The Grand Library of the Royal Academy of Arcane Arts hummed with the whispered secrets of a thousand years. Rays of fading sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows depicting the eight noble houses of Eldoria, scattering prisms of color across weathered marble floors worn smooth by generations of scholars. The towering shelves, crafted from ancient silverwood harvested from the Evernight Forest, rose like monoliths toward the vaulted ceiling where copper and crystal mana lamps hung suspended by invisible force. Their soft blue glow pulsed in gentle rhythm—like the heartbeat of the building itself; illuminating rows of knowledge bound in leather, sealed in scrolls, and etched onto plates of enchanted metal.
Aaron Valeria hunched over a table of polished heartwood, its surface marred with the scratches and stains of countless academic battles. The heavy tome before him, Principles of Advanced Mana Manipulation, lay splayed open to a chapter on crystalline matrices, its yellowed pages emanating the distinct aroma of preservation spells and aged parchment. A delicate crease formed between his brows as his quill scratched across his own notes, the faint sound swallowed by the library's hushed vastness.
The sharp angles of Aaron's face caught the mana-light as he worked, casting half his features in shadow—high cheekbones that marked him as Valerian nobility, a jaw that tensed with concentration, and storm-gray eyes that seemed to pierce through the diagrams before him. His dark hair, swept back from his forehead and secured with a simple silver clasp bearing his house's golden stag, revealed a face too intense for his nineteen years. His fingers, stained with ink but uncallused like a true nobleman's, traced over the illustration of mana flow through a crystalline matrix.
The inked lines of the diagram twisted in elegant spirals, depicting energy, illustrated as golden threads weaving through a lattice of quartz crystals. Notes in the margins, written in the spidery hand of some long-dead archmagus, praised the divine symmetry of the design. Aaron's lips curled in a barely perceptible scoff.
Just a circuit. A crude one, at that.
He set down his quill and leaned back, the chair creaking beneath his weight. His fingers drummed against the table's edge, a restless pattern that matched the rhythm of his thoughts. The dark blue uniform of the academy; tailored perfectly to his lean frame and emblazoned with both the institution's silver wand and star insignia alongside House Valeria's golden stag—seemed to constrain him, as if his body contained more energy than the formal garment could properly hold.
Memories flashed behind his eyes—not of childhood in his family's provincial estate with its sprawling wheat fields and modest castle, but of another life entirely. A life where he'd stood before holographic displays that controlled the power output of fusion reactors. Where his hands had manipulated quantum equations that guided starships through the void. Where he'd been murdered for knowing too much.
The mana diagram mocked him with its inefficiency. If he could just modify the flow pattern, introduce parallel processing like in a quantum circuit, he could increase the output tenfold. These mages and their divine reverence for tradition were wasting potential, accepting limitations as cosmic law when they were merely... technical hurdles.
"Still scribbling like a monk with a divine vision?"
The voice, bright and tinged with friendly mockery, sliced through Aaron's concentration. He blinked, the phantom memories of Earth technology receding as he looked up to find Elias Vorne leaning against a nearby bookshelf.
Elias looked as though he hadn't slept in days. His sandy hair stuck out at odd angles where he'd obviously run his hands through it repeatedly, and dark circles shadowed his intelligent hazel eyes. His academy uniform hung slightly loose on his lanky frame, the collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows. A stack of papers teetered precariously in his arms, corners dog-eared and covered in scribbled notes and half-drawn diagrams.
"Some of us work for our grades," Aaron replied, his voice low but carrying a faint undercurrent of amusement. He closed the tome with a soft thud that sent dust motes swirling through the blue mana light. "What's your excuse for haunting the library at this hour? Shouldn't you be at your father's estate preparing for the spring hunt?"
Elias rolled his eyes and dropped his papers onto the table with a careless flop. A few sheets slid across the polished surface, revealing diagrams far more complex than what the professors had assigned.
"Our project, obviously." He pulled out a chair across from Aaron, its legs scraping against the marble floor loudly enough to earn a pointed glare from an elderly scholar three tables away. Elias winced apologetically before leaning forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mana crystals don't optimize themselves, and Father's hunts are for those who can't think beyond which end of a spear to hold."
