In the town square, a crowd gathered around a raised stage. The Sun Scholar chatted idly with some colleagues as he approached the stage. Though the Dealer had never seen the Scholar in person, the Scholar had the round face and fair hair of his wanted posters, and he moved through the crowd with the unmistakable magnetism of a local hero.

The Dealer quickly tied his horse to the entrance post on a nearby shop; he would pay the shopkeeper for use of the post later, but a horse and cart simply would not fit in the crowd. The Dealer then slithered into the crowd, circulating with the natural flow of the crowd until he had a clear view of the stage. The Sun Scholar was halfway up the stairs, ascending with a spring in his step.

The Sun Scholar stepped onto the stage and lifted both arms to the sky. A great light shone forth about him, casting his silhouette in white fire. His head tilted back for a moment, and his face took on an expression of utter serenity.

The crowd gasped in a hundred voices, and all chatter silenced. A halo like the sun, proof that he was more than human; surely this was the Chosen One, a deity who descended to the mortal plane to right injustices against the common folk.

The Sun Scholar turned to the crowd, eyes aglow with the silver light of the moon and stars. That burning gaze held the Dealer’s own for a fleeting instant, and the Dealer shivered at the ancient judgement within. The Sun Scholar began to speak in a voice like the winds before a storm, soft yet inevitable.

“Do you despair in the Empire’s grace, their promises of Bounty and Guild? The bounty is an illusion, and the Guilds are traps. They say you may rise—and if you try, you will rise no higher than your betters. Betters by what scale? Not by merit or willpower, which you have aplenty. No, it is in deception that they excel! They fool their subjects into praising glorious deeds that never happened. Thus, those of high station remain as such, growing in influence even as their principles decline. What is a leader worth if his greatness is just a story meant to placate his followers? What is an Empire that sees its subjects only as a means to enrich its own vaults?”

“Brothers and sisters of Redmarsh, we of the Sun Revolution bring you joyous news. We will build a new nation where the skilled earn reward, while the corrupt pay for their crimes. Join us, and together we shall reclaim the land from those who do not deserve their high palaces. Fight alongside us, and the bounty of the Empire shall become the bounty of the people—our bounty. Become one of us...”

A flash of color caught the Dealer’s eye. To the side of the stage was another man in the travel cloak of a Soldier, though the fabric was dyed a brilliant red instead of the standard beige or grey uniform colors. His cloth-draped arms seemed to be crossed across his body at first glance, but as the Dealer looked more closely, it became clear that the arms were in fact held much further outward than normal. The outer arm was half-extended toward the stage, lifting the expansive folds of his cloak like a tent. From beneath the cloak shone a white light of painful brilliance, plunging into the darkness underneath the stage.

The Dealer was no stranger to the art of forgery, and as any good practitioner of a trade, he recognized a fellow user when he saw one. The Sun Scholar’s halo was not divinity after all, but a clever trick of torchlight and mirrors placed about the stage. From the hunched posture of the red-cloaked Soldier to the side, he held a torch under his tented cloak, providing the light for the Sun Scholar’s trick. It was a wonder that his cloak hadn’t caught on fire yet.

The Dealer glanced around to see if anyone else noticed the Soldier, but the whole crowd seemed enraptured by the Sun Scholar’s words. To the left of the Dealer, two young women with wonderstruck expressions were even mouthing the words of the speech, almost as though they already knew what the Scholar would say. The Dealer nudged the nearer one in the shoulder.

“Pardon me, fair lady, but I’m new to town and you seem to know what’s going on. Who is that rugged fellow in the red cloak?”

“Him? Isn’t it obvious? All the children are singing about it.” The woman glanced at her friend, who also glanced away from the stage for a moment. Both giggled softly, covering their mouths. The woman then leaned close to the Dealer, whispering, “From the West he came, to serve only one, Alchemist of Flame, Herald of the Sun.”

“Alchemist,” the Dealer repeated, brows rising. Pretentious name for a fellow with a torch shoved under his cloak, but who was the Dealer to judge? His antiques were just as legitimate as any supposed alchemy going on here.

