The weeks rolled onwards, coursing through without substantial occurrence. Arlo felt himself gradually become better as they did, his physique layering with a robustness that seemed to burgeon under the cascade of medicinal tonics, nutritive meals, and the regimen of physical exercise thrust upon his shoulders.
His parents and grandmother visited him everyday, sometimes coming with guests, and often bearing gifts like delicacies that tantalized his sweet tooth, books—mostly children ones— and handcrafted toys which, more often than not, found their way into Loretta's eager grasp. His mother had devoted the most time to his side, and she even allowed the moon to witness her vigils by his bedside, ensuring he didn't stay up past his bedtime. Arlo perceived her overwatch as slightly intrusive, but he nonetheless cherished her companionship. Motherly love had the unintended effect of being all too addicting.
A veritable stream of letters and get-well-soon cards also made their way to Arlo, their missives originating from his extended family and the crests of aristocracy alike. The cultural mores of Pruvian society underscored the importance of community and manners, deeming it both courteous and considerate to send well wishes to fellow members of society in times of affliction, such as an ill-fated sickness.
But Arlo had little regard for these supposed 'gestures of goodwill', scarcely lending the letters more than a cursory glance, even if they arrived under the seal of a distant kin. In his eyes they were mere superficial niceties, so reading them was squandering precious time. And that time could be better spent learning more about magic or about the First Domain, both of which, unlike the letters, were crucial assets to the shaping of his future.
His daily routine, for the most part, saw little change from how it was when he first roused from unconsciousness. Resting time—which he often spent engrossed in the books his father had given him—continued to monopolize the majority of his waking hours, with fleeting pockets of activity sprinkled in between. His education still remained on temporary halt, though his father had allowed him to attend social events again.
In the handful of weeks that passed, he'd partaken in several such assemblies, finding them largely unchanged from his recollections —childish and tedious. But, despite this, Arlo understood their necessity. They were the foundational stepping stones in the sculpting of his political career and persona in the not-so-distant future.
Through these gatherings, fledgling social circles and networks took root, poised to provide leverage for social, economic, and political advantages in due course. That was very important, especially when considered in light of his ambition to lay claim to the title of House Aldritch's heir.
As the son of a duke, the pinnacle of non-royal nobility within Pruvian echelons, the social gatherings designed for his attendance included the offspring—all of comparable age to him— of some of the most affluent and powerful families in all of Pruvia, if not the entire First Domain. Practically a fishing ground for powerful, useful future allies if he played his cards right.
Since he began attending them, he'd been meticulous enough to forge a persona of the boy everyone found amicable, ceaselessly engaging in conversation with all and ensuring inclusivity in their frivolities and games. That strategy had secured him an overabundance of more 'friends' than he initially bargained for, all things considered, but they weren't among the ones he'd been silently stalking in his game of social chess.
The most coveted target on that list was also the individual most besieged by attention: the reclusive Prince Tomas Truman, third in line for succession to the throne, and only son of the Empress. The boy was a peculiar youth, always saying little and always watching everyone with a scrutinizing, disinterested gaze— a maturity rarely seen in a child his age.
Arlo had initially regarded the boy as your typical coddled royal— snobbish, pompous and bratty— but the lad had swiftly upturned all his preconceptions, conducting himself in a manner that starkly contrasted his initial expectations. He was well-spoken, calm, and amicable upon personal interaction. Though he was not without the vestiges of his boyhood, occasionally erupting into minor fits of indignation when things didn't sway to his liking.
He noticeably kept his distance from him and the other prospective ducal heirs, all of whom had also graced his list. Arlo reckoned he'd been instructed to adopt such a stance. From his scrutiny of modern Pruvian political theatrics, it was apparent the royal family harbored reservations towards the nobility. Perhaps, Arlo speculated, as a direct consequence of the coup his grandfather masterminded fifteen years prior, or perhaps as a reflection of current Pruvian political dynamics.