His eyes lit up with an intensity that matched Aaron's own, though born from this world's rules rather than knowledge carried from beyond. "I was up all night running calculations. If we adjust the lattice alignment—here, look—" He shoved a sheet toward Aaron, covered in equations and sketches of jagged crystals, his finger tapping an intricate pattern of lines. "We could double the energy retention. Maybe triple."
Aaron studied the page, his eyes scanning Elias's neat script and precise diagrams. The work was meticulous, a testament to natural brilliance honed by years of study. But it lacked the fundamental leap that Aaron's Earth-born mind could make. Elias was trying to stabilize mana with geometric precision, aligning crystal facets into complex shapes, unaware that the solution wasn't geometry but electrical engineering principles—the layered structure of a capacitor.
"You haven't slept, have you?" Aaron said, noting the slight tremor in Elias's ink-stained fingers.
Elias waved dismissively. "Sleep is for the unambitious. Besides, your father visits tomorrow, doesn't he? I need to make sure our project impresses him enough to justify your continued association with a minor baron's son."
Aaron's expression didn't change, but something hardened in his eyes. Elias's casual mention of social hierarchy—however self-deprecating—hit a nerve. Aaron traced a finger over the sketch, imagining parallel plates, dielectric layers, the principles of energy storage that his previous world had mastered centuries ago.
"My father cares more about martial prowess than magical theory," Aaron said, his tone deliberately light. "But your work is... interesting." He tapped a section of Elias's sketch. "Try flattening the lattice here, like a grid. It might stabilize the flow—think of water channeled through straight aqueducts rather than winding rivers."
Elias's eyes widened, and he snatched the paper back, scribbling furiously with a pencil pulled from behind his ear. "A grid? That's... huh." He muttered to himself, lost in thought. "Why didn't I think of that? It breaks conventional theory about crystal harmonics, but if the alignment vectors compensate for the disruption..." He began sketching rapidly, his quill nearly tearing the parchment in his excitement.
Aaron suppressed a smile, watching Elias run with the idea, completely unaware of its origins. This was how it always worked, nudging gently, planting seeds, letting others believe the insights were their own. In his past life, he'd followed rules, reported through proper channels, trusted the system. And for what? A needle in his neck, darkness, then awakening in the body of a nobleman's second son in a world of magic and medieval politics.
Never again. This time, he would be careful about who knew what he was capable of.
A heavy thud echoed from the library's entrance, breaking the scholarly quiet. Aaron's hand instinctively moved to his side where a sword would hang if they weren't in the library. A childhood trained in both swordplay and court politics had left him with reflexes that his Earth memories couldn't override.
Gareth Ryde strode toward them between the towering shelves, his presence immediately filling the space around him. His broad shoulders strained against his academy uniform, the fabric stretching across a chest and arms built from endless hours at the practice yard. Unlike many nobles who wore their swords as decorative symbols of status, Gareth's blade—hanging at his hip despite library regulations—showed signs of regular use: the leather grip was worn smooth, the pommel slightly scratched, the scabbard marked with the scuffs of countless draw drills.
"You two still buried in books?" Gareth called, his voice carrying despite his attempt at a whisper. A nearby scholar—a wizened old woman whose white hair was bound in elaborate braids marked with runes of memory enhancement—glared over half-moon spectacles. Gareth offered her a sheepish grin, the expression transforming his stern features into something boyish and charming, before lowering his tone. "The dueling grounds are open, and the tournament's in a week. Come on, Aaron, show us what that fancy footwork of yours can do."
Aaron raised an eyebrow, recognizing the restless energy in his friend's stance. Gareth was shifting his weight from foot to foot, fingers unconsciously tapping the hilt of his sword—telltale signs of a warrior too long confined indoors.
"Tournament prep?" Aaron asked. "Or are you just itching to lose again?"
The teasing sparked something in Gareth's dark eyes—not anger, but that peculiar mix of competitive fire and genuine affection that defined their relationship. He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that cut through the library's stuffiness, earning another glare from the elderly scholar.
"Keep talking, Valeria," Gareth said, dropping into a vacant chair that seemed too delicate for his frame. "I'll have you eating dust before the week's out. That move you pulled last time was pure luck."
"It wasn't luck," Aaron replied mildly, remembering how he'd calculated the precise angle of deflection, using Gareth's own momentum against him; a simple application of physics in a world that hadn't yet formalized such laws. "It was geometry."
