The aftermath of Arthur's unveiling was not a storm, but a quiet, profound shift in the very foundations of his world. The awe in his father's eyes that night in the study solidified into a new, unwavering purpose. The secret was out, and with it, the age of quiet observation was over. The age of the King's Prodigy had begun.
The next fifteen years of Arthur's life were a blur of structured, relentless education. His secret alcove in the garden was abandoned, replaced by the high training grounds of the royal guard and the serene, hallowed halls of the Vanyarin lore-masters. Ingwë had been true to his word. He had summoned the greatest teachers in Valinor to shape his son, and they descended upon Arthur with the full weight of their ancient wisdom. His life became a grueling schedule, a constant oscillation between the exhaustion of the body and the exertion of the spirit.
His training in the way of the sword was a testament to the brutal reality of physical limits. His master, Romendil, was as unyielding as the mountains and as graceful as the wind. He saw the impossible potential in Arthur and was determined to forge it into true mastery, not just a parlor trick. For Romendil, the Nexus's perfect theory was meaningless without a body capable of executing it.
"Your mind sees the path, little prince," Romendil would say, his voice calm even as his practice sword smacked against Arthur's ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs. "But your body must learn to walk it. Again."
The training was a grind. Every morning, under the silver light of Telperion, Arthur could be found on the high training grounds. The Nexus could feed him endless data on optimal footwork, on the precise angle for a parry, on the most efficient way to generate power in a cut. But the Nexus could not breathe for him when his lungs burned. It could not stop his muscles from screaming in protest after hours of drills. It could not dull the ache in his bones from a thousand repeated stances.
He learned that there was no shortcut to conditioning, no algorithm for stamina. He had to earn it through sweat and sheer, stubborn effort. He would spar for hours against the ancient master, his mind a blur as he tried to process the Nexus's real-time tactical advice while simultaneously forcing his growing body to keep up.
[Warning: Opponent is shifting weight to his left foot. A sweeping attack is 89% probable. Adopt 'Low Guard of the Serpent'.]
Arthur would move, his muscles screaming, to intercept the blow. Sometimes he was fast enough. Sometimes he was not. But every failure, every ache, every bruise, was a data point. The Nexus logged his physical limitations, and at night, it would devise new stretching and conditioning routines to address them. He was not just practicing; he was optimizing his own physiology.
By his twenty-fifth year, he was no longer a boy. He was a young elf, tall and lean, with the quiet confidence of someone who had been forged in a crucible of his own making. In his final lesson with Romendil, they stood opposite each other, the golden light of Laurelin casting long shadows. There was no more instruction. There was only the ringing of steel.
They moved, a dance of deadly grace. Arthur no longer felt like he was desperately trying to keep up with the Nexus's advice. His body and mind were finally in sync. He felt Romendil's intent, and the Nexus confirmed it. He saw the opening, and his body moved without hesitation. In a flash of silver, the spar was over. Arthur's blade rested gently against his master's throat.
Romendil did not look defeated. He looked proud. "The path is walked," he said, his voice full of a respect he had never shown before. "There is nothing more I can teach you."
Arthur had mastered the sword. But it was in his other lessons that he truly soared.
His tutor in the ways of the Fëa was a wise and ancient elf-lady named Elenna. Where Romendil was a sharp, focused blade, Elenna was like a deep, calm river. She did not have a training ground, but the entirety of the gardens and forests of their mountain home. Her lessons were not drills, but conversations.
"The Fëa is not a weapon to be wielded, little prince," she explained on their first day, her voice as soft as moss. "It is the voice of your spirit. Magic is simply the act of your spirit singing in harmony with the Great Song of the World."
While his sword training was a struggle against his own limitations, his lessons with Elenna were an effortless homecoming. His ability to "see the patterns" meant he could perceive the Song she spoke of. To him, the life force of a flower was a gentle, green hum. The joy of a bird was a sharp, trilling silver note. The Nexus cataloged it all, translating the poetry of magic into the language of data.
Elenna would ask him to "persuade" a withered bud to bloom. He would reach out with his Fëa, find the gentle, green frequency the Nexus had logged, and project it into the plant. The bud would unfurl into a perfect, white flower in seconds. She taught him how to soothe a frightened rabbit with a projection of peace, how to mend a broken wing with a soft touch of life-giving energy. He learned to weave strands of light and sound together to create shimmering, fleeting illusions: a bird made of starlight, the scent of a long-forgotten flower.
He excelled in a way that left Elenna breathless. He was not just learning; he was communing. His control was so fine, his understanding so innate, that he performed the most subtle and difficult acts of elven magic as if he were breathing.
But as the years passed, the adult mind within the prodigy began to notice something. He sat with Elenna by a shimmering pool one day, weaving the light of the Trees into a dancing image of a great eagle. It was beautiful. It was art. But it was also… imprecise.
"It is beautiful, Arthur," Elenna said, her eyes shining. "Your spirit sings so clearly."
He let the illusion fade. "But it is not the same eagle twice," he said, more to himself than to her. "Sometimes its wings are wider. Sometimes the light is brighter. It depends on how I am feeling."
"That is the beauty of it," she replied. "It is a reflection of you in that moment."
Arthur nodded politely, but inside, he felt a flicker of profound dissatisfaction. This was art, not engineering. A sword strike was the same every time. A parry was a reliable, repeatable action with a predictable result. Elven magic, in all its beauty, was subjective. It was a suggestion made to the world, not a command. He, the anomaly, the boy with a computer for a soul, craved something more. He wanted a tool.
That night, he sat in his private study, the room now filled with scrolls on history, metaphysics, and the nature of the Fëa. He had mastered the art of elven magic. But now he wanted to create a science.
Nexus, he projected into the quiet of his mind. Elven magic is like a beautiful song that you have to feel. Is it possible to isolate just one note of that song? To create a 'word' of power that creates a single, specific, and reliable effect every single time you use it?
The Nexus, with its fifteen years of new data on elven magic, processed the query. Its response was the most exciting thing Arthur had ever read.
[Hypothesis: Yes. By isolating the core Fëa frequencies and vibrational patterns of existing magical effects and assigning them a specific Quenyan verbal anchor, the creation of repeatable, targeted 'spells' is theoretically possible. This would require the creation of a new syntax for Fëa manipulation.]
[Recommendation: Begin compiling a foundational 'Spellcraft' database to test this hypothesis. Shall I proceed?]
A slow, determined smile spread across Arthur's face. This was it. This was the path he was born, or reborn, to walk. He would not just be a user of this world's magic. He would be its architect. He would build something new.
His silent command was absolute, filled with the weight of all his ambition and all his dreams.
"Proceed."