The nobility had become too powerful. That plain reality had dawned on Arlo the moment he learned about the coup. Normally such a treasonous act would be the spark for any noble house's eradication, but, for some reason or the other, House Aldritch and some of their alleged co-conspirators had been spared that fate.
And he was convinced that the reason was because of their power. The Pruvian Empire was still an infant nation in the grand historical tableau of the First Domain, but its nobility was age-old, with the major houses having histories stretching as far back as the Elder Ages. Of the current five ducal houses, four could trace their lineage to a Sorcerer King— monarchs who wielded powerful sorcery said to have been divinely bestowed upon them by Solaris himself. The Aldritch themselves were the descendants of Alistair the Great.
Arlo realized that these ducal households had been accumulating power over the centuries, gradually sinking their claws into various spheres of society. They had weathered storm after storm, witnessing the rise and fall of their fortunes, and each time rebuilding from the ruins. The equation turned even more lopsided when their hereditary magics came into play. Powerful magic that could be transferred down generations to ensure their continued dominance.
The royal family, a formidable dynasty in its own right with an ancestry that was certainly even more grand than the major noble houses, used to be able to contain the nobility and check their power. But, as is usually the case with monarchies steeped in centuries of tradition, generations of decadent and incompetent successors had whittled their might to a mere shadow of their illustrious past. Almost to the point where their right to rule was being questioned.
The Mad Emperor, Emperor Tadeas III, arguably sat atop the hierarchy for incompetence. Never in Pruvia's history did a monarch do so much damage to the nation as he did during his three-decade rule. His regime saw the monarchy morph into an increasingly oppressive entity, forcing the nation to comply with its diktats by asserting their royal prerogatives and exploiting legal loopholes to curb the power of Parliament. His policies proved disastrous for the nation, setting it decades behind its competitors economically and technologically, and eventually sparking the Great War that brought the empire to the brink of collapse.
Pruvia had only narrowly dodged that grim fate by a string of tumultuous events, his grandfather being the one to topple the first domino. As the Field Marshal of Pruvia's army at the time, he had spurred the army into an armed insurrection that culminated in a military coup. Their forceful seizure of Luxem, Pruvia's capital city, immersed the city in a whirlpool of bloody anarchy and brought them to the precipice of success. Yet, his untimely end within the halls of the royal palace had halted their march to victory, and the rebellion crumbled without him as its figurehead.
Following this devastating blow to the army's morale, which rendered them incapable of continuing the war, Emperor Tadeas had found himself cornered and signed the nation into complete surrender. He was subsequently forced to abdicate as part of the surrender's conditions, and his sole heir, the then Crown Princess Lorraine, was installed as the new Empress.
Her first act as monarch had been to order his execution, a crystal clear message to Pruvia's citizens and adversaries alike that his era had come to an end. Then, she embarked on a massive, ruthless restructuring effort to revive the nation from its ashes, saving it from total collapse and adding the finishing touches to Pruvia's current political landscape.
Had it not been for the Empress' swift action against the less prominent noble houses that conspired alongside them - leading to their criminalization and execution - Arlo might have assumed that House Aldritch had been granted leniency due to the government's preoccupation with more pressing matters.
But the fact that wasn't the case meant something else was amiss, a reason for the monarchy not to take the perfect opportunity to eliminate their centuries-old rival in one fell swoop in a bid to consolidate their power. There was, in Arlo's mind, only one: they couldn't. An ancient lineage like the Aldritch had claws so deeply entrenched in power that only extreme measures—like complete physical extermination— could oust them from it.
And that was far from an easy task; it was almost impossible. So the Empress wouldn't risk trying when the nation's future was precarious. That was the rational line of action, and from what he'd seen of her, logic was one of her defining principles.
Every action she'd carried out since ascending to the throne, after Arlo had analyzed them, seemed carefully precise and methodically planned, like a well-choreographed dance. There was a purpose hidden behind every one of them, as though they were pieces to some greater puzzle.
