"That," Arlo said, one hand rubbing an eye, "was a damn good nap. Afternoon naps really hit different."
He tore off his sheets and walked to the mirror in the corner of his room, running a hand through his hair while inspecting his appearance. Checking himself out was a habit he'd developed since reincarnating. Partly to get used to his new looks, and partly because he couldn't quite believe that he was this...pretty.
His face had practically been sculpted by the First Domain's contemporary beauty standards. Smooth, clear, silk-like skin that caught the light in just the right way, well-proportioned facial features with mirroring halves, large and bright almond-shaped eyes with long lashes, there wasn't a single box on the attractive features list his face didn't check.
The attention it brought him was something his former, slightly-above-average looking self found difficult to become habituated to. It was odd, really, almost overwhelming. Everything seemed to naturally gravitate around him wherever he went. Adults, conversations, children...everything. He was always at the eye of the storm that was attention.
It was all superficial, he admitted to himself, but he didn't mind. It was something he could leverage, after all. People's preconceptions of him would be in his favor, and they'd find it difficult to resist his will. It was a tool for his survival.
And that was all that mattered right now. Surviving. Making the most out of this new life. Drowning himself in the pleasures of wealth and power, doing anything he wanted whenever he wanted. That was the kind of life he would carve out for himself. To hell with everything else.
Sometimes he wondered how he'd been fortunate enough to be presented with a second chance this good. Wealth, looks, a supporting family with an almost impeccable background, he'd practically drawn the best starting hand a player in the game of life could ask for.
Often, he tried to convince himself that he deserved it, that this was always how it was meant to be considering how pitiful his last life was, but a part of him felt that it was...disconcerting, as if it were too good to be true.
Did he really become Lady Luck's darling? Was this really not one big grand illusion some omnipotent being made him see on a whim out of pity?
He didn't know.
He shook his head. He didn't want to know. Whatever it was, it felt real and he liked it. That was enough for him. He just hoped Lady Luck would continue to pamper him as he embarked on the path of an arcane practitioner. Who knew what the next crazy situation that would unfold itself right before his eyes might be.
'Right.' He slapped his cheeks, then glanced over his shoulder to look at the clock. Six o'clock. Right on time to find his father.
He put on some dark brown trousers and a white silk shirt, rolling up its sleeves to meet his elbow, then inspected himself in the mirror again. Neat and comfy, but his thin arms and short stature elicited a frown. He couldn't wait to grow up. Being so small felt weird.
He reckoned he would probably be tall given his parents' heights. His dad hovered around a solid six feet four inches, and his mom around five feet eight. Even by earthian standards they were by no means short. Hopefully, those tall genes had funneled into him.
He enthusiastically bid farewell to his room and made his way to his father's study, strolling two hallways before reaching its ornate, foreboding double doors. He took a deep breath and gently knocked on it, waiting for that familiar voice.
"Who is it?" the voice briskly greeted.
"It's me, father. Arlo."
"Come in."
Arlo turned one of the door's orbs, then pushed it gently and slid between its crack. He clicked the door shut behind him and regarded the study. Its design never ceased to amaze him.
The room was big, much bigger than most of the other rooms in the manor, and the air was heavy with the scent of aged leather and polished wood. The walls were punctuated with windows and lined with dark mahogany bookcases, towering to the ceiling and overflowing with leather-bound tomes of literature, history, and law. Two sword racks flanked the door, and a plush Korrish carpet traced one end of the study to the other.
A fireplace dominated the space between the two ends of the study, with expensive, baroque furniture congregating around it. A large desk stood at the other end of the study, above which a moving oil painting of his grandfather—Albert F. Aldritch—hung.
Arlo shot a glance at his father. The man was sitting behind the desk, surrounded by piles of documents, his right hand moving seamlessly from side to side making scratching noises. He noticed he was still wearing the same clothes from when he visited his bedroom. He'd probably been working since then.
