The command was given. "Proceed."
With that single word, a new, secret chapter of Arthur's life began. By day, he was the King's Prodigy, a student of unparalleled talent who dazzled his tutors in combat and song. He was a dutiful son, a quiet brother, a shining example of the Vanyar's grace. But by night, when the silver light of Telperion cast long, silent shadows across the floors of the palace, he became something else entirely. He became a researcher. A theorist. A magical engineer.
His new laboratory was the Great Library, and his project was the "Spellcraft Database." The work was slow and methodical. For months, his nights were spent in the quiet, hallowed halls, surrounded by the knowledge of ages. He would select an ancient scroll, one that described a feat of elven magic or a powerful act of the Valar. He would unroll the delicate parchment, and the Nexus would get to work.
His eyes would scan the elegant Tengwar script, while the AI in his soul scanned something deeper. It scanned the intent behind the words, the described effects, the very structure of the magic being recounted. It was a grand deconstruction. Poetic descriptions of healing were broken down into data on cellular regeneration and Fëa transference. Tales of enchanted streams were analyzed for patterns of sustained energy imbuement. The Nexus was reverse-engineering the 'Song of the World,' one note at a time, building a library of the fundamental frequencies of Arda's magic.
After months of this intense research, Arthur decided it was time to move from theory to practice. He had enough data. He needed to build his first prototype. He sat in his study, the Nexus displaying the vast, complex web of interconnected data it had compiled. He needed a goal. Something simple. Something measurable. Something that wouldn't bring the royal guard running if it went wrong.
His mind drifted back to his past life, to rainy afternoons spent reading about a boy with a lightning-bolt scar. The choice was obvious. The first spell taught to first-year students at Hogwarts. Levitation. It was perfect. His first test subject was a single, perfect golden leaf from a Mallorn tree, a gift from his sister Lirien, which he placed in the center of his large, oaken desk. The goal: make it fly.
He and the Nexus spent the next week developing the theoretical framework for the spell. They established what Arthur began to think of as the Three Pillars of Spellcraft.
First was the Intent, the 'Fëa Note' itself. This was the core of the magic. The Nexus sifted through its data, looking for every instance of kinetic force or the nullification of the world's natural pull. It isolated a specific, complex Fëa frequency. It was not a simple hum, but a chord, a delicate vibration that, in theory, would gently persuade an object to forget its own weight.
Second was the Anchor, the verbal component. The word that would focus his will. He could have asked the Nexus to construct a word from Quenya, something elegant and powerful like "Orto." But a thought struck him. The word itself had no power. It was just a password, a trigger for his own Fëa. So, why not use a password that was already etched into his very soul? He was an anomaly, a ghost of another world. It was time to bring a piece of that world into this one. It felt right. It felt like his. The choice was made. The anchor would be "Wingardium Leviosa."
Third, and most difficult, was the Execution, the 'Link.' The Nexus made it clear. This was the critical step. He had to speak the anchor phrase and, in that exact moment, shape and project the precise Fëa 'note' with his will. The words would focus his mind, and his mind would shape the power. It was a perfect synthesis of thought, word, and spirit.
In theory.
In practice, it was a disaster.
He sat in his study late one night, the golden leaf gleaming in the soft light of his lamp. He took a deep breath, pictured the leaf rising, and with all the confidence of a boy who had mastered swordplay in a decade, he pointed a finger at it and said, clearly and precisely, "Wingardium Leviosa!"
Nothing happened. The leaf sat there, utterly, disappointingly still.
[Verbal anchor spoken. No Fëa manipulation detected.]
The Nexus's feedback was dry and unhelpful. Right. He had to actually use his magic. He tried again. This time, as he spoke the words, he pushed a wave of his Fëa towards the leaf, the same raw power he used in his training. The leaf, caught in the invisible wave of force, shot off the desk like a golden bullet and plastered itself to the far wall.
[Fëa projected. Frequency incorrect. Result: Simple kinetic force.]
He sighed, retrieved the leaf, and tried again. This time he focused on the 'note,' the delicate Fëa frequency the Nexus had isolated. He tried to 'tune' his spirit to that specific vibration while he spoke. "Wingardium Leviosa."
The leaf trembled. It rocked back and forth for a second, as if trying to stand up, and then fell still.
[Target frequency achieved but unstable. Focus lost halfway through verbal anchor. Synthesis failed.]
Weeks passed in a symphony of failure. He tried a hundred times, a thousand. The leaf was pushed, prodded, warmed up, and, in one particularly frustrating attempt where he accidentally used a frequency related to a healing song, it seemed to glow slightly healthier. But it would not fly.
It was maddening. This should be easy. It was the simplest, most basic spell he could imagine. He could command his body to perform impossibly complex sword forms. He could coax flowers to bloom with a thought. Why was this so hard? He came to a frustrating conclusion. The elven magic he had learned from Elenna was intuitive, an art. He could feel his way to the result. This new magic, his magic, was engineering. It required absolute precision, a perfect fusion of will and word that his mind was not yet accustomed to.
One night, he was on the verge of giving up. He was tired, his head ached from the concentration, and the leaf on his desk seemed to be mocking him. He slumped in his chair, defeated. He had failed.
He looked at the leaf, not with the focused intensity of a spellcaster, but with a quiet sense of longing. He remembered the feeling of reading the book for the first time, the pure, childish wonder of it. He remembered what the story said. It was not about force. It was a gentle lift. A swish and flick.
He sat up. He would try one last time. He did not lean forward with intensity. He leaned back, relaxed. He did not narrow his eyes in concentration. He softened his gaze. He remembered Elenna's lessons about harmony, not command. He took a deep breath, quieting the storm of frustration in his mind.
He focused on the leaf, and on the simple, joyful memory of the magic he once thought was just a story. He lifted his hand, not as a weapon, but as an invitation.
"Wingardium Leviosa," he whispered, the words a soft breath rather than a command.
He poured a steady, perfectly-tuned stream of his Fëa into the phrase, not forcing it, but letting it flow.
For a second, nothing happened. Then, the edges of the leaf curled upwards. It trembled, not violently, but with a soft hum of energy. Slowly, unsteadily, it rocked back and forth and then lifted a single, glorious inch off the surface of the polished oak. It wobbled in the air, a tiny golden boat on an invisible sea, threatening to fall at any moment. But it was flying.
Arthur stared, his breath caught in his throat, a wide, disbelieving grin spreading across his face. It was real. He had done it. It was clumsy. It was weak. It was pathetic compared to the effortless grace of his people's magic. But it was his. He had not learned it. He had built it. He had taken a piece of fiction from a dead world and had given it life.
The leaf hovered for a full ten seconds before his concentration broke and it fluttered back down to the desk. He slumped back in his chair, a wave of exhaustion and pure, triumphant joy washing over him. He had written the first word of a new language.
He gave a final, weary command to the Nexus.
[Log successful experiment. Spell Name: Wingardium Leviosa (Host Designation). Effect: Minor Levitation. Range: 1 inch. Max Weight: 0.1 grams. Status: Highly Unstable. Add to Spellcraft Database. Entry #001.]
He looked at the leaf, then at the unseen database in his mind. The first entry. The first of what he knew would be very, very many. The door was open.