The Alchemist’s topknot was reddish in color, a sure sign of northern origins—perhaps even as far north as the fire-mountains bordering the Rainlands. He had an unkempt backwoods look that would never have been tolerated in the rural township militias, much less in the ranks of the Imperial City Guard. Beneath the travel cloak, he wore not the mirror-like polished armor of typical soldiers, but dull metal with a yellow tint. To the Dealer’s eye, the Alchemist did not resemble a craftsman, sorcerer, or any sort of exceptional talent. Rather, he looked like a common laborer playing dress-up as a soldier.

Lost in his musings, the Dealer only distantly registered that the impassioned speech was coming to an end.

“Citizens of Redmarsh and the world, as you consider whether or not to join, remember that the choice is yours. I come to you not as a commander from on high, but a fellow man who can abide by the Empire’s ways no more. I implore you, seize this opportunity to forge a new dawn for all in the Empire.”

The Sun Scholar ended there, and in his pause a hundred breaths were held.

“Thank you, friends one and all,” the Sun Scholar said, sweeping into the humble bow of an inferior to superiors. His artificial halo of light dimmed and faded smoothly. When he stood upright again, he was just a round-faced Scholar with a hopeful smile and a dream in his eyes.

The crowd bellowed its approval from a hundred throats. The Sun Scholar stepped off the stage, and the Alchemist instantly gravitated to his right elbow. Moments later, the audience lunged forward, and the crowd swarmed them both.

At the Dealer’s side, the woman whom he had spoken to earlier wiped a tear from her eyes. “Ahh, that closing line always gets me—seize this opportunity...”

“That I will,” said the Dealer, potential figures and profits already running through his mind. “Another such as this may not arise in a thousand years.”

During the few minutes that it had taken the Dealer to lodge his horse and cart in an actual stable, rather than a streetside post, a large portion of the Sun Scholar’s audience had collectively migrated to the recruitment offices. People flooded the street outside the building, and the Dealer could hear the excited murmur of conversation from two blocks away.

The Dealer joined the crowd, striking up a conversation about nothing in particular. Soon, almost a dozen other prospective recruits joined in to cheerfully share their dreams and ambitions, and the Dealer had gained many new friends as he migrated to the center of the crowd.

Oddly enough, by the time the Dealer reached the sign-up table in front of the recruitment office, the secretary seemed less than charmed to meet him.

“Another merchant?” A pen scratched over the recruit rosters. “The supply department could use you. Three buildings down and to the left.” The secretary glanced up for a moment, staring through the Dealer. “Next in line!”

The Dealer, now a fully fledged Initiate, headed over to the indicated building.

Around twenty new recruits packed the lobby of the supply department office. Among the other recruits, the Initiate recognized a few faces from the marketplace of his most recent city: a glassmaker, a fabric peddler, a shoemaker. Apparently, he was not the only one who had been enticed to join the Sun Revolution by the Redmarsh recruitment flyers.

A door creaked open at the back of the crowd, producing a stout fellow with a rigid posture and a tired voice. When the supplymaster saw the sheer number of recruits interested in joining the department, his flat mouth tilted downward.

“I said three or four, not twenty,” the supplymaster muttered. He cleared his throat for attention. “Everyone, listen up. The Sun Revolution’s glad for your support and all, but there are just too many of you to work here right now. Some of you will have to help out elsewhere.”

The murmuring crowd fell silent at this announcement. Furtive glances flew back and forth between the recruits: who would stay, and who would leave? The Initiate favored his neighbors with a brilliant smile; no use in making enemies when friends could be put to far greater use. The weak-willed would drop of their own accord, leaving only the determined.

The supplymaster spoke again.

“Anyone who passes a simple test can work in Supplies. Everyone else, this isn’t the job for you.” The supplymaster paused, letting suspense build. “Here’s the challenge: find fifty weapons for the Sun Army. Doesn’t have to be as expensive as a sword, but you better not bring back firewood sticks.” The supplymaster scowled at each of the assembled merchant initiates, including one particular Initiate, daring any of them to protest. When none of them did, he clapped his hands. “Right then. You have three days. Time starts at sundown.”