Even in Veridia, a sprawling network of Aetherium conduits and iron roads, the journey from the Thorne estate’s rugged southwestern reaches to the gleaming western districts of Prosperitas demands endurance. A swift Aether-steed, pushed relentlessly, would still require three to four days of travel. Nights are inevitable, a necessary pause in the grim march forward. Elias extends a gauntleted hand. A faint hum resonates, a whisper of raw Aetherium channeled directly from his core. A burst of unstable heat ignites the tinder, coaxing a hesitant flame into existence among the gathered kindling. Smoke, acrid and biting, stings his nostrils before the flames take hold, casting flickering shadows against the gnarled bark of ancient trees. His temporal echo granted him insights, a tapestry of future tragedies and triumphs, but his manipulation of Aetherium remains singular, focused. He cannot weave complex, elegant spells like the Arcane Sages of old, only channel raw energy, a volatile conduit for its power. This raw, untamed ability, a recent, desperate development, pulses from the Aetherium core he has forged within himself. It is a dangerous wellspring, unpredictable, but essential. The future, a tapestry of regret and failure, has already begun to fray at the edges. He *can* do this. He *must*. The crackle and hiss of the fire become a harsh cadence, a counterpoint to the distant hum of Veridia’s unseen Aetherium network, the lifeblood of the city. The frigid, indifferent gleam of distant Aether-stars pierce the perpetual smog-haze, offering little comfort as Elias arranges a crude bed of collected leaves beneath a gnarled, forgotten tree. The ground is cold, hard beneath him, the scent of damp earth and pine needles sharp in the cool night air. Resting beneath an open sky is a stark novelty in this reborn life, a far cry from the velvet-lined chambers of the Thorne estate. Yet, a ghost of a memory stirs: in another, grimmer future, this desolate existence was routine, a bitter companion. Even this rough encampment, the biting wind whispering through the branches, the lurking shadows, feels a chilling comfort compared to the abyssal conditions of what *was*. Veridia, for all its clashing innovation and desperate societal strata, possesses a fragile, often brutal, order. Beyond its borders, in the rapacious Dominion of Cinder, marauding bands of rogue Aether-channelers or power-hungry industrialists are commonplace, preying on the weak, ransacking caravans. Here, however, such open lawlessness is rare. The omnipresent surveillance of the Aether-Wardens, their crimson-eyed automatons patrolling the major arteries, coupled with the rigid social control exerted by the powerful city-states and their influential guilds, keeps a tight leash on overt chaos. At least, on the surface. Elias, now operating far beyond the meager capabilities of a low-grade Veridian peacekeeper, feels a fleeting sense of security. On the main Aether-roads, the overt threat of common scavengers or desperate cutthroats is negligible. His battered, half-plate armor, despite its wear, still bears the faint, tarnished sigil of Thorne, a lingering deterrent, a memory of authority. But his body finds a temporary reprieve, his mind remains a battlefield, scarred by echoes of regret. No time for nostalgic weakness. Focus. The estate. The Thorne legacy. The guilt of his past failures, a leaden weight in his chest, drives him. His family’s crippling reliance on the Aetherium Consortium, the powerful guild connected to his mother's kin, exceeds seventy percent of their annual intake. Even with the formidable sum – three million Veridian marks – secured from the abrupt dissolution of his engagement, the estate’s operational costs would soon overwhelm them. Without the Consortium’s sustained infusion of capital, the Thorne estate is a ticking clock, a gilded cage waiting to collapse. The core problem, a festering wound within the estate itself, defies easy remedies. Financial autonomy. A fortified presence, capable of defending against the encroaching chaos of the wilds and the avarice of rivals. *Damn it.* The rage, cold and persistent, simmers just beneath his skin, fueled by his memories of what could have been, what *must* be. Two centuries ago, the Thorne clan commanded respect, a noble house of considerable influence. Their writ extended over vast swaths of land: the Chromium Steppes to the east, the Verdant Spires northwest, the Obsidian Bluffs south, and even the untamed expanse of the Whispering Fens. They were the undisputed Archons of Veridia’s southwestern frontier, their name synonymous with authority, power, and stability. But generations of incompetence, beginning with his great-great-grandfather and culminating in his own father, Archon Thorne, have steadily eroded their power. Through mismanagement and shortsighted tyranny, the family’s titles withered, their lands parceled out, their once-loyal vassals rising to eclipse them in wealth and influence. Whispers of title revocation grew loud, threatening to shatter the Thorne lineage entirely. Only Archon Thorne's late-blooming prowess as a formidable Aether-Warden, an unexpected surge of raw power, salvaged their name from utter disgrace. But it was a reprieve, not a cure. A bandage on a gaping, gangrenous wound. The Thorne Expanse, once Veridia’s primary Aether-farm and source of vital resources, now belongs to their most formidable rival. Other strategic holdings have been carved up, leaving the Thornes confined to a desolate, Aetherium-scarred tract near the southern Obsidian Spires. This patch of earth, though their ancestral seat, serves primarily as a bleak outpost against the unpredictable Aether-beasts that descend from the peaks. Without unique Aether-resources or even a common Aether-ore vein, a rarity for any land bordering the Spires, sustaining a standing force against the cyclical Aether-beast incursions is an unsustainable drain. Every defense is a step closer to ruin. The stark reality bites: without the Aetherium Consortium’s continued lifeline, the Thorne estate faces inevitable collapse. ‘Even if we somehow weather this immediate crisis,’ he thinks, the words like ash in his mouth, ‘we’ll still crawl back to the Consortium, begging.’ To shatter this cycle, Elias needs more than money; he needs a fortune, an impossible sum far beyond his current means. Lacking exploitable resources, Elias holds onto a desperate plan: find a visionary, someone whose acumen he remembers from the haunting echoes of the future. A person whose abilities and trustworthiness will reshape fortunes. His journey to Prosperitas, Veridia’s largest trade metropolis, carries two burdens: locate this individual, and initiate a particular, perilous task. The task can wait. Finding the man is paramount. And in this labyrinthine city, the whispers of the future guide him to a specific, unassuming establishment: The Ember & Anvil. He recalls fragments of another time, another world: the formidable Dominion of Cinder, a sprawling, centrally governed meritocracy. Talent, regardless of origin or gender, forged pathways to immense power and wealth. And there, a Veridian exile, Cyrus Vance, once ranked among their top ten merchants, earned the moniker 'The Aetherium Alchemist.' Denounced as a traitor by his own people for his dealings with the Dominion, Vance later wielded his vast influence and wealth to establish the Veridian Enclave, a sanctuary for refugees. He was a paradox. And later, in the unraveling chaos of Veridia’s last stand, he provided clandestine funding for *their* resistance. Elias knows Vance's roots trace back to Prosperitas, and the temporal echo confirms his impeccable, continent-spanning mercantile acumen. The man before him, slumped over a chipped table in the dim, smoky interior of The Ember & Anvil, doesn't quite fit the grand vision. ‘Is this truly him?’ Elias approaches the figure, a flicker of doubt in his grim resolve. “Damn it all… What now…?” Cyrus Vance lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, forcing back the wellspring of despair. Outside, the gaslamps of Prosperitas cast an artificial, unforgiving glow through the grimy window, only deepening his misery. Tales of merchant houses crumbling overnight, swallowed by predatory schemes, are legion in this city of fortunes. He never imagined becoming one of them, the protagonist of his own financial tragedy. The weight of his isolation is crushing, a personal void in a bustling world. *Perhaps death is the only escape…* He scoffs, a bitter, hollow sound, the self-pity an acrid taste on his tongue. He’s pondered that thought for a month, but courage, even for oblivion, eludes him. A coward. He can't even stand, paralyzed by the suffocating grip of his own failure. “Ahem, excuse me.” Elias’s voice, rough from travel and disuse, cuts through the tavern’s low hum, a discordant note in Cyrus’s despair. “Are you Cyrus Vance, by any chance?” Cyrus flinches, looking up. A figure stands before him: a young man, though his eyes hold an ancient weariness, framed by a shock of vibrant, almost violent red hair. His gaze, a desperate intensity burning within those crimson depths, is unforgettable, even through the grime and wear of his half-plate armor and greaves. The air around him seems to shimmer faintly, a barely perceptible distortion. “Yes… that’s me,” Cyrus confirms, his voice a tremor. “But who… are you?” Cyrus nods, and Elias’s crimson gaze intensifies, boring into him, as if searching for something buried deep within. “Ah, yes. The grey eyes. Just as the echoes described.” Elias murmurs, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, thin and bloodless. He steps closer, a predatory grace in his movement, a scent of ozone and metal clinging to his worn clothes. Cyrus recoils, a jolt of instinctual fear. That fierce determination, a ruthless glint in the crimson eyes, is painfully familiar. Cyrus, a merchant by trade, has witnessed it often enough in creditors, in rivals, in those who come to collect. But from a stranger? His mind races, conjuring grim scenarios. His last, meager commercial space, sold. Debts still unpaid. Slavery, the inevitable end. He’d braced for it, but the chilling words of a loan shark echo in his memory: *“Unusual grey eyes, Vance. Might fetch a premium. A good price for a personal servant, perhaps.”* A shudder traces his spine. The man’s tattered, heavy armor, his unkempt appearance—it screams mercenary thug, a debt collector for the lowest rung of the city’s underworld. Cyrus prays, a desperate, silent plea, that it isn’t *that*. The thought of his dignity, already in tatters, being utterly stripped away, is a cold terror. He adjusts his torn jacket, shrinking back as Elias’s intense gaze seems to rake over him, raising goosebumps along his arms. “Wh-what do you want?” Cyrus stammers, his voice barely a whisper. “The repayment isn’t due. Not yet. Come back in three days, when the sale of my shop concludes.” “I am not here for your debts,” Elias replies, his tone flat, unyielding. “I won’t do *that*,” Cyrus interrupts, voice rising, raw panic bleeding through. “Even as a slave. Absolutely not. I am literate. I possess considerable commercial acumen. I can be useful in other ways, *elsewhere*. But I will not submit to *that*.” His voice breaks, betraying the depths of his humiliation and fear. “What in the blazes are you talking about?” Elias's brow furrows, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his grim face, a momentary crack in his hard facade. “Anyway, the proceeds aren’t in yet! Just go!” Cyrus shouts, gesturing wildly, his desperation a tangible thing. Elias offers a wry, almost imperceptible smile, shaking his head slowly, a gesture of weary amusement. The raw Aetherium energy seems to coalesce, momentarily, around the red-haired man, making Cyrus instinctively take another step back. “I’m not here to collect,” Elias states, his voice dropping, each word deliberate, cutting through the tavern’s din. “I’m here to *invest*.” Cyrus’s expression slackens, incomprehension writ large across his face. The noise of the tavern seems to fade, his own frantic thoughts silenced by the impossible declaration. “…Are you… talking to *me*?”

The First Cog