"Rest well?" the man asked as he walked towards one of the chairs facing the desk.
"I did," Arlo smiled, taking a seat. "Probably the best nap I've had in a while."
"That so?" Adgar's lips curled. He dropped his fountain pen, loosened his tie a bit, and looked Arlo in the eye. "That's good. I've temporarily suspended all your schooling, so you'll be having more naps like that until I decide you've fully recovered." he leaned forward, interlocking his fingers and setting his hands on the desk. "Anyways, let's start fulfilling all those promises. Ask your questions away."
Straight to the point. His father was often like that. Arlo took a deep breath and consulted his mental list of questions. It didn't take him long to cross out the first, most pressing one on it. "What does a white core mean?" he asked.
There was a pregnant silence, before Adgar responded by plucking his pen back from the desk, twirling it in his hand, and examining his face. "Do you feel it yet?"
A frown immediately crossed Arlo's face. That was an odd non sequitur. What did that have to do with his question? "I beg your pardon." he said, cocking a brow, "Feel what?"
"Feel it." Adgar said, stressing the 'it'. He flashed a cryptic smile, and Arlo found himself becoming even more muddled.
"It's everywhere," he added, gesturing a hand to their surroundings, "The air, does it feel any different?"
Arlo consciously paid attention to the air. The scent of aged leather and polished wood still lingered. Its temperature was warm too, but Arlo didn't think that was what his father was referring to. Surely not.
He opened his mouth, intending to voice his thoughts, but closed it when he felt it. It was invisible, crawling along his skin like a swarm of ants, and completely enveloped him, encasing him in an unfamiliar warmth. Arlo felt a sudden happiness creeping its way up.
"I think I feel it." he said, eyes widening, hairs slowly standing on end. Was this the aetheric energy his books had mentioned?
"Good." Adgar grinned, observing the boy. He'd felt it indeed. "Now touch it. With your mind."
Adgar's instructions confused Arlo, but he made a mental estimation of its meaning. He pictured himself touching the strange sheet of invisible air covering his skin. The moment he did, the world suddenly became blurred and more vibrant, with pastels of color and light jamming his vision. He was able to make out the glowing, unusually bright figures of the oil painting and his father before he felt a searing sensation behind his eyes.
Arlo grimaced, recoiling in pain and discontinuing his actions. He closed his eyes for a moment, still feeling the burning pain, then opened them at his father's voice.
"What you just did," the man said, "was make use of your mind's eye to access the aether zone: think of it as sort of a mystical realm that enables practitioners to sense all things arcane related. The blurring you saw is due to the presence of aetheric energy around you, and the reason I and your grandfather's oil painting were glowing is because we are connected to the arcane in some way. The painting is an enchanted object—a magical artifact— and I am a practitioner, able to interact with aether and perform magic. Simply put, anything that glows in the aether zone is supernatural."
He paused, letting his words marinate, before adding, "Part of the reason you felt pain and were only able to peer into the aether zone for a short period is because of your white-cored Spark. It grants you an extraordinarily powerful sensitivity to aether and allows you manipulate it with effortless ease. It is the mark of a magical prodigy, the greatest gift a practitioner can be born with."
Arlo blinked repeatedly, chewing the information he'd been fed. Everything was slowly starting to make sense, but he found his father's last few words especially difficult to chew. The best gift a practitioner could be born with? What the blazes was his luck?
Once it had traveled down his throat, his hands practically began to tremble with anticipation. This was beyond his wildest dreams. A white-cored Spark was the epitome of impressive. He didn't know if he was imagining it, but the world suddenly seemed a few shades brighter, as if illuminating the path to his future. Everything he had ever wanted was now within reach, just a few steps away.
"Manifest your Spark." his father's voice tugged him from his reverie. Their eyes met, and Arlo swallowed hard, picturing the golden-orange miniature orb that lay within him.
