After registering, Caspian spent his afternoon as he intended—wandering around the island, taking in the natural and artificial beauty to his heart's content.
But that was not his purpose for the excursion.
His purpose was something else entirely: to 'case the joint', as it were. Avalonne-du-Prix and the Academy on its summit were isolated from much of humanity, a magical otherworld where aspiring mages were free to pursue their craft without limitations. The Academy was also famously home to the Ravensleigh Vault, a special room hidden away somewhere on the island which contained the fabled Ravensleigh Grimoire, full of untold occult mysteries.
The Vault had been placed on the island nearly a century earlier, and anyone who had a hand in its construction had long since passed. The only people who knew its location and could access it were the King and a handful of his choice ministers; not even the Headmaster of the Royal Academy was privy to its secrets.
Caspian wanted to add his name to that list.
The knowledge contained in that grimoire… I need to know just how far it goes.
I need to know if it discusses shades and the shadow realm.
For all of Britannia's advancement in the science of magic, there was still one fundamental truth about the field of which only Caspian was aware: that there is, indeed, a spiritual realm which has an even greater effect on magic than the physical world.
Lord Ravensleigh was infamous for attempting necromancy after the death of his son in the first Great War.
I need to know if he was successful.
***
Meanwhile, a meeting of the highest level of secrecy was taking place. The ministers and all the advisors of the King were gathered in a soundproof, airgapped room far below Buckingham Palace. This was the War Room of King Uther Pendragon, and it was that selfsame King who had called this meeting to discuss a matter of the utmost importance and secrecy.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for gathering on such short notice. I understand some of you had to cut short a vacation to be here. I want to convey my deepest appreciation."
"You are our king," said the woman in red.
"And our friend," answered another man. "Uther, your tone worries me. Is something wrong?"
The King grimaced.
"I could never fool you, Cecil," he sighed.
The King stood up, slowly, and paced behind his chair.
"Our boys in Section 6 are reporting levels of unrest in the Peoples' Empire that we haven't seen since the 2034 Maldives incident, and prior to that, not since the Cold War. They've correlated this activity with an uptick in anti-Royal propaganda here at home. They believe the Empire plans to make a move, and soon."
"Assassination?"
Another man, a representative from MI6, nodded.
"I find it highly likely," the King continued, "that these designs against us will come to fruition within the coming months. We cannot say when, how, or if they will succeed. We, of course, pray they do not. But it is a King's duty to prepare for every possibility, no matter how remote."
For those who had not guessed what this meeting was about, realization was now dawning.
"You wish to name your successor to the throne."
It was not a question, but a statement.
"Indeed," he replied, taking his seat once again.
"You are aware, of course, my liege, about the various factions surrounding the succession dispute?"
The King gave a hearty chuckle.
"Oh, am I! Those petty squabbles are some of the only legitimate entertainment I get these days."
"You're not concerned about the effect this will have on the country?"
The King's eyes darkened.
"I am, truth be told," he admitted. "No matter how you look at it, the succession is a time of weakness for this country. We will surely be attacked from both sides as a test of our new monarch's strength. That is inevitable. However…"
The King glanced at the faces around the room, studying the emotion displayed or concealed by each.
"…however, should I die without naming my heir, well, you all are aware of that future. I need not remind you of the particulars, only that such a path is many times worse than what awaits us now."
"For what it's worth," said the woman in red, "I can confirm the suspicions of Section 6. Our own intelligence efforts have revealed many cells of foreign activity within the country. London, Dublin, Edinburgh—none of them are clean. Even the Academy has a rat problem, though I'm planning on using my daughter to get rid of it."
"Thank you, Anne," said the King. "You, my Round Table, know the enemies we face."
A groan swept around the table.
"…must you call us that, Uther? It's disgraceful."
He chuckled.
"You know their strengths," he continued, "and you know their weaknesses. You also know our own strengths and weaknesses; some of you are more intimately familiar with them than I. You know my heart, my friends. I want this country to survive. I want this country to live, free, out in the open, with no fear. Without having to watch our backs.
"I want to do what's right for this country. This is the only path that I see which does not end in the destruction of the great Kingdom of Britannia. What say you? Will you support this decision?"
