The Nexus's calculation echoed in Arthur's mind for days, a cold, logical warning. A 1.7% chance of maintaining a low profile. In his past life, he would have treated that number with the respect it deserved. He would have retreated, planned, and become a ghost. But he was not in his past life anymore. He was a prince of the Vanyar, a child of the light, and he had just hit a perfect bullseye from fifty meters on his first try. The memory of the stunned silence, the gasp from his sister, the proud smile on his father's face… it was intoxicating.
He was ten years old. A part of him, the old, cautious adult, screamed that he should hide, that he should heed the AI's warning. But another part, the prideful elven child who had known nothing but praise and the perfect light of Valinor, rebelled. What was the point of this power, this second chance, if he had to spend it pretending to be less than he was?
He stood on his balcony, looking out at the golden light of Laurelin. The Nexus was a tool for optimization, and hiding was not optimal. It was stagnation. It was fear. He made a decision. He would not be reckless, but he would not hide. He would let them see. He would let them wonder.
His chance came sooner than he expected. His father, Ingwë, still marveling at his son's display with the bow, immediately arranged for him to begin sword training. The instructor was Romendil, a master of the Vanyarin guard whose movements were said to be like a flowing poem. His eyes were as sharp as the edge of a blade, and he had trained warriors for thousands of years.
In the sun-dappled training grounds, Romendil showed Arthur the basic stances, the simple parries, the first forms of a dance that took centuries to master. Arthur listened to every word, his face a mask of polite concentration. But in his mind, the Nexus was already a step ahead, analyzing the instructor's every muscle twitch and predicting his movements.
"Show me what you have learned," Romendil said, his voice kind as he took up a blunted practice sword. "Do not be afraid to fail. Failure is the first step to mastery."
Arthur nodded, took his stance, and gave the Nexus a single, silent command. Full optimization. No restrictions.
What followed was not a lesson. It was a spectacle.
Romendil began with a simple, slow thrust. The Nexus reacted before the master's muscles had even fully contracted.
[Warning: Instructor initiating a high thrust. Optimal response: Parry Form Three. Shift weight to back foot. Angle blade at 45 degrees.]
The information was not a thought, but an instinct planted in his mind. The challenge was making his ten-year-old body obey. He pushed himself, muscles burning, as he moved through the motions. His parry was clumsy, but it worked.
Romendil raised an eyebrow, surprised at the speed of his defense, and increased his pace. He flowed into a series of cuts and thrusts, a beautiful but deadly dance. For Arthur, it was a brutal, overwhelming storm of data and physical exertion. The Nexus was a roaring engine in his head, feeding him solutions faster than he could process them.
[Alert: A feint is detected. Hold position.]
[Suggestion: His current stance is vulnerable to a low sweep. Probability of success: 82%.]
[Warning: Host's stamina is dropping. Core temperature rising.]
He was breathing heavily, sweat beading on his brow. He was not a master. He was a child with a supercomputer, and his body was screaming in protest as he forced it to perform maneuvers it was not ready for. But he did not stop. He parried. He dodged. He moved with a speed and precision that was utterly unnatural.
Finally, seeing an opening the Nexus highlighted in his mind's eye, he pushed forward, slipping past Romendil's guard in a move the master had not even taught him yet, and tapped the flat of his blade against the elf-lord's chest.
Silence.
Romendil stood frozen, his ancient eyes wide with disbelief. He looked down at the practice sword touching him, then back at the panting, ten-year-old child. He slowly lowered his weapon and knelt onto one knee.
"My King," Romendil said, his voice full of awe as he looked past Arthur to Ingwë, who had been watching from the sidelines. "This child… he is not a student. He is a master in waiting. I have never seen such a thing in all my long years."
The praise was absolute, the reaction more extreme than Arthur had even imagined. His father's face was a mask of pride so profound it seemed to make the very air around him shine brighter. But beneath it was that same look from the archery lesson: a deep, searching wonder. His son was not just a prodigy. He was something else entirely.
The display with the sword had solidified his new reputation, but Arthur knew it was only half of the equation. Martial skill was respected, but the true essence of the elves, especially the Vanyar, was their Fëa. Their magic.
He returned to his sanctuary, his mind buzzing with his victory. He had the raw power, his steadily growing pool of Actualized Fëa. Now it was time to shape it. He wanted to create light. Not just as an exercise, but as a statement.
He asked the Nexus for guidance.
[Analysis: The creation of light is an act of 'Song' using the Fëa. It is not about raw power, but about control. The Host must shape his inner spirit into a focused stream and 'tune' it to the resonance of starlight, a frequency the Nexus has cataloged from observing the heavens. The theory is simple, but the 'feel' for this tuning must be developed by the Host through practice.]
The Nexus gave him the theory, but he had to learn the art himself. For weeks, he practiced. He would sit in his garden, his hand outstretched, and focus with all his will. He pushed his Fëa towards his palm, trying to shape it, to give it form and purpose. It was frustrating. Most attempts ended in failure. Sometimes his hand would just feel warm. Once, a pathetic little spark appeared and died instantly, leaving him more tired than before. The Nexus could only offer dry, technical feedback.
[Focus unstable. The 'Song' is flat.]
[Your control is wavering. The stream of Fëa is not pure.]
He realized it was not a problem of engineering, but of emotion. He stopped trying to force the light into existence. He remembered the gentle, effortless way his mother's lullabies filled a room with peace. He thought of the pure, clean light of Telperion. He did not command. He coaxed. He did not push. He invited.
And it worked.
He shaped his Fëa into a gentle stream and began to 'tune' it, not to a number, but to the memory of starlight. A soft, silver glow began to form in his palm. It solidified, coalescing into a small, steady ball of light that floated an inch above his skin. It was silent, beautiful, and it was his. He had done it.
He held the light for a long time, the feeling of creation more intoxicating than any victory in the training yard. This was real power. This was the magic of his people. And he was not going to hide it.
That evening, he sought out his father. He found Ingwë in his study, reviewing scrolls from the Noldorin emissaries in Tirion. Arthur walked in, bowed his head as was proper, and then stood silently before his father's desk.
"Arthur? What is it, my son?" Ingwë asked, his voice warm.
Arthur did not speak. He simply lifted his hand, palm up, and summoned the light again.
The small, silver star appeared in his hand, bathing the room in its gentle, pure glow. It cast soft shadows on the ancient scrolls and reflected in his father's wide, stunned eyes.
Ingwë, the High King of All Elves, a being who had spoken with the Valar and walked in the light of the Trees for ages uncounted, was speechless. He slowly rose from his chair and walked around the desk until he was kneeling before his ten-year-old son. He did not look at Arthur with the simple pride of a father. He looked at him with the profound awe one reserved for a great and beautiful mystery. He looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time.
Arthur had made his choice. He had ignored the 1.7% probability. He had unveiled himself. Now, standing in the silent, star-lit study of the king, he waited for the consequences.