Avadium Continent
Kingdom of Alvaras
Castle Arcanwyn
The Grand Library
The candle on the desk burned low, its light pooling weakly over a scatter of yellowed pages.
Zarith sat with his head bent toward the book in front of him, long black hair spilling over his shoulders like a shadow that had come loose from his body.
The darkness of it wasn't the black of ink or coal—it was deeper, the kind that swallowed light whole, the same darkness that stared back from his eyes.
His face carried the clean, fine lines of old blood and better breeding. Handsome enough to be noticed, not enough to be remembered for beauty alone.
One month, he thought, eyes moving slowly over the cramped script. It's been one month since I woke up here… in a body that isn't mine.
How did I end up here?
The question had followed him through every waking hour of the past month, always lurking, never answered.
His last moments in the other world came in fragments rather than memories: a sharp, cold pressure in his gut, the blur of streetlights overhead, the wet heat of blood pooling beneath him.
And clearer than anything else, the glint of a butterfly knife, its red accents catching the light as it slid between his ribs.
The hand that held it… nothing more than a shadow. A shape without a face, looming over him for only a heartbeat before everything went black.
He might have lingered on that memory—might have forced himself to chase it down, drag more detail from the haze—
…but a soft, measured knock on the library's heavy wooden door pulled him back.
"Young lord," came a maid's voice, polite but carrying easily through the oak. "Your meal is ready."
"Come in," Zarith said, his voice low but carrying enough weight to make the hinges complain as the door eased open.
She stepped inside and bowed, posture folded into the quiet submission expected of her station.
Average in height, with a face that would be called pretty but not memorable, she wore the plain black-and-white of the castle's service—apron tied neatly at her waist, cap fixed to keep stray hair in check.
In her hands, balanced carefully, was a tray bearing his meal.
Zarith's eyes followed her every step, a steady, unblinking gaze that made her fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the tray.
"On the desk," he said.
She obeyed without question, placing the tray beside the spread of books before retreating a step.
The smell of fresh bread and seared meat rose in the warm air.
A loaf of soft white bread, thick porridge speckled with potatoes and chunks of tender meat, and a cut of steak still faintly steaming.
He had come to understand this was a product of the privilege of birth.
In the alvaras kingdom, food like this was not merely a meal; it was a wall between nobility and the common folk, who would sooner dream of such a plate than taste it.
"You may leave," he added, eyes already drifting back to the candlelit pages.
She bowed once more and slipped away, the heavy door closing on quiet hinges.
He tore off a piece of bread without looking at it, chewing slowly as his eyes skimmed the worn page.
The passage spoke of a man robed in white with blue accents, who arrived by ship once every five years to test children under sixteen for signs of magical potential.
The description was precise—sharp green eyes, hair silver as frost, a voice calm enough to quiet a crowd without force.
Zarith's gaze caught on one detail: for over a century, the text claimed, he had made this journey without fail.
A faint gleam lit his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the same unfocused calm.
"If not for the fact that several books, by different hands and from different years, speak of the exact same man…" he murmured, letting the words slip into the quiet air, "…I'd find it hard to believe a man could live for a hundred years and never change."
He spooned a mouthful of porridge, the steam curling between him and the page, though his mind was no longer on the taste.
He flipped to the back of the tome, where a careful hand had recorded each of the mage's visits in neat columns of years and dates.
The last entry was just shy of five years old.
By that record, the next arrival would fall somewhere within the coming fortnight… perhaps a month at most.
Zarith leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly beneath him.
Fifteen years old—by the standards of this land, he sat squarely within the age window for the test.
His fingers drummed against the table's edge, not out of nervousness, but in measured thought.
If the man and the land beyond the seas truly carried the key to bending the world's magic, then soon… very soon… Zarith would see it with his own eyes.
He rubbed at his eyes, closing the heavy tome with a soft thud.
With the page's words silenced, he turned his attention to the plate before him, eating with the practiced grace expected of a noble.
The bread gave way beneath his knife, the porridge was warm and thick, the steak tender and rich.
Yet none of it fully held his mind.
His thoughts slid back to that first, jarring moment of awakening here—or rather, to what he suspected had truly happened.
He could remember it with unnerving clarity: the way his soul had met the one that belonged to this body… and consumed it.
The image lingered.
The original soul had been a pure, almost translucent white, edged faintly in gold.
His was… a blackened core with red dominating the circumference, as if steeped in something that refused to wash away.
Are all souls different in color? he wondered. Or is mine tainted… twisted by the path it took to get here?
It hadn't been a simple overpowering, like a grown man swatting aside a child.
No, the longer the struggle went on, the more it felt like something else entirely. Not a fight. A feeding.
His soul had burrowed into the other's, drawing from it, hollowing it out until nothing remained.