One by one, his advisors gave their replies:
"Aye."
"Aye."
"Aye."
"Nay."
"Aye."
"Nay."
"Aye."
"Aye."
"Let the vote stand, then, six in favor and two against," said King Uther. "I shall meet my heir as soon as possible to brief them on the situation, and shall ideally make the announcement shortly afterwards."
"My liege, as to your heir—who will you choose? Morgan or Vivianne?"
A mischievous glint appeared in the eyes of King Uther.
"Neither."
***
In his wanderings, Caspian stumbled upon a scene which set his nerves alight: a girl, probably a freshman student, cornered by a group of upperclassmen and obviously resenting the experience.
From the looks and jeers directed at her, Caspian correctly assumed they were attempting to extort hedonistic favors from her.
"You've heard the stories of our boss, right?" one of them asked. "Elisabeth Blackstone, the Crime Queen of Britannia. She once forced the House of Marshall into submission, all by herself. And now… now, she's here, with her army."
He spread his arms, gesturing to his accomplices.
This is a rare opportunity, thought Caspian.
"We report directly to Ms. Blackstone," he said. "You don't want to offend us and bring her wrath upon you, right? Now be a good girl and take off—"
"Hey, you."
The unexpected interruption caught the group off-guard. Caspian was walking up to them, trying his hardest to appear calm and collected—the powerful hero who isn't bothered by ruffians.
"Don't you think it's a little uncouth for Blackstone's thugs to throw her name around like that?" he asked, malice creeping into his voice. "You still haven't even proved that you work for her."
"Oh, yeah?" said one of the men, rising to the challenge. "Well, how about—!!"
…
It took a couple seconds for the rest of them to notice that something was wrong. Their friend had stopped mid-sentence, and was, in fact, entirely motionless.
Except for his eyes.
His eyes were flicking back and forth, trying to make sense of his condition.
"Miss, I think you should leave," said Caspian, a wolfish smile spreading across his face uncontrollably. "This is about to get ugly."
She nodded and carefully disentangled herself from the crowd.
[Go] commanded Caspian, and his raven obeyed.
Caspian turned his attention back to the group of not-so-composed men.
"What did you do to him?" asked one of the ruffians. "Undo it, now, and we'll spare your life."
"You'll spare my life? Oh, well, then, by all means…"
Caspian reached out with his shade and delicately twisted something within his victim.
The man's eyes stopped twitching.
They stopped moving at all, staring straight ahead, unfocused and diluted.
"You know, I'm not usually one for flashy attacks," Caspian continued. "I much prefer that slow realization, the creeping sense of dread, the feeling of fear crawling down the back of your neck—it's so much more fun to watch."
"What did you do to him?!" the ruffian repeated, stifling a quiver in his voice. "Undo it! Now!!"
Caspian chuckled.
"Ah, it seems your mind has broken already. Oh well. I've got no more use for you, then."
The group watched as the man who was just speaking suddenly fell face-forward, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
"Hey, man, you okay?"
"Dude, what's wrong?"
"He can't hear you," Caspian interrupted. "He's dead. So is this one, actually."
He gestured to the man with the stiff eyes, who hadn't yet dropped to the ground like his friend. The rest of the group looked at him with apprehensive glances, unsure of what Caspian meant.
"Oh, sorry for the confusion," said Caspian. "He's my puppet now, but his mind is gone. Like when you electrocute a frog and it jumps, even when dead? Have you guys ever done that?"
The men could no longer hide their fear, beginning to whimper and cower as they slowly backed away from Caspian.
"Look, man, we're sorry," one cried. "We'll never use the Blackstone name again. We swear! Please, let us live, oh God, just please let us live."
"I think there's a misunderstanding here," Caspian replied. "I don't care whether or not you try to use the Blackstone name to get laid. It's just so rare for me to have an opportunity to practice on people who so clearly deserve death—that wasn't your first time coercing a girl, was it?"
The happy facade dropped; Caspian was now deadly serious.
"The lot of you have already given up your humanity. I'm just finishing the job, and I need the practice. Tough luck."
The men tried to run, and Caspian allowed it.
A few minutes later, Caspian resumed his tour of the island.