Adgar didn't seem surprised that he knew how to manifest a Spark already, and it soon appeared between the two of them. Whispers began seeping through Adgar's ears, but a grunt and a hand gesture swiftly dispelled them.
Adgar pointed to the mysterious circle of red runic symbols. "You see this, son?" Arlo nodded.
"For practitioners to advance— become more powerful— they need to activate a series of runic circles that appear on the Spark's surface. This one, the Circle of Dawn, marks the beginning of a practitioner's journey and is activated during the Ignition ritual. Its activation was what granted you full access to the aether zone," He explained,
"There are seven runic circles in total, each capable of enhancing a practitioner's power by several degrees. With every activation, the Spark's core produces more Specks." he pointed to the Specks visible just beneath his Spark's surface. "And white-cored Sparks produce the greatest amount of Specks per activation, making those who wield them the most powerful practitioners of all."
His words kept ringing through Arlo's ears, allowing him to realize the true value of a white core. Truthfully, they seemed like an invaluable asset. Arlo regarded them akin to a compounding interest investment that produced exponential returns on the initial investment.
That fascinating bit about runic circles also answered a few questions. But they raised some too.
"Father, what circle are you on?" His curiosity got the better of him, the words flying out of his mouth faster than he could erect a mental barrier to stop them.
"What circle am I?" Adgar didn't seem to mind. He chuckled, "I'll tell you, but this will be our little secret." He made a shushing motion, "I'm at the very last runic circle: the Circle of Eternity."
Arlo swallowed hard. Seventh runic circle? How powerful was that? And why did it sound like it would grant him Immortality? Did that exist in this universe?
"Does activating it make you immortal?"
Adgar actually seemed amused by his question. He laughed, "Immortality? Such a silly thing only exists in pipe dreams." he gave his pen a twirl, " Do you know what ontological inertia is?"
Arlo's nose wrinkled as he tried to remember where he'd come across that term before. His memory told him that it was from a book—whose title he couldn't recall— that went into great detail on the nitty gritty of some of the most widely accepted arcane theories.
"The ability for magic to last forever, even after the passing of its caster?" he asked with a cocked head.
Adgar gave Arlo a surprised look. "Yes, you're right, but let me explain further" he said, "Think of ontological inertia like a fire that refuses to go out. Just as a fire can continue burning even after the wood that started it has been consumed, a practitioner with ontological inertia can make their magic persist long after they have cast it. However, just like a fire requires fuel to keep burning, the practitioner will need to pay a cost to maintain their magic's persistence."
Arlo hummed. That made sense, though he marveled at how powerful that ability was. Did the Circle of Eternity grant that?
"The Circle of Eternity grants a practitioner ontological inertia." his father answered his unasked question.
"I see," Arlo mumbled, "How are runic circles activated?" It was a question that begged to be asked the moment it bloomed in his mind. His guess was aetheric energy, but that seemed a bit too simple. Perhaps it was something else.
"Each circle is different. Some require additional resources than others, but primarily practitioners use aetheric energy to activate runic circles." Adgar explained, "Though, it is not in the form that exists within the aether zone. It would take lifetimes to advance if one used that."
"What form does this aether exist then?"
"In sand-like particles called aetrum." Adgar said, "I'll show you once your magical education commences."
That sounded interesting. He couldn't wait to see it. He wondered what it was made of. There was probably a book with an answer waiting for him in the main library.
"I see," he said, looking at his Spark manifestation again. It had been suspended throughout their conversation. He realized he'd yet to ask what the golden-orange color meant.
"On the other hand, father," he said, "what is my Spark's attunement? I don't exactly know what the golden-orange color means."
Adgar twirled the fountain pen between his fingers one more time, before throwing it at his son without warning. Arlo's sudden alarm was arrested once he noticed the pen slowing down as it neared his Spark manifestation.
"Time." a whisper escaped his lips.
Bloody hell that sounded powerful.