His brows drew together. That detail unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He wasn't sure if it was his imagination… or if he had carried something far darker into this world than he'd realized.
Shaking away the shadow of unease, Zarith let his mind drift toward the soon-to-come arrival of the mage.
Over the past month, and from the memories absorbed alongside the soul he had devoured, he had pieced together enough of this life to understand his place.
His father, Lord Arcanwyn, master of this castle and the surrounding lands, had made his expectations painfully clear: the only path forward for his second son was through the gates of magic.
That decree had hardened after Zarith's elder brother failed the mage's test years prior.
What had surprised him, though, was the subtle satisfaction his father thought well hidden.
From the way the man's lips almost curled when speaking of the next visit… from the glint in his eyes when reminding Zarith of what was at stake… it was clear.
The heir would inherit the seat and title, but if the second son—ordinarily destined for nothing more than a knighthood and a politically convenient marriage to some unremarkable noblewoman—could claim the mantle of mage, the family's influence would only grow.
The thought of his father's ambitions didn't unsettle Zarith—in fact, it pleased him.
Ever since his elder brother had failed the mage's test, his father had spared no effort to ensure Zarith would be ready when the time came.
Access to rare, carefully guarded tomes had become part of his daily life.
Books filled with fragmented knowledge, pieced together from whispered reports and passing words about the mage who arrived every five years.
Despite the mage's century-long presence on the continent, these books offered little clarity about magic itself, no deep explanations of how it worked, or why no official mages called this land home.
What they did describe was the path that awaited those who passed the test: a journey aboard a magical ship unlike any vessel known to the kingdom, one without sails, yet faster than any ship of wood and wind.
Zarith's mind recognized immediately what the books couldn't say outright—the ship was propelled by magic, though the how remained a mystery.
The scattered accounts of magical institutions across the sea showed a continent divided not by kingdoms, but by power: rival academies, towers, and associations all vying for influence, none holding absolute dominance.
Much like the fractured political landscape here, but woven from threads of arcane strength instead of swords and shields.
Standing from his chair after long hours of reading, Zarith left the library and headed to his room for some rest.
Sleep did not come easily, with a storm of thoughts running through his mind.
The most persistent of all was the undeniable truth that he now lived in a magical world.
After all, going from an age of technology to a medieval society ruled by kings—and whispers of real magic, with an actual chance to become one himself—was a jarring thought.
As he passed through the castle halls, any servant would stop and offer a respectful bow.
On this continent, noble blood was the defining factor of one's station in life.
Even the guards securing entrances and gates bowed, though theirs was a shallower gesture—a sign of respect, but not subservience, since guards and knights stood above servants but below nobles.
As he rounded the final corner before his bedchambers, Zarith spotted an unexpected figure—his elder brother, Zain, leaning casually against a pillar.
"Little brother, fancy seeing you here," Zain began, standing upright and spreading his arms in a mock welcoming gesture.
Zarith returned the greeting with a nod, and with far less enthusiasm; it was clear their meeting was deliberate, not chance.
'How Zain had learned of his whereabouts was no mystery—likely through a servant loyal to him.'
"What can I do for you?" Zarith asked.
With a tone both joyful and sarcastic, Zain replied,"You've been holed up in that library so long, I missed you, brother. You should know—no matter how much you study those dusty books; they won't raise your chances of becoming a mage. You either have it, or you don't."
"Then you'd know all about it, wouldn't you, elder brother?" Zarith shot back.
The words hit Zain visibly, though he quickly masked it. His smirk shrank just a bit.
"Yes, little brother, I know quite a bit about it. The most painful but memorable was my father's disappointed looks; he kept sending me for weeks straight… Let's hope you don't give him the same disappointment. And I want you to know that you will always have a place by my side."
With that, he said goodnight and disappeared back the way he came.
Zarith watched his elder brother's retreating figure until the shadows swallowed him.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips.
I can't even blame him, he thought.
As the firstborn and heir to a noble house, Zain had been cradled in privilege since birth—silver platters, silken sheets, and a life where desire and possession had always been one and the same.
To suddenly have something placed beyond reach, with neither his own will nor their father's influence able to change it… yes, that would gnaw at any man's pride.
Pushing aside the encounter, Zarith stepped into his chambers.
The room, spacious and well-furnished, bore all the hallmarks of noble living.
Two adjoining doors led to a wardrobe and a private toilet, while the queen-sized bed sat like a throne in the center of the space.
With practiced ease, he undressed, revealing a body shaped by years of knightly training since the age of seven—lean muscle forged more from discipline than vanity.
Pulling on comfortable sleeping clothes, he let himself sink into the bed, the softness embracing him.
His thoughts drifted once more toward the mage's impending arrival.
Soon… very soon, he reminded himself.
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