Arlo found himself imprisoned in a world of words made visible by the soft orange glow of the oil lamp at his bedside. His eyes serenaded the widths of the pages of [Spellforms: A Beginners Guide to Spellcasting], and his mind churned with new knowledge that quivered in harmony with his sight.
The amount of time he'd spent imprisoned had long eluded him, but he didn't care. However long it was, it scarcely could hinder his insatiable quest for information. It was just as the age-old maxim said: knowledge was power. And in the pursuit of power, no man with a clear mind and a burning ambition would relent.
Time slithered by, and as the orange glow of the lamplight began to dim, the door suddenly groaned. Arlo, half-alarmed, lifted his eyes to meet the small dark crack in the doorway it produced, narrowing his pupils as he did.
"Who's there?" he said, his tone low and prodding.
His answer was the slow emergence of a silhouetted child-sized figure clothed in white nightwear from the dark, a moderate-sized stuffed bear clasped between her palms. She wore an adorable expression of innocent guilt that tugged at Arlo's kindheartedness. He visibly relaxed realizing who it was.
"Ah, it's just you Lottie," he exhaled, shutting his book and sitting himself up on his bed, "Nearly gave me a fright there. Thought you were father for a second, or even worse," he shivered inwardly, "mother. Anyways," a frown crossed his face, and he momentarily glanced at the clock, noting it was past midnight "what are you doing here? It's way past your bedtime."
He watched her innocent expression morph into something mischievous. "And it's way past your bedtime too. Why aren't you sleeping?" she replied, her voice soft, and girlishly retortive.
Arlo raised a brow, "Cheeky now, aren't we?"
"Yes," she smiled, "Just a small consequence of you forgetting to keep your promise." By the end of her words, her tone had the sour flavor of a wronged kid.
'Yikes' . Arlo's words hung at his throat. He'd completely forgotten about that. His conversation with his father had discarded everything besides magic from his mind. How unfortunate. She had probably been waiting on him.
His eyes focused back on her figure, and he realized that she'd taken the chance his hesitation had provided her to scamper across the room and crawl into his sheets, now laying covered by his side. When their eyes met, she gave him a puppyish expression, and blinked her eyes repeatedly. Arlo could decipher the meaning hidden behind them.
"Fine." he grumbled, sighing, "You can stay and sleep here tonight. That's your compensation for me forgetting. I'm sorry about that, by the way. Got too caught up on magic."
"I know," Loretta said, fixedly eyeing the book on his lap, "Can I read it? I want to see what's so interesting about it."
"No can't do Lottie," Arlo clicked his tongue and shook his index finger in front of her eyes, and Loretta pouted seeing it, "Father's rules. You can read it in two years, when you turn ten and experience your own Ignition ritual. Not anytime before that."
Loretta scowled and folded her arms, pulling the sheets up to her nose, "It's not fair." she groaned under her breath.
"I know." Arlo playfully poked her and smiled, "I found it unpleasant too when I was your age." he still remembered the indignation he felt vividly, "But father has his reasons so you'll just have to wait," he paused, flashing an ominous grin, "Unless, of course, you want to invoke his ire."
Loretta visibly shuddered at his words, vigorously shaking her head. Arlo had expected her reaction. Father could be a bit...scary when he was stern, not as frightening as mother, but still chilling. Getting on his bad side was condemning yourself to hardships, both physically and emotionally.
His favorite punishment tool was confinement; he'd lock you up in a room with the bare essentials and force you to write lines to gain your freedom back. If you got him really mad, the length of that punishment would be doubled, and you'd lose all your privileges for as long as he sees fit, bereft of any toys or books and barred from attending social events among other things.
Arlo was thankful he didn't use corporal punishment, which to his knowledge was widely accepted and commonplace during the Victorian era. He couldn't say the same thing about his mother, though. The woman was Victorianesque in every sense save for her reclusive and unsocial nature with other members of society, be they aristocrats or commoners.
