The days that followed blended together as Jarkan immersed himself in his new existence. Each morning began before dawn, with Jarkan rising from Jarkanian's ornately carved bed to begin a rigorous training regimen he'd developed during his corporate days on Earth. Push-ups, squats, lunges, and core exercises—movements that had kept him sharp for boardroom battles now served to attune him to his new physical form.
Mariel and her husband, Torin, watched with barely concealed confusion as their young master performed exercises in the courtyard, sweat gleaming on his skin despite the morning chill. Physical training was uncommon among mages, who typically relied on their arcane powers rather than bodily strength.
"Young master," Torin ventured on the third morning, "is this... necessary? The Tower's healing envoys could assist if you're feeling weakened from your ordeal."
Jarkan completed his final set of burpees before answering. "The body channels magic, does it not? A stronger vessel means stronger spellcraft."
He wasn't certain if this was true, but fragments of Jarkanian's knowledge suggested a connection between physical vitality and magical stamina. Besides, the routine helped clear his mind, creating space for the torrent of memories and knowledge still settling into place.
After physical training came breakfast—enormous portions that left the kitchen staff wide-eyed. Jarkan devoured everything placed before him: unfamiliar grains with honey and cream, meats spiced with herbs unknown on Earth, fruits with properties that tingled through his body long after consumption. His metabolism seemed accelerated in this world, perhaps due to the magical energies constantly flowing through him.
"He eats like he's been starved," he overheard a kitchen maid whisper to Mariel. "The accident must have affected him strangely."
The afternoons were devoted to study. Jarkan sequestered himself in Jarkanian's library—a circular room lined with texts whose spines glowed faintly in the dim light. Many were written in languages he shouldn't have understood but somehow did, another gift from the soul convergence. He pored over tomes of elemental theory, magical history, and the lineages of the great Mage Houses, piecing together his new world's political landscape.
Most importantly, he studied the nature of his own abilities. Unlike most mages in Aldrakaryn, who typically manifested affinity for a single element, Jarkanian had been blessed—or cursed—with multiple elemental connections. Wind responded to his call with playful gusts or focused blades of air. Water bent to his will, shifting from gentle ripples to pressurized jets capable of slicing stone. Most unusually, he commanded black lightning—a rare form of electrical magic tinged with shadow energies, capable of disrupting other spellwork and causing pain beyond ordinary lightning strikes.
This multielemental status had marked Jarkanian as unusual from childhood, earning him both academic interest and social ostracism. In a society where magical specialization was the norm, his versatility was viewed with suspicion—a fact Jarkan found grimly amusing, given how adaptability had been his greatest strength in the corporate world.
Each evening, after the household settled into quiet routines, Jarkan slipped away to practice in the forest that bordered the estate. Away from prying eyes, he could experiment without concern for appearances. His early attempts were clumsy—a flick of his wrist sent a gust of wind careening wildly into the trees instead of the targeted breeze he'd intended; an attempt to draw water from a stream resulted in a sudden geyser that soaked him completely.
But day by day, hour by hour, his control improved. Jarkanian's muscle memory remained in the body, and when Jarkan stopped overthinking—when he allowed his hands to move as they "remembered" and let the incantations flow naturally from his lips—the results improved dramatically.
Black lightning proved the most difficult to master. Unlike the other elements, which responded to clear intention and focused will, the shadow-laced electricity seemed to feed on emotion—specifically rage, which Jarkan had in abundance when he thought of his brother's betrayal. The first time he successfully manifested it, the jagged obsidian bolts had erupted from his fingertips with such violence that they'd scorched a pattern of branching burns twenty feet up a nearby oak.
He'd stared at his hands afterward, both terrified and exhilarated by the raw power they commanded.
Unbeknownst to Jarkan, his solitary practice sessions had not gone unobserved. Figures cloaked in magic that bent light around them watched from the shadows, noting his unusual training methods and the erratic but rapidly improving command of his abilities. They departed silently after each observation, leaving no trace of their presence save for the faintest disturbance in the magical field—a ripple Jarkan was not yet sensitive enough to detect.
A week into his new life, Mariel approached him at breakfast with a sealed letter bearing the crimson wax seal of the Tower.
"From Master Elariel," she explained, placing it beside his plate. "She inquires after your recovery and reminds you that the final term begins in ten days' time."
Jarkan broke the seal, scanning the elegant script within. Beyond the courteous inquiries about his health lay a subtle warning: "Your absence has been noted in certain circles. Questions are being asked. Your brother has taken a particular interest in your condition, visiting the Tower archives to research cases of magical backlash during celestial events. Caution would be advisable, as would a strengthening of your ward perimeter."
He folded the letter carefully. "Please inform the messenger that I am recovering well and look forward to returning to my studies."
After breakfast, he reinforced the property's magical boundaries as best he could with his limited knowledge, drawing on Jarkanian's memories of protection spells. The effort left him drained but satisfied that he had at least some defense against prying eyes.