The duke seemed satisfied by his answer. "Indeed," he leaned back in his chair, " That is your primary affinity, or natural attunement. It's an exceptionally rare one that many consider amongst the most powerful." his tone suddenly turned somewhat sour, "Though Time magic is an abstruse magic form. Not many have dabbled in it because of the rarity of its attunement, and the few that have left next to no records of their works or findings."
Arlo got the impression that it was a bad thing. "Is that bad?"
"What do you think?" Adgar returned the question.
Arlo pursed his lips, brows creased. His father liked doing that. Returning his questions and making him think and cough up an answer for himself. It was annoying sometimes.
He considered his father's words anew. The lack of Time magic practitioners and records would mean the field was a dead one. One in which little was—and could only be— known. It seemed to be arduous too, enough to make him think that a practitioner could spend decades studying it, yet still uncover little.
"From what you've said, I think the practicality of Time magic is very limited." Arlo pressed his index finger to his cheek. "If little is known about it, then little can be learned about it. Everything besides what is known would have to be uncovered through research, and that will take an extended period of time given its difficult nature." his forehead wrinkled, "It almost sounds pointless to try to learn. The costs outweigh the benefits, unless your life's goal is to advance the field."
And that is not mine. Arlo added mentally, following it with an internal groan. Ah its such a shame, really. Thank goodness practitioners are not limited to their natural magics. Would've been stuck in a hard place had that been the case.
Adgar was taken by surprise by how deep his son's ability to think critically was.
His evaluation was spot on, not the least bit inaccurate. He'd expected a cogent response, but not to this extent. Sometimes he wondered if his son really had the mind of a ten year old. He was too damn intelligent, more than he had any right to be at that age.
"Precisely," Adgar smiled, drumming his fingers on the desk, "For that reason, your magical education would be focusing more on the other magic forms you have affinities with."
"Do we know these other affinities?" Arlo said. Inwardly, he hoped Illusion was one of them. Cantrell's words about Spark attunement inheritance resurfaced in his head, reminding him that the probability was probably low. But Cantrell had been referring to natural attunements, not secondary affinities. Did the same apply to the two?
"Not yet." Adgar replied
"How do we find out? Is there some other ritual for it?"
"There isn't one," Adgar stroked his chin, then raised a finger. "We find out through trial and error. Once your magical education commences, we'll see which spellforms you have trouble learning and which you learn easily. That would tell us your other affinities."
'Sort of what I was thinking', Arlo mused, though another question burst forth.
"Spellforms?" he asked. What were those? The word caused him to think they were related to actual spells, the kind he'd read about in fantasy novels back on Earth.
Adgar didn't reply immediately. Instead, he leaned back over the table and slid a stack of four books toward him. Arlo glanced at the top book instinctively, eyes tracing its width for its title.
Spellforms: A Beginners Guide to Spellcasting.
He grabbed it, noting its thick volume, then inspected the title of the next book.
The Enchanted ABCs: Fundamental Cantrips for New Practitioners.
His eyes glistened. These were practical books, books on how to use magic. He'd finally come across them. Did father want him to comb through them to obtain the answer to his question? Or…
"Read the first five chapters of these books as you recover." Adgar spoke up, "Your magical education will start the moment you're back in top shape." he flashed a knowing grin, as if he'd peered into Arlo's thoughts. "They'll also answer your questions about the differences between natural attunements and secondary affinities."
"Right." Arlo stacked the books back together. It seemed he had a lot of reading to do. "I think I have one more question." he asked, chewing the inside of his cheek.
"Ask away."
"Is there a limit to the number of affinities a practitioner can have?"
"Not to my knowledge," Adgar said, "Theoretically a practitioner can have an infinite number of affinities, but that doesn't matter if they can only spend their lives learning a handful."
That seemed to be within reason. He crossed out all the questions his father had already answered from his mental checklist, leaving the rest for the books. He wanted to get started right away. Magic was undeniably a wondrous thing. It hooked him in ways even he found impossible to extricate himself from.