Elias looked up from his frantic scribbling, frowning. "Tournament's a waste of time. All flash, no substance. We've got real work to do." He gestured at the scattered papers. "This project could revolutionize mana storage. Do you have any idea what that means for practical applications? Sustainable lighting in commoner districts, improved preservation spells, enhanced—"
"Says the guy who'd trip over his own robes in a fight," Gareth cut in, leaning his elbows on the table. A grin split his face, revealing a slightly crooked incisor from a training accident years before. "Come on, Elias. Live a little. The sun's still up, the air's crisp, and the third years are taking bets on who'll make semifinals." He turned to Aaron, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Aaron, back me up. You know tournament placement matters for more than just glory."
Aaron pushed his chair back, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension of hours bent over books. The statement went beyond Gareth's words—tournament standings affected house prestige, which affected trade negotiations, which affected provincial politics. Everything in this world was interconnected in ways that reminded Aaron of corporate power structures from his past life.
"He's got a point, Elias," Aaron said, gathering his notes. "A break might clear your head. Besides," he added, glancing at the now-disorganized stack of papers, "you need to rewrite half those equations after the modification I suggested."
Truthfully, Aaron relished the chance to test himself. Swordplay in this world was raw, unrefined, but he could apply physics—leverage, momentum, angles—to outmaneuver opponents. Like his magical research, it was another edge, one he'd honed in secret late-night training sessions when the practice yards were empty.
Elias sighed, the sound of a man recognizing defeat. He gathered his papers into a semblance of order, tapping the edges against the table to align them. "Fine, but only because I need to stretch my legs. You owe me, Aaron. When your father asks why our project isn't complete, I'm blaming your obsession with swinging pointy metal sticks."
As they packed up, the mana lamps overhead flickered momentarily—not a mechanical failure, but a reaction to a surge of power nearby. Aaron's senses, attuned to magical fluctuations after years of study, prickled with warning seconds before a new voice slithered into their conversation, smooth and edged with barely concealed disdain.
"Well, well. The provincial prodigy and his band of misfits. How... quaint."
The speaker's shadow fell across their table, cast long by the mana lamps. Lord Darius Shadowmere stood a few paces away, his posture radiating the particular brand of arrogance that came from seventeen generations of noble breeding. His pale blonde hair almost silver in the blue light—was styled in the latest capital fashion, swept to one side and held in place with obsidian pins tipped with tiny shadowstone gems that absorbed light rather than reflected it. His academy uniform had been customized with subtle embellishments: silver thread along the cuffs, buttons made of polished black stone, and most notably, the Shadowmere crest; a raven clutching a crescent moon, embroidered in silver and black where most students simply wore a pin.
Flanking him were two students wearing the black-and-silver crests of his house—distant cousins, judging by their similar features, but lacking the pure-blooded refinement of the Shadowmere heir. They stood slightly behind Darius, hands clasped behind their backs, expressions carefully neutral yet watchful.
Aaron's jaw tightened imperceptibly. He rose to his feet, meeting Darius's gaze directly; a deliberate breach of the subtle etiquette that dictated lower houses should show deference to higher ones. House Shadowmere ranked third among the eight great noble houses, its influence rooted in espionage and secrets, while House Valeria, despite its vast agricultural holdings, stood sixth in the imperial hierarchy.
"Provincial?" Aaron said, his voice calm but laced with steel. His fingers rested lightly on the table, betraying no tension despite the sudden alertness in his posture. "Last I checked, House Valeria's lands feed half the capital. What does Shadowmere contribute? Whispers and shadows?"
The barb struck precisely where intended. A flash of genuine anger disrupted Darius's practiced smirk, his pale blue eyes—so light they appeared almost colorless in certain light—narrowing dangerously. The two cousins behind him stiffened, one reaching subtly toward a concealed pocket where, Aaron suspected, a focus stone or small weapon might be hidden.
Darius recovered quickly, stepping closer until barely an arm's length separated them. The scent of expensive cologne—something exotic from the Eastern Isles, infused with actual shadow essence by the smell of it—wafted between them, deliberately overpowering.
"Bold words for a second son," Darius said, each syllable clipped and precise. He glanced pointedly at Aaron's breast pocket, where a silver pin bearing the royal crest alongside House Valeria's stag marked his official engagement. "Tell me, Valeria, do you think your father's title will shield you forever? Or are you banking on that arrangement with the princess to climb the ladder?"