"I won't ask again." Loretta said, and Arlo smiled in reaction. He was about to return to his book, but she stopped him with a gentle pull of his shirt.
Arlo looked back at her, "What?"
"Tell me a bedtime story," She showcased her best puppy-eyes, "Please."
Arlo considered her request for as long as he was able to resist her pleading eyes. Lottie was too damn adorable sometimes. He couldn't bring himself to tell her no. He owed her something anyway. A bedtime story wouldn't hurt.
"Alright," he set his book beside the oil lamp, and turned to face Loretta, laying himself down in a comfortable position. He smiled at her "What story would you like to hear?"
"A hero's tale! Filled with dangers and adventure!" she replied almost immediately, excitement lacing her words.
"Okay…okay." Arlo laughed, "Settle down, Lottie." He consulted his memory bank for the list of heroic stories he'd already told her. There were quite a number, and then he realized that he'd told Loretta a heck of a lot of stories.
He contemplated what new story to tell her. The ones he'd already narrated were a mix of earthian bedtime stories and First Domain folk tales his parents had told him when he was a baby, most of which were Pruvian. But he wanted to tell her something different, something more exciting.
Eventually, he settled on the heroic tale of a First Domain historical figure. Loretta probably hadn't heard it, and he was sure she hadn't read or seen it anywhere since she hardly read any books.
Arlo cleared his throat and put on his best storyteller impersonation, waving his hands dramatically and looking and sounding mysterious, "Once upon a time—a very long time— ago, in the elder days when the mighty Issan Empire still loomed over all, there lived a peculiar youth by the name of Alistair."
He stopped, taking in the interest glistening across Loretta's eyes before continuing.
"Now Alistair was a boy born to privilege and power. As the youngest of six sons, he hailed from a distinguished Issan political lineage tracing their roots back to the fabled Aldavan dynasty of old. His father, a prominent and influential figure in the Issan Senate, commanded respect and admiration everywhere he set foot. Meanwhile, his mother, a skilled magistrate, held the honor of once serving as the empire's esteemed consul, the supreme leader of all Issans. Together, they formed a family that stood at the very pinnacle of society, shaping Alistair's destiny from the very beginning. That way, he found himself sentenced to live the life of an Issan patrician— entangled in intricate webs of political intrigue, burdened by the responsibilities of commerce, and fettered to the holy trinity of classical arts: literature, philosophy, and music."
"Alistair had it all from the start. It doesn't seem like adventure would be of any interest to him." Loretta interrupted with her observation.
"Yes, he in fact did have it all," Arlo said, then decided to answer her by continuing the story, "But Alistair wanted to forge his own path, not live by the word of his parents. He was a spirited youth, often losing himself in fantasies of thrilling adventure, seeking fame, fortune and honor on the battlefield fighting Issa's noble wars. He dreamed of his name echoing across the entire realm, celebrated as a legendary hero. Alistair wanted the life of a chivalrous warrior, one who lived and died valiantly by the sword. So—"
"Ah, so he had the soul of a warrior. He seemed like he barely cared about the things he already had. Maybe he—"
"Lottie," Arlo said abruptly, shooting her observation down with an intent look, "Listen to the story first. Hold your observations and questions till the end. All right?" He gave her a kind smile.
"I'm sorry!" Loretta covered her mouth, realizing what she was subconsciously doing, and nodded.
"Good." Arlo snapped back into character.
"So, at the age of fourteen and much to the horror and consternation of his parents, Alistair seized his destiny and fled home for the untamed wilds to seek adventure, adopting the false name of Alaric Thundersword, tribesman of the Ryne, and keeper of the old Issan faith of the Seven, armed with nothing more than a sword and a knapsack of coin to his name. Alas, unfortunately for Alistair, the cruel touch of reality soon stripped away the vibrant hues of his fantastical dreams, leaving him to face the stark truth of the world.
