Valerius's absence, coupled with Father Alaric's more relaxed (and less discerning) presence, granted Elias an invaluable commodity: time. Not merely for physical training or subtle magical experimentation, but for the grander design that had been simmering in his mind since his rebirth. The memory of the 'Bible' from his past life, fragmented yet powerful, remained remarkably fresh in his four-year-old mind, a sharp counterpoint to the pervasive falsehoods of Montala. This was his window to begin.
His current age was a paradox; a gift of innocence and a prison of physical limitation. He couldn't simply walk into the Duke's main archives and request materials. But weeks of quiet observation had paid off. He recalled a dusty, seldom-visited storage room adjacent to a disused servant's stairwell – a place where broken furniture and forgotten crates were relegated. It had seemed like a dead end during his explorations for strategic information, but now, his mind re-categorized it. Dust and disuse often meant forgotten things.
One quiet afternoon, under the guise of chasing a runaway toy mouse, Elias slipped into the neglected room. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and forgotten things. Behind a stack of rotting crates, almost entirely obscured by cobwebs, he found it: a small, sturdy chest, surprisingly well-sealed. Inside, carefully wrapped in moth-eaten linen, lay a roll of fine, unused parchment. It was of good quality, the kind reserved for official decrees or important chronicles, likely forgotten during some inventory shift. A quill and a small, dried-out inkwell lay beside it – a stroke of immense fortune. The ink was useless, but the quill was perfect.
He meticulously transported small sections of the parchment and the quill back to his room, hidden beneath his tunic. The ink remained the challenge, but Elias, ever resourceful, began to experiment. Crushed berries, soot mixed with water, even carefully diluted blood from a tiny, self-inflicted prick (which quickly healed with his passive aetheric manipulation) – he found, with careful refinement, that a usable, if crude, pigment could be created, one that would dry on the parchment.
Then, the work began. In the deepest privacy of night, or during long, undisturbed stretches when Seraphina was with her tutors and Father Alaric otherwise occupied, Elias began his sacred task. His small hand, guided by an adult mind, painstakingly formed the symbols of his remembered language onto the parchment. It was slow, agonizing work, the sheer physical effort immense for a child. He wasn't writing in the common tongue of this world, but transcribing from memory, word for word, the very essence of his Deistic truth. This was not a forgery; it was a re-creation, a summoning of forgotten truth into a new reality.
He started, as he remembered, with creation. The grand design.
"In the beginning, there was the Prime Mover, the Great Architect of all. From the vast silence, a thought, a design, a perfect intention. And from that intention, the universe unfolded."
He paused, his brow furrowed in concentration, recalling the nuances of cause and effect, the intricate dance of natural law, free from capricious intervention.
"He crafted the stars, not as distant gods, but as furnaces of light, burning according to His immutable laws. He spun the planets in their perfect orbits, each a testament to His divine geometry."
He then moved to the essence of human responsibility, the stark contrast to Montala's demands for subservience.
"The Great Architect desired not blind worship, but understanding. He seeks not ritual sacrifice, but righteous action. For His law is written not on stone tablets, but in the very fabric of existence, in the conscience of every sentient being."
And then, the moral foundation, the core of how humanity should interact, which would directly contradict the current kingdom's corruption:
"Therefore, let your actions be a mirror of the Prime Mover's design. Cultivate justice in your hearts, mercy in your deeds, and humility in your spirit. For truly, to love your neighbor as yourself is to honor the Architect's perfect order."
He worked meticulously, page after page, the rough draft slowly growing. It was a tangible anchor, a direct rebellion against the pervasive lies. Every scratch of the quill, every carefully formed letter, was a silent, defiant roar against the tyranny of Montala. This was more than just a book; it was the foundation of a new world, built on truth, piece by painstaking piece, in the quiet solitude of a four-year-old's room.