The mention of Princess Riona landed like a calculated blow. The engagement was a political tie between House Valeria and the imperial family designed to secure grain supplies for the capital and elevate Valerian status—but Darius's tone suggested knowledge beyond public announcement, something more intimate or damaging.
Aaron maintained his neutral expression, a skill honed from years of navigating corporate boardrooms in his past life and refined in the treacherous courts of Eldoria. His heart rate hadn't changed, his breathing remained steady, but his mind raced through implications and possible responses like a master chess player evaluating potential moves.
"I don't need shields, Darius," he replied, voice cool and measured. "Or ladders. I make my own way." The simplicity of the response carried more weight than elaborate deflection reminder that House Valeria's agricultural might was a power base independent of imperial favor.
Gareth pushed back his chair and rose to his full height—a good two inches taller than Darius—and stepped forward, his hand resting on his sword hilt. The movement wasn't threatening enough to justify complaint, but the implication was clear.
"Care to test that, Shadowmere?" Gareth asked, his peasant accent—normally carefully suppressed in academic settings—slipping through with his rising emotion. "I've got time for a spar."
Darius's gaze flicked to Gareth, dismissive in a way that only generations of noble breeding could achieve. "A lesser noble with dreams of knighthood? Charming." His smile turned cold, revealing teeth too perfect to be natural—likely enhanced through expensive cosmetic magic. "Save your energy for the tournament, Ryde. You'll need it when you face real opponents."
He turned back to Aaron, the light catching the House Shadowmere ring on his finger—a band of black metal set with a gem that seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it. "Watch yourself, Valeria. The capital's no place for... rustics."
The final word carried layers of insult: provincial, unsophisticated, ignorant of true power's workings. With a final appraising glance that lingered too long on Aaron's royal engagement pin, Darius swept away, his lackeys trailing behind like extensions of his shadow.
"Arrogant bastard," Elias muttered once they were out of earshot, shoving his papers into a leather satchel with more force than necessary. "His family's been losing influence since the Border Wars, but he struts around like he's heir to the throne itself."
"He's not wrong about the tournament," Gareth said, unclenching his fist from his sword hilt, the white knuckles slowly regaining color. "We need to be ready. Darius'll have tricks up his sleeve—those Shadowmere cousins are competing too, and they won't fight clean."
Aaron nodded, his mind already turning over implications. Darius's taunts were more than personal attacks—they were probes, testing Aaron's resolve and position. House Shadowmere's support for the second prince, Thorne, was no secret, while House Valeria had thus far maintained careful neutrality in the imperial succession crisis. Aaron's engagement to Princess Riona, sister to both Prince Thorne and the first prince, Alric made him a potential swing vote in court politics, a position as dangerous as it was valuable.
"Let's go," Aaron said simply, picking up his own satchel of books. "The library suddenly feels... confining."
As they left the library, passing beneath the massive archway where the academy's motto—Knowledge Illuminates Power—was carved in ancient Eldorian script, the marble halls stretched before them like the bones of some massive beast. The corridors were wide enough for six men to walk abreast, their walls adorned with tapestries depicting famous battles, discoveries, and miracles attributed to the Sky God pantheon that most Eldorians worshipped.
Students milled about between classes, their cloaks and uniforms bearing the crests of various noble houses. Aaron's practiced eye catalogued them automatically—Valeria's golden stag, Aurelius's iron hawk, Silverleaf's emerald tree, Valtor's blue wave, Eldran's silver mountain. Each crest represented alliances, enmities, resources, and vulnerabilities in the great game of imperial politics.
He noticed the subtle groupings as they walked—students from House Valtor whispering in a corner, their blue wave insignias catching the light; a pair from House Eldran casting wary glances at a Shadowmere trio; a girl with House Aurelius's hawk pin deliberately turning her back on a boy wearing Silverleaf green. The academy was a microcosm of the empire, its factions mirroring the princes' rivalry for the throne.
"Looks like a council meeting instead of a school," a cheerful voice broke in from their left. "All these serious faces and secret glances. You'd think they were deciding the fate of the empire instead of planning weekend feasts."
Cedric Tarly, third son of Viscount Tarly of the Western Marches, sauntered toward them from a side corridor, his green cloak swinging jauntily with each step. His auburn hair caught the sunlight streaming through high windows, the auburn strands appearing almost copper where they curled over his forehead. Unlike most students who wore their house crests prominently, Cedric's—a brown bear on a field of green—was almost hidden beneath the deliberately casual drape of his cloak.