His tone turned grim, "It happened in the first city he stopped in after leaving Issa's borders. There, under the blade of a vile miscreant he'd chased to dispense divine justice, he lost an arm, his left eye, and ultimately, his cherished freedom. In the aftermath, he was sold into slavery, condemned to labor in the desolate expanses of northern Erdia leagues from the comforts of home under a merciless sun that scorched his skin and charred his spirit. He found himself in the thrall of a formidable Pruvian tribal warband, which, in his eyes, seemed primitive in all respects save for their prowess in the art of war.
"Time tempered Alistair like steel. He endured several seasons of servitude, toiling to learn the warband's way of life, integrating himself, and secretly plotting his escape. Eventually— as fate would have it— during an especially grim season that saw the warband starved for soldiers, he was conscripted as an infantryman and taught the ways of the sword, immersing himself in the crimson tide of his foes' lifeblood.
"In due course, Alistair's prowess outshone even that of the most formidable warband chieftains, propelling him through the ranks with astonishing speed. His skill and bravery earned him the unwavering loyalty and admiration of his fellow warriors. He forged a fearsome reputation and slowly found himself putting off all his escape plans, deciding instead to embrace his new moniker: the One-eyed Bladereaver.
"Soon, everything began to center around him, and by the tender age of twenty Alistair found himself head chieftain of the warband, married to the previous head chief's daughter, together with whom he reveled in a tender, youthful love, brimming with innocence and joy and heartfelt warmth that he forgot he was capable of feeling.
"Gradually, his sense of self underwent a metamorphosis. He no longer perceived himself as Alistair, son of Crassius, patrician of Issa, but as Alaric Thundersword, One-eyed Bladreaver and honored head chieftain of the Ularvi warriors of the northern Pruvian plains. With his bright mind, he guided his people to prosperity, conquering and pillaging vast swaths of the northern Pruvian wildlands, and modernizing all aspects of the warband. Under his astute leadership, the once humble cohort of warriors transformed into a burgeoning kingdom, teeming with trade, cultural vibrancy, and intellectual pursuits.
Arlo paused again for a moment, watching Loretta gape at him with a hint of sleepiness to continue, and darkened his voice, "Then everything changed when the Immolation struck the realm."
"The Immolation was a cataclysm of unseen proportions. Millions were claimed by its wrath, their lives snuffed out by the merciless onslaught of earthquakes, the monstrous wave of tsunamis, the fiery spew of volcanoes, the ruthless grip of famine, and the silent specter of plagues. Chroniclers of the age painted a picture of a realm swallowed by darkness, where the skies were cloaked in the shroud of the abyss and the air weighed as heavy as lead.
"Alistair himself, a king among men, was not spared from its wrath. He carried the pain of losing sons and daughters to the merciless immolation. His kingdom hovered on the precipice of despair, threatening to crumble under the weight of this crisis. It might have weathered the storm, might have risen from the ashes, if not for the insidious advances of the other races that lurked in the realm's shadowy corners. These hidden denizens, once secrets whispered in hushed tones, now emerged from the darkness to stake their claim on the realm's lands.
"They were headed by the Ragnar coalition, a fearsome alliance of dragons, wargs, orcs, centaurs, and merfolk, and ravaged all the four continents for years, uprooting entire civilizations and leaving nothing but death and destruction in their wake. Humanity could do little to resist their overwhelming power. By the time Alistair was about to turn fifty, they'd already taken all of Westven, Frostheim, and Aeclas. Only Erdia had yet to be fully conquered, and the vestiges of human civilization lay behind the walls of Issa, the Eternal City who'd pulled through all the turmoil alone.
"Alistair, full of nostalgia and longing and guilt, found himself back under the warm embrace of his home city to serve in humanity's last stand. In the years that had passed, his parents had long since perished, and all that was left of his family was his third brother, who'd taken up the mantle of Issa's dictator during those turbulent times. For what it was worth, their reunion was a joyful one, full of brotherly love and Issan festivities, but the weight of the guilt Alistair felt sapped all the happiness from it.
