The first rays of morning light painted the study in shades of gold and amber. Despite the long night spent redesigning his entire business model, energy thrummed through Zeke’s veins like quicksilver. Sleep was a distant concern, something for lesser men who hadn't just found the key to their survival.
He stood at the window, watching Tradespire stir to life. Smoke began to curl from chimneys in the lower circles as bakers fired their ovens. Street sweepers emerged with their brooms, clearing away the detritus of another night. The city breathed, exhaled, and began another day of commerce.
His fingers drummed against the windowsill in a steady rhythm. The Gondola problem had a solution, one that would take weeks to implement but would ultimately prove unassailable. Yet that victory alone wouldn’t be enough while other wounds festered.
The scenes from last night came to mind. Konrad's voice, thick with false emotion, painting him as a monster who preyed on children. Azra's smooth insinuations that he had perverted Maximilian's dream for personal gain.
Zeke's hand stilled against the wood.
That last accusation stung because it held a grain of truth, twisted though it was. He had bound the awakened to his service. But not out of greed, out of necessity, out of care. Out of the hard-learned lesson that the world devoured the unprepared.
Still, perception mattered. The damage to his reputation would fester if left untreated, spreading like rot through wood until even truth couldn't cut it away.
The obvious solution would be to launch his own campaign. Host gatherings, court the elite, slowly rebuild trust through careful politics and calculated charm. It was what Azra would expect, what a reasonable person would do.
Zeke's lip curled at the thought. How many hours would that waste? How many evenings would be spent making small talk with people who had already judged him, pretending to care about their petty concerns while real work languished?
No.
They had made their choice, picked their side in this conflict. Why should he waste another moment courting their approval? Why use any words at all?
Zeke had always prided himself on being a man of action. He preferred to let his achievements speak for him. When words came cheap, action was the only currency that truly mattered.
Why should he waste time convincing people he upheld Maximilian’s values when he could simply show them?
His gaze drifted past the gleaming spires of the Second Circle, where the elite made their homes, past the bustling markets of the Third, where his own estate stood. Down to the Fourth Circle, where skilled craftsmen and minor merchants conducted the true business of the city. And beyond that, barely visible through the morning haze, the Fifth Circle sprawled like a living thing until the land met the sea.
That was where Tradespire's heart truly beat. Not in the perfumed salons or marble halls, but in the workshops and taverns, the cramped apartments where families crowded together, the street corners where children played with sticks and imagination.
Maximilian had understood that. His mentor had never bothered courting the approval of nobles and merchant princes. He'd walked among the common folk, eaten at their tables, listened to their struggles. The elite had despised him for it, called him a rabble-rouser and worse.
Yet when he died, it wasn't the wealthy who mourned him most. It was the servants, the craftsmen, the forgotten masses who saw in him a glimpse of a better world.
Zeke's fingers resumed their drumming, but the rhythm had changed. Faster now, excited. An idea was taking shape, nebulous still but full of possibility.
If the elite wanted to believe he hoarded knowledge, that he perverted his mentor's vision... what if he proved them wrong in a way they couldn't ignore? Not through words or parties, but through action so bold it would echo through every circle of the city?
"Tell me," Zeke mused aloud, still staring out at the city, "how many people in Tradespire have magical potential?"
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Numbers materialized in the air beside him, Akasha's projections painting a stark picture.
[Analysis]
Based on statistical models, approximately 5% of the population possesses latent magical ability. Of these, less than 10% receive formal training.
Five percent. One in twenty. In a city of hundreds of thousands, that was a staggering amount of wasted potential. All those minds that could have driven magical innovation, all that talent withering for lack of opportunity.
Most people probably knew at least one person with an affinity too weak to be admitted to any school. Family, friends, acquaintances—they were everywhere, carrying that shard of regret in their hearts for a lifetime. ŕ𝔞ℕօβΕ§
That was it.
That was where he could make the greatest impact.
Zeke pictured himself standing before a crowd of eager faces. Not the jaded elite, but common folk who hungered for knowledge the way starving men hungered for bread. He saw his awakened students, Maya, Lue, and the twins, among them.
