been lifting heavy weights, your muscles feel tight, strained, tired. Push too hard and they might cramp or even tear. Your Core behaves similarly. Overextend it, and you'll feel heat, pressure, sometimes actual pain in your chest. The warning signs are there if you pay attention."
Questions began flowing more freely now, the crowd's initial reserve melting away as Zeke answered each inquiry with practical, understandable explanations. A baker wanted to know if his Fire affinity could help with his ovens. A seamstress wondered whether Mind magic could improve her precision with needle and thread. A former soldier asked about using Earth magic to strengthen building foundations.
"All possible," Zeke assured them. "But I urge you to not just think about grand gestures and dramatic spells. The most valuable applications are often the smallest ones. A baker who can sense heat more precisely. A seamstress whose hands never shake. A builder whose structures never crack. Changes like that, you’ll be able to sense in a matter of weeks."
The applause that followed was spontaneous and thunderous. But Zeke raised his hands for quiet.
"Understanding the theory is only the first step. The real work, the real growth, comes from practice. Proper practice, with proper technique, guided by proper understanding."
"Will you teach us?" The question came from the front row, but dozens of voices echoed the sentiment.
Zeke looked out at the sea of eager faces, at the hope and hunger in their eyes. These were people who had been told their entire lives that greatness was beyond their reach, that magic was reserved for their betters, that they should be content with scraps.
Maximilian would have loved this moment.
"Yes," he said simply. "Every week, same time, same place. We'll start with the basics: how to sense the mana around you, how to draw it in safely, how to begin the first exercises that will strengthen your Core."
The cheering started before he finished speaking. People leaped to their feet, applauding, calling out questions and thanks and promises to return. In the front row, Maya and his parents’ eyes shone with pride, while the twins exchanged one of their meaningful glances.
But it was the faces throughout the crowd that mattered most: the older woman clutching her notebook like a lifeline, the young apprentices whose eyes blazed with newfound possibility, the workers and crafters and small merchants who'd been carrying the weight of deferred dreams for years.
"Until next week," Zeke called over the noise, "remember: I do not ask that you keep this knowledge secret. Instead, share it, and share it freely. I will be grateful for every person that you spread it to."
As the crowd began to disperse, many lingered, clustering in small groups to discuss what they'd heard. Others approached the stage, though the guards' presence kept them at a respectful distance.
Zeke watched them go, satisfaction warming his chest. This was only the beginning, one evening, one crowd, one step toward the future Maximilian had envisioned.
But already he could see the ripples starting to spread. Word would travel through workshops and taverns, through family dinners and chance encounters. The idea that Magic could belong to everyone, that it was a skill to be learned rather than a gift to be hoarded, would take root across the city.
Let Azra weave his lies in gilded halls. Let him spin whatever tales suited his purpose. Here, in the heart of the people, the truth was already taking root. No matter what else they heard about him, these people would always remember a simple truth.
Ezekiel von Hohenheim shared what others had denied them all their lives. There was no narrative powerful enough to deny that simple truth.