"He came to know of all that had transpired after he left, of the desperate search his parents had embarked upon, their fortunes spent in a frantic quest to unearth him from his hidden refuge. He learned of the cloud of despair that had settled over his family, of the melancholic shadow that his absence had cast over his brothers, and of the grief that had claimed his mother's life.
"As he heard it all, a loathing for himself began to stir within. He was consumed by a hatred that was fierce as it was self-directed, fueled by the realization of his own selfishness and thoughtlessness. Not once, since he had ascended to the role of head chieftain, had he spared a thought for his family, for the repercussions of his actions.
"This wave of regret washed over him and left him crippled with remorse. Out of raw emotion and a desire for penance, he exiled himself to the frontlines of the war against the races, where he reckoned with the echoes of his past in solitude, serving humanity and protecting what was left of his parents' legacy.
"The bitter exile lent a strange tranquility to his spirit. Alistair found himself shedding all the bindings of worldly desires and surrendering himself to the raw intensity of his newfound solitude. He engaged in a war with his own flesh, pushing it to the brink with hunger and throwing himself into the thick of battle. In the throes of this mournful self-inflicted purgatory, something mystical happened to Alistair.
"His movements began to pulse with the rhythm of sorcery. Each thrust of his sword rang truer, struck deeper, the strength behind them amplifying with every stroke. And then, as if his indomitable will had kindled the very essence of his spirit, flames sprang forth from his form. Alistair…"
Arlo's words trailed off when he realized Loretta was already sound asleep. He smiled, took her stuffed bear from her hands, and covered her with his sheets properly. It seemed that, yet again, she was unable to last till the end of his story.
He examined her sleeping figure. Time had made it evident that the girl's looks largely favored their mother. She had the olive skin of a Marian, thick chestnut brown curls sprouting from her scalp, and soft facial features, with a constellation of freckles dancing across her cheeks like whispers of stardust.
She was, Arlo admitted to himself, a stark contrast to himself who looked like he had not one drop of Marian blood. He'd largely taken over his father, inheriting the porcelain skin of a Pruvian, free from all what society would consider a blemish save for the solitary mole adorning his collarbone like a secretive signature.
He pushed his thoughts away, made sure Loretta was comfortably nestled, before returning to his book, immersing himself into its contents anew. Spellcasting, to his surprise, was actually a vastly complex discipline, and even after wallowing through roughly a quarter of the book's contents, he still had trouble internalizing the art.
Though, he was able to gather a few things. The term "spell," as it turned out, referred to the bold act of a practitioner manipulating the unseen eddies of the aether zone. They'd channel their own aetheric energy and create a tremor of change within that ethereal realm, effectively casting an echo in the tangible world. This process bore the name of "spellcasting", and it was done in two contrasting manners: through the structured, well-trodden path of "spellforms", or by the unpredictable, wild art of formless casting.
Spellforms were as one would imagine, structured magic chiseled into shape that required little more than a practitioner's will to bring forth. They were envisioned conduits within the aether zone, trodden paths a practitioner could walk with their aether to call forth a desired manifestation.
Arlo realized, after careful consideration, that. without the guiding lantern of spellforms, the craft of spellcasting would turn into a perilous journey, fraught with unseen terrors for practitioners. And this was because ambient aether was a beast of chaos, a river in ceaseless turmoil, its currents ever shifting, its path unknowable.
A practitioner bold enough to grasp this raw aether without caution risked courting disaster. Such a reckless move could provoke an aetheric backlash of devastating proportions, potentially resulting in fatal consequences, or at the very least, a crippling physical impairment that robbed them of their magical abilities.
Spellforms were the map in this tempestuous sea of aetheric chaos. They served as trusted guides, showing where and how to wield one's aether, to tame the ambient aether, and thus safely evoke the desired effect.
Formless casting was the wilder cousin of spellforms, a dance with chaos itself. It called upon special techniques to grasp the feral tempest of ambient aether, using one's personal aether, and bend it to their indomitable will. It made for swifter, perhaps more formidable, spells than those born from spellforms, but was significantly more difficult to perform and incurred a far greater risk—forcefully bending ambient aether to one's will produced powerful aetheric backlashes that could seldom be survived.