Arlo had reasoned that the Aldritch were included in this greater puzzle, but he couldn't deduce how. It was of concern to him since it could affect his family and future. The thought of Lottie, his parents, or granna being hauled before a firing squad made his stomach churn with unease. He could not, would not, let that happen.
It was among one the primary reasons he'd been trying to foster a rapport with Prince Tomas. A friendship with him could shed more light on the innards of the royal family. That way he might come to understand more about the Empress's motives and how the gears within her mind whirred and interlocked.
Yet, even if he was armed with such insights, what could he do? This was no kids game. It was real life—where people could potentially die—and his meager grasp of political and economic intricacies was still rudimentary, hardly sufficient to actually change anything. The little he knew had been acquired through Edward's teachings. In his past life, politics had been the farthest thing from his mind.
He lacked any actual power either, be it physical or supernatural. His lone comfort lay in the presumption that the Empress would likely refrain from acting while the nation was suffocating under the weight of multiple crises. So he didn't have to shoulder these concerns at the moment, and by the time the hour of reckoning arrived, he would possess the power to act.
There was also his father, the Duke of Athanor and retired general of the army. The man was at least a thousand times more seasoned in the art of intrigue than he was, and he actually wielded power, a great deal of power. Added to the fact that he was Head of the House, there was plenty he could do to avert its potential demise. Given his astute mind, he would likely have already deciphered whatever covert agendas the Empress had towards them, and would have initiated steps to prepare, perhaps even to undermine these plans. So maybe he didn't need to do anything at all. Perhaps he needed to lean on his family.
At any rate, he'd already resolved to be on the lookout and keep the matter simmering on the backburner for the time being. It was all he could do, really, given the prince's determination to keep away from him. He'd focus on his magic studies for now; they were undeniably more interesting, anyway.
~. ~.~
The morning sunlight trickled through the ornamented window panes of the dining room and onto Arlo's face. He sat at one end of the dining table, book in one hand, and fork in the other, transferring his breakfast from its plate into the deceptively bottomless pit of his mouth with practiced ease. He hummed a tune as he did, savoring the profusion of tastes that swarmed his tongue.
The meal was a Pruvian classic. His main plate sported a golden brown pancake, crowned with a fresh dollop of cream and a scattering of chives, its crisp edges already nibbled away. Edward had mentioned that the potatoes for the pancakes were sourced from the fertile farmlands of Elyria, a duchy that neighbored Athanor.
Then, to the left of the pancake, three venison sausages flopped over a smaller plate. They were made of finely ground venison and seasoned with herbs that the manor's chefs insisted on keeping a secret, no matter how many times he'd ask. Each sausage had been handcrafted and smoked over aged wood, resulting in a flavor that was rich as much as it was gamey, a taste that served for a lively wake-up call in the morning.
Adding another layer to the gustatory concert, a basket of soft, warm bread rolls sat to the right of the pancakes. Each roll bore a gentle glaze of honey and a sprinkle of crushed almonds, their tantalizing aroma making Arlo's stomach croon in anticipation.
To wash it all down, a porcelain cup sat beside the bread basket, filled with a tea blend said to have been greatly favored by one of Pruvia's most beloved sovereigns— Charlotte the Merciful. It was a delicate commingle of local herbs and tea leaves imported from the southwestern lands of Korran, a nation exoticized by the Tetrad.
Arlo had thought the concoction would be the embodiment of bitterness when he'd laid his eyes upon it for the first time, but its taste had been quite the opposite: pleasantly sweet, fruity even. It made for a refreshing morning beverage. It was no wonder Charlotte the Merciful had fancied it. Were it not for the watchful eyes of his mother, he'd have it every day.
But even the tea had its appeal dwarfed by the book in his hands. [The Whispers of Magic: An introduction to Cantrips], its title said. It was one of the thoroughly intriguing books his father had given him to occupy his freetime with. He'd decided to read this one before [The Enchanted ABCs: Fundamental Cantrips for New Practitioners], the last one he'd yet to read.
