Three years passed like the turning of a precisely calibrated mechanism.
For Riven, each day brought incremental progress, a new word mastered, another muscle group brought under control, fresh data points collected and categorized within his mind's expanding architecture.
Morning light filtered through the tall windows of his chambers, catching dust motes that danced in geometric patterns.
Riven stood perfectly still as a servant adjusted the high collar of his formal attire, dark blue silk embroidered with silver thread that traced the imperial sigil across his chest.
The fabric felt stiff against his skin, deliberately restrictive. Court clothing was designed to limit movement, he'd observed; another subtle method of control.
"There, Your Highness," the servant murmured, stepping back with a bow. "The Empress will be pleased."
Riven said nothing. He had discovered early that servants spoke more freely when met with silence rather than acknowledgment.
The door opened without announcement. Empress Liriane entered, her silver-blonde hair arranged in an elaborate crown of braids that added inches to her already considerable height. She wore the formal court dress, layers of silver silk that caught the light like water, making her seem to flow rather than walk.
"Leave us," she commanded, and the servants vanished with practiced efficiency.
Riven turned to face her, his posture mirroring her perfect stillness. He had studied her movements carefully over the years, noting how she used precise physical control to project authority. Her face revealed nothing as she examined him, green eyes, identical to his own, assessing every detail of his appearance.
"Your first formal tutor arrives today," she said, her voice cool and measured. "Magister Halwen of the Imperial Academy. He will instruct you in language, logic, and the philosophy of Aether."
"Yes, Mother," Riven replied, matching her tone precisely. His vocabulary had expanded rapidly once he'd gained control of his speech, and he now spoke with deliberate clarity that often unsettled the palace staff.
The Empress approached, adjusting a fold in his collar with fingers that remained cool against his skin. "The magister has taught many noble children. He expects a typical three-year-old prince, spoiled, impulsive, and easily distracted."
A faint curve touched her lips, not quite a smile, but the closest approximation she typically displayed. "We shall not correct this assumption."
Riven understood immediately. "Information asymmetry provides strategic advantage."
Something flickered in her eyes, surprise, perhaps, though so briefly controlled that most would have missed it entirely. "Precisely. Remember this, Riven: in the imperial court, silence is often the safest weapon. Reveal your knowledge only when the advantage outweighs the risk."
She studied him for a moment longer, her gaze analytical rather than maternal. "Your brother speaks freely, but he is the heir. You are... something else. Something yet to be defined."
Riven absorbed this assessment, adding it to his growing understanding of his position. Alaric's role was clear and predefined. His own remained ambiguous, a potential liability, but also an opportunity. Undefined variables possessed greater flexibility.
"I understand," he said simply.
"Good." The Empress stepped back, her face returning to its customary impassivity. "The magister will arrive shortly. You may ask questions, but choose them carefully. Curiosity is expected in a child, but too much knowledge raises unwelcome inquiries about its source."
She turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "Your father has asked for reports on your progress. Impress the magister, but do not alarm him."
After she departed, Riven remained motionless, processing this new information. The Emperor rarely acknowledged his existence beyond formal occasions. This request suggested an unexpected variable, potential interest from a quarter he had calculated as largely indifferent.
He moved to the window, looking out over the terraced gardens of the imperial palace. Servants moved like ants along the pathways, maintaining the perfect geometric precision of the hedgerows and flower beds.
In the distance, the city of Caelmare spread outward in seven distinct tiers, each representing one of the imperial virtues. Beyond that, the Mournspire Mountains rose like sentinels against the horizon, their peaks perpetually shrouded in mist.
All of it, the palace, the city, the empire itself, would begin to fracture in less than twenty years if the historical timeline held true.
The first signs would be subtle, trade disruptions along the Silver Reaches, religious dissent in the outer provinces, rumors of Aether deposits running dry in the eastern mines.
His hand pressed against the cool glass. Twenty years to understand this world's systems thoroughly enough to alter their trajectory. Twenty years to prevent collapse.
The soft chime of the entry bell interrupted his calculations.
Magister Halwen was precisely as the historical records had described him, thin as a rail, with a wispy white beard that trembled slightly when he spoke.
His formal robes, the deep blue of the Imperial Academy, hung from his frame like cloth draped over a scarecrow. Deep-set eyes peered from beneath bushy eyebrows, darting nervously around the chamber before settling on Riven.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing with the careful precision of aging joints. "I am honored to serve as your instructor."
Riven observed the slight tremor in the man's hands as he arranged his materials on the study table, nervousness rather than age, he assessed. The magister was uncomfortable in the presence of royalty, despite his prestigious position.
"Please sit, Your Highness," Halwen gestured to the chair opposite his own.
Riven complied, noting how the magister's expression shifted subtly when he approached, the slight widening of the eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening around the mouth.
The man had expected to guide a toddling child to his seat, not watch one walk with controlled precision and sit without assistance.
"We shall begin with the basics of imperial script," Halwen announced, his voice taking on the practiced cadence of a lecturer. He unrolled a scroll of fine parchment covered in elegant calligraphy. "These are the primary forms, the foundation of all written knowledge in the empire."
Riven examined the characters with genuine interest. In his previous life, he had studied fragments of imperial script as archaeological artifacts. Now he was seeing the living language, written by a contemporary hand.
The characters were arranged in precise geometric patterns, each stroke following mathematical principles that created visual harmony.
"This first character represents 'order,'" Halwen explained, pointing to a symbol that resembled an eleven-pointed star enclosed within a perfect circle. "It is the root from which all other concepts grow in our language."
'Fascinating,' Riven thought. 'Language structured around order rather than objects or actions. The cognitive implications are significant.'
Halwen continued, moving through basic characters with the slow, patient pace appropriate for teaching a young child.
Riven maintained an expression of mild interest, careful not to reveal the speed with which he was absorbing and categorizing the information.
After twenty minutes of instruction, the magister paused. "Now, Your Highness, shall we try writing the first character? Children your age typically begin with simple copies, though mastery takes many years."
He offered a stylus and a slate coated with soft wax. Riven accepted them, weighing the writing implement in his hand. His fine motor control had developed significantly over the past year, though he had been careful to conceal the full extent of his progress from his caretakers.
With precise movements, he traced the character for "order" onto the slate. Not with the clumsy approximation expected of a three-year-old, but with the fluid accuracy of someone who understood the mathematical principles underlying the form.
Halwen stared at the completed character, his mouth opening slightly. "That's... remarkable, Your Highness. Perhaps we should try another?"
He indicated the character for "flow," a more complex symbol with interlocking curves that represented the movement of Aether through conduits. Riven reproduced it perfectly, maintaining the proportional relationships between each element.
"I see," Halwen said, his voice faint. "You have... an unusual aptitude, Your Highness."
"The characters follow logical patterns," Riven observed, keeping his tone childlike despite the content. "Each stroke relates to the others through consistent ratios."
The magister's eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "Indeed they do, though few students recognize that until much later in their studies." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should move to something more challenging."
He unrolled a second scroll, this one containing a simple historical text about the founding of the empire. "This describes how the first Emperor Valoria united the eleven kingdoms through the mastery of Aether. Can you read any of these words, Your Highness?"
Riven scanned the text, recognizing most of the characters from his brief introduction. He could have read the entire passage with reasonable accuracy, but the Empress's warning echoed in his mind. Too much knowledge raises unwelcome inquiries about its source.
Instead, he pointed to several basic characters he had just been taught. "Order. Emperor. Kingdom."
Relief visibly washed over Halwen's features. "Excellent, Your Highness! You have a remarkable memory for one so young."