Behind him trailed a small group of first-year girls, their expressions ranging from adoring to calculatingly interested, giggling and whispering among themselves until Cedric turned and offered them a wink and a small bow. "Ladies, duty calls. We shall continue our discussion of Eastern poetry another time."
They scattered like startled birds, still giggling, as Cedric joined Aaron's group with a satisfied grin.
"Cedric," Aaron greeted him, his tone wry. "Done wooing the entire first-year class already? Term only started three weeks ago."
"Not yet," Cedric replied, falling into step beside them and straightening his uniform with practiced nonchalance. "But I'm making admirable progress. Did you hear the news? The third prince is attending the tournament." His voice dropped lower, though his expression remained cheerful. "Big chance to impress—or to make a statement about where certain houses stand in the succession debate."
"Or make enemies we can't afford," Elias muttered, clutching his satchel tighter as they navigated the crowded corridor. "This isn't just about tournament rankings anymore."
Cedric clapped Elias on the shoulder with easy familiarity. "Lighten up, Vorne. With Aaron leading us, we'll steal the show." He glanced at Aaron, his grin softening into something more genuine than the calculated charm he showed the world. "Right?"
Aaron didn't answer immediately. The hallway opened into a vast courtyard where students practiced basic cantrips under a professor's watchful eye, small mage-lights and minor elemental manipulations creating a kaleidoscope of magical energy against the backdrop of the academy's eastern tower.
His friends—Elias with his relentless curiosity, Gareth with his unyielding drive, Cedric with his effortless charisma—were assets in the game he found himself playing, but also potential liabilities. Trust was a luxury he'd learned to ration after his previous life ended in betrayal. Yet their loyalty, however untested, felt genuine. For now, he'd let them close, but he'd watch, always watch.
"Lead?" Aaron finally said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm just here to keep you all out of trouble."
Gareth snorted, the sound conveying volumes of friendly disbelief. "Good luck with that. Cedric here has three dueling challenges pending from jealous suitors, Elias nearly blew up the east workshop last week with that experimental focus crystal, and I..." He paused, considering. "Actually, I'm the responsible one."
"You broke Senior Instructor Veridian's enchanted practice dummy," Elias pointed out, "with a technique he specifically told you was too dangerous for training."
"It was old," Gareth protested. "Practically falling apart already."
"It was three hundred years old and enchanted by Archmage Lysander himself," Cedric added helpfully.
Their banter continued as they crossed the courtyard and passed through an arched gateway leading to the academy's eastern grounds. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the landscape, turning the white stone buildings golden and illuminating the distant dueling grounds where several pairs of students were already practicing.
Aaron fell slightly behind his friends, watching them with a mixture of genuine affection and calculated assessment. This world of magic and medieval politics was his now, for better or worse. In his past life, he'd built systems to power cities, designed engines that could reach for the stars. Here, he'd start smaller—crystals, swords, alliances—but he'd build something greater. An empire of his own making, unshackled from the whims of nobles or emperors.
The soft breeze carried the scent of blooming star vines from the academy gardens, their violet flowers releasing a subtle perfume as the evening approached. In the distance, the capital city sprawled along the banks of the Silver River, its white towers and golden domes gleaming in the sunset. Beyond that lay the vast agricultural holdings of House Valeria—his family's power base, the foundation upon which he would build.
Darius could mock him, the princes could scheme, his own family could view him as merely a political piece to be moved across the board, but Aaron Valeria, reborn scientist in a world of magic, would carve his own path. He unconsciously touched the royal engagement pin at his breast, fingers tracing the imperial sunburst that intertwined with Valeria's stag.
The princess was another puzzle to solve, another potential ally or obstacle. From their brief meetings during formal events, Aaron had glimpsed intelligence behind her courtly mask, ambition beneath her dutiful exterior. Whether she would be partner or opponent in the game to come remained to be seen.
As they approached the dueling grounds, the clatter of steel and the distinctive hum of combat magic filled the air. Students formed a loose circle around two combatants—one wielding a blade wreathed in flame, the other calling frost to coat their defensive stance.
Aaron's gray eyes sharpened, calculating angles, measuring distances, assessing strengths and weaknesses as he had in another life with another kind of power. The game had already begun, and he intended to win.