The Whispers of Magic expanded on the spellcasting knowledge he'd recently acquired by introducing cantrips, a term he'd vaguely understood to be a general term for low-level spells in fantasy role-playing games in his past life. Apparently they bore a similar connotation in this life, for they referred to low-level spellforms—with predetermined structures and functions— that a practitioner could cast without affinities.
The book explained the bit about affinities that Arlo had found a little confusing. As it turned out, every practitioner was born with a fixed set of affinities—connections to arcane forces— upon their birth. Of these affinities, the one they held the strongest connection to was the one indicated by their Spark, which attunes itself to it; not the others. That was why everyone called it the Spark's attunement. Arlo wondered if there was anything special about it, if there was a reason the Spark was attuned to the strongest affinity. He'd noted the question for future reference.
Since cantrips did not require a practitioner to have a specific affinity, like higher-level spellforms, they were universally accessible, relatively easier to cast, and generally weak. They were aether-intensive too, requiring practitioners to carefully control the direction and amount of one's aether.
Though, weak as they may be, they were not without their advantages. Their beauty lay in their adaptability. The book had stated that, unlike higher-level spellforms, they could be modified easily. A creative practitioner with a keen mind could modify a levitation cantrip to not just levitate items, but turn them invisible too.
Arlo could already think of a multitude of ways to exploit this adaptability and maximize the utility of his cantrips. He reasoned that if he could use cantrips to bridge the gap between low-level affinity-based spellforms, he'd be a step ahead.
What if, for example, he could modify a sound cantrip to mimic a range of sounds, not just the sound it was created to produce? The sounds could be anything: bird songs, the sound of a waterfall, even a musical tune. If he could do that, could modify the cantrips to such a degree for usage, would that not be the same as though he had an affinity for Sound Magic?
A bystander would certainly think so, Arlo reckoned. Because modifying sounds to that extent was something only practitioners with Sound Magic affinities could do. But of course, they'd be able to catch onto him by asking him to cast a higher-level spellform that did require an affinity for Sound Magic. Then, he'd be caught out if he didn't have it.
Arlo expected there to be considerable challenge to executing his line of thought, though. For one, he'd imagined that modifying cantrips to that degree would require a significant enough understanding of spellform structures and a precise enough command of aetheric energy to actually alter it. He supposed he could leverage his white-cored Spark to the end of the latter bit. Per his father's words, it was the best gift a practitioner could ask for, meaning that it heightened their aetheric control skills to a prodigious level.
He'd already made a mental note to try it once his magical education began, which, to his estimates, wasn't that far from now. Five weeks had already flown by. Surely his father would kickstart it any day now. Lest he falls even further behind schedule. He didn't trust Edward to show him any leniency regardless of the number of weeks that had already passed.
The doors on the opposite end of the dining hall suddenly flew open, hoisting his mind out of the book. Arlo looked past its spine to find Edward walking through the doorway, dressed in his regular black suit with a tray in his hand. His sharp blue eyes immediately locked onto The Whispers of Magic, and Arlo hastily closed it, his nerves fraying as every moment passed.
Speak of the devil, he thought, placing the book on his lap and hiding it behind the tablecloth. Edward was as stout as a manners-advocate as his mother, and he considered reading during meal time as unbecoming for the son of a duke, the epitome of nobility and archetype of aristocratic etiquette. The old man had already lectured him about it a handful of times now, but he'd always let it fly out his other ear. He wasn't sure how long his patience would last.
"Good morning, Young Master Arlo." Edward said, putting on a warm smile that pretended as if he hadn't seen anything. "How are you feeling?"
"Good morning Edward," Arlo replied, wiping any crumbs off his lips with a napkin. "I'm doing just fine. Thanks for asking."
"Excellent," said Edward as he strolled down to Arlo's end of the dining hall, his gait ever composed and graceful. He studied Arlo as he did, giving him a deep look that roused the boy's self-consciousness.