Formless casting demanded a high-level of spellcasting mastery, a strong will, and a heart brave enough to embrace the inherent risks. Those who could do it thoughtlessly, those who dared to dance with chaos, to master the unmasterable, were those who truly tested the limits of magic's boundless expanse.
It stood as a measure of a practitioner's mettle, a test of their magical prowess. A yardstick, if you will, that separated the wheat from the chaff, the seasoned spellweavers from the green apprentices. A rite of passage that marked a journey from mere mastery to legendary command, a testament to their inherent talent in the arcane arts. It was the crucible in which the true depth of a practitioner's skill was laid bare, under the watchful gaze of wild aether itself.
The book made mention of some famous practitioners throughout the ages who were noteworthy formless casters, and Arlo was able to recognize a few from his years scouring the library. Though the name that surprised him the most was that of Casimir Cleswelts, a legendary practitioner who'd graced the First Domain with his brilliance not two centuries past.
He was practically the progenitor of modern arcane theory. Without him, the field would be languishing centuries behind, nowhere near the level of complexity it had currently reached. To Arlo, Cleswelts felt like a far more titanic Einstein; he was a revered figure whose influence was so pervasive, his name so oft-repeated, that it teetered on the brink of being wearisome.
Yet, Arlo had to admit, the reverence his name commanded was hard to dispute. Many held him aloft as one of the greatest gifts the First Domain had bestowed upon the world. His name had been etched deep into the annals of arcane history.
What surprised him was that the book noted that he was already a praiseworthy formless caster at the age of ten. Ten! That was his current age. Arlo was tempted to deem it as an exaggeration, but Cleswelts' reputation slapped him hard in the face, giving him a sharp reminder that no man could boast fame as great as his without being extraordinary.
He wondered whether the man possessed a white-cored Spark like himself, and reckoned that chances were that he did. Perhaps that was a reason he was so gifted in the arcane. He'd probably find out once his magical education commenced. If Cleswelts did indeed possess a white-cored Spark, and it had a catalytic effect on his brilliance, then their learning rates should share some similarities.
The thought stirred the boyish excitement that had kept his eyelids wide-open past his bedtime. Learning magic might very well turn out to be the defining moment of both his lives. It seemed the more he pried into it, the more he saw what it had to offer, the more addicted to it he became, almost to the point where dreams of writing his own tale, one dwarfing even that of greats like Cleswelts and Ebonhart, began to stealthily creep into the corners of his mind.
'Let's write my own story, a story that amazes even me. Reckon I've got the cards for a truly grand one.'
And so the once sorrowed young boy continued to read under the dimming lamplight, his head swirling with childish dreams, however foolish or fanciful they might be deemed, of jaw-dropping grandeur and awe.
~.~.~.~.~
World-building notes:
The annals of the First Domain, as chronicled by historians across the ages, are often segmented into multiple distinct epochs, each a testament to the profound evolution of the realm since the cataclysmic event known as The Shardfall. The first of them is:
The Elder Ages (0-306AS): The cradle of recorded history, the Elder Ages bore witness to the first fluttering of human ambition, a time when seeds of civilization began to take root. Great empires emerged, their heartbeats echoing through grand cities sculpted from stone and clay, among which the gleaming towers of Issa and the fortified walls of Slovengaard reigned supreme. Philosophers and poets pondered the nature of existence, sowing the seeds of wisdom that would bloom in the ages to come.
The Immolation descended upon the realm like a storm of destruction, laying waste to the vibrant tapestry of life. Out of this chaos, the First War of the Races erupted, a conflict that would shape the course of history. It was during this tumultuous time that Alistair the Great became the first Sorcerer King to grace the realm. His reign, though glorious, was cut short in a valorous last stand against a sea of foes at the mighty gates of Issa. His fall echoed through the realm, a testament to the impermanence of even the greatest kings.