He had always loved teaching, touching the minds of others and seeing the joy of self-improvement. Maybe that was the very reason he had been given a Mind affinity in the first place. Not to manipulate, but to educate.
He imagined word spreading through the lower circles like wildfire. The Merchant Lord who shared what others hoarded. The heir to Maximilian, who honored his mentor’s true vision.
And he saw Azra’s carefully spun narrative collapsing like sand.
A smile spread across Zeke's face, sharp as a blade. The spider had woven his web around the elite, thinking to trap him there. But Zeke would simply step outside the web entirely, into territory Azra couldn’t follow.
"Devious," he murmured.
It was elegant in its simplicity. One action that would address three critical problems.
First, it would shatter the narrative of him as a knowledge-hoarding tyrant. How could anyone claim he perverted Maximilian's vision while he stood teaching magic to common folk, exactly as his mentor would have done?
Second, it would provide structured training for his awakened wards. They needed a teacher, needed to understand their abilities in practical, easy-to-understand lessons.
And third... Zeke's smile widened. Third, it would strengthen his house in ways Azra couldn't counter. Every person who learned from him would remember. Every family touched by his instruction would carry gratitude. And among those crowds, there would be diamonds in the rough, talented individuals overlooked by the traditional system, who might prove valuable allies or even recruits.
Three birds, one stone.
"Akasha," he said, his tone edged with resolve, "find a suitable venue. Somewhere in the Fourth Circle: accessible, but spacious. Draft the announcements in simple language, and make it clear this is free and open to all. I don’t care how you do it. Have it shouted from the rooftops if you must, but by day’s end, I want every last person in the city to know."
Already, his mind raced through the logistics. He couldn’t teach every day, but twice a week would be manageable. Basic magical theory, foundational exercises distilled from Maximilian’s and his own work, practical techniques that even those with weaker affinities could benefit from.
The elite would sneer, of course. A Merchant Lord lowering himself to teach commoners personally? How undignified. How inappropriate. How wasteful.
Let them sneer. While they whispered in their salons, he would be building something real. Something that mattered.
Through the window, the morning sun had fully risen, bathing Tradespire in light. The protesters who had plagued his gates for days were nowhere to be seen—whether they had fled in the night or simply hadn't arrived yet, he neither knew nor cared. That particular annoyance had been dealt with.
Now it was time to be constructive rather than destructive.
"The old theater in the Fourth Circle," Akasha suggested, projection showing a building that had seen better days. "Currently unused. The owner has been seeking tenants for months."
Zeke nodded. A theater was perfect—designed for crowds, with good acoustics and sight lines. It even carried a certain poetic justice. Azra performed for the elite in their private salons. He would perform for the people on an actual stage.
"Make the arrangements," he ordered. "First lesson in three days. That gives us time to spread word and prepare."
He turned from the window, exhaustion finally beginning to creep at the edges of his awareness. But it was a good exhaustion, the kind that came from problems solved rather than efforts wasted.
In the corner of his study, the sketches for the new airship design still lay spread across his desk. A business reborn from necessity. And now, a reputation that would be built not through groveling but through giving.
Azra thought he had won by driving him from elite society. Instead, he had only shown Zeke the error of his ways, freeing him to pursue a different path entirely. A path that led not upward to the rarefied heights of the Second Circle, but downward to where real power lay: in the hearts and minds of thousands.
Zeke still felt that withholding the meditation technique had been the right choice. It had spared the common man from the increasingly destructive wars of Mages. But that alone was not enough. Those with the gift of magic should not be forced to let it wither.
This new approach was the best of both worlds: Maximilian’s ideals and his own shrewd pragmatism. Weaponized generosity. Targeted goodwill.
He paused at the doorway, glancing back at the city one last time. “Magic will belong to everyone. Exactly as Maximilian believed.”
The door closed softly behind him, as if sealing his decision. Change was coming to Tradespire, whether the elite approved or not.
And this time, he would be the one writing the narrative.