Arlo gulped privately, watching him, and thought about his appearance. It was tidy, thankfully. His hair was neatly combed and his trousers and white cotton shirt were clean and pressed. There was nothing lacking about it. That injected some relief into his spine, easing his frayed nerves.
Edward set the tray down beside his meal once he'd reached him and produced a pocket watch from his jacket. Arlo eyeballed its sole occupant: a gaudy looking glass vial with iridescent blue liquid filling it. Arlo recognized what it was not a moment past.
"Half past the eleventh hour," Edward said, stuffing his pocket watch back in his jacket, "It's time for your medicine, Young Master Arlo."
"Right," Arlo mumbled, calmed at the fact Edward had turned a blind eye to his little misdemeanor. "I'll take it now."
He reached for the phial, under Edward's observant gaze, and grabbed it, regarding its content as he freed its cork and guided it to his lips. A fresh, entracing aroma invaded his nostrils the moment he did so. Arlo drew in a breath of it, feeling an oddly comforting sense of peace.
The blue liquid was a potion, a medicinal one called the Elixir of Vitality. To his knowledge, it enhanced the body's vitality and temporarily slowed its metabolic rate, helping the body gain weight quicker. Without consuming it daily Arlo doubted he'd have put on flesh or recovered as quickly as he did.
He downed it brusquely, promptly welcoming the familiar cold, invigorating surge of energy that swept over him, permeating his cells. Arlo sighed as he returned the cork to the now empty vial and placed it back on the tray.
There was still so much he didn't know, so much knowledge he'd yet to discover. Potioneering—the mystical act of making potions— was a form of alchemy in the First Domain. There was an entire field of study dedicated to it, which gave rise to a profitable industry that enticed investors and entrepreneurs alike. It represented a massive stronghold of information he'd yet to tap into.
Edward picked the tray up with a nod of approval. "There's been a change of plans." he said, "Your father instructed me before he left this morning to prepare you for magical training in the afternoon. Once you've finished your meal, get dressed. We set off for Dawnhollow at two in the afternoon."
Arlo's fork froze mid-air, and he blinked repeatedly, shocked at the suddenness of that. "Excuse me," he said, turning to face the butler with a look that asked if he'd heard his words correctly, "I'm to start my formal magic education this afternoon?"
"That is correct, Young Master Arlo."
That was news, big news. He'd had the feeling that his magical education was going to start soon, but not this soon. The unexpected timing of it heightened the thrill setting into his heart.
Though, the part about leaving the manor confused him. Dawnhollow was an Athanorian major city south of Aldenville—where the manor was located. Why were they journeying to such a distant place?
"Why are we going to Dawnhollow?" he asked, puzzled.
"It's because of your great-aunt, Her Ladyship, Thelma Aldritch. " replied Edward, thoughtfully, "She dwells within the city. It's the setting your father decided." he paused, a moment of silence hanging between them, before adding, "And as to why, I'm none the wiser as you."
Arlo's eyebrow arched. Thelma Aldritch was his grandfather's younger sister and the youngest senior council member in the family's history. He'd come across her portrait in the family gallery a few times. Why was he learning magic at her residence?
"Very well." He said, idly poking his pancake. "I'll be ready by one in the afternoon."
"Good." Edward replied as he left the room, leaving Arlo to his thoughts.
It dawned on him that he had not yet laid eyes on his distinguished great-aunt in the flesh. He had heard whispers of her presence during his Ignition Ritual, but the fates had conspired to keep them from a formal meeting. What sort of woman was she? And, more interestingly, what secrets did she hold about his grandfather? Had she been a co-conspirator to his cause?
Such questions, and many others, stirred a tempest in his thoughts, stealing his focus from magic. Eventually, he surrendered to his growing appetite, consuming his meal with unusual speed. Once again, it seemed he was on the cusp of another riveting experience, one where he'd actually be conscious long enough to see it to its end.