[Next Morning][Location: Royal Academy Residential Wing, Shared Quarters][Time: Dawn]
Sol woke to the sound of arguing.
"—ridiculous that we have to share our space with him," a voice was saying. Young, male, dripping with contempt. "It's bad enough Father can't keep it in his pants, but now we have to pretend this... this peasant is one of us?"
Sol kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady, using a technique he'd learned centuries ago to feign sleep while gathering information. His Contract Vision didn't require his eyes to be open—he could sense the room's occupants through the agreements that bound them to reality.
[Room Scan - Occupants][Person 1: Unknown boy, approximately 8-9 years old, high-quality contract-woven clothing][Person 2: Unknown boy, approximately 7 years old, quieter presence][Person 3: Unknown girl, approximately 6 years old, sitting on bed across room][All three: Noble-born based on clothing contracts and ambient mana signatures]
"Marcus, keep your voice down," a second voice said—softer, younger, but with underlying steel. "He's sleeping."
"So what? Let the bastard wake up. He should know where he stands from the beginning." Footsteps approached Sol's bed. "Besides, everyone knows anyway. Father's newest mistake, pulled from some orphanage. Probably doesn't even know which fork to use at dinner."
Sol filed away the name: Marcus. And the relationship: apparently also a child of King Aldric's, which made the situation more complex than Sol had anticipated.
The King had mentioned sending two bastards to Tor. Had he lied? Or were there more than three?
"That's mean," a third voice said—female, young but firm. "He didn't choose to be born. None of us did."
"Thank you, Lyra, for that philosophical insight," Marcus said with acid sarcasm. "But he chose to come here. To the Academy. To the Estate. He could have stayed in his orphanage, lived quietly, taken the money Father surely offered. But no—he had to accept. Had to try to climb above his station."
Interesting, Sol thought, still feigning sleep. Marcus assumes I had a choice. Assumes I'm ambitious. He's projecting his own motivations onto me.
"Maybe he just wanted to learn," the second boy—the quieter one—suggested. "The Academy is the best education in the kingdom."
"Oh, Kieran, you're so naive," Marcus sighed dramatically. "No one comes to the Academy just to learn. Everyone wants something: connections, power, legitimacy. And bastards like him?" The footsteps stopped right next to Sol's bed. "They want recognition. They want Father to look at them and see someone worthy of the crown."
Sol had heard enough. Time to establish his position in this social hierarchy.
He opened his eyes slowly, as if just waking naturally, and looked up at the boy standing over him.
[Analysis: Marcus][Age: 9 years old (estimated)][Level: 12 (impressive for his age)][Physical Appearance: Blonde hair, green eyes, sharp features][Clothing: High-quality noble attire, minor enchantments for comfort][Posture: Aggressive, territorial][Emotional State: Threatened, angry, defensive][Contract Marks: Visible on wrists—oaths of noble conduct and family loyalty]
Marcus was tall for nine, with blonde hair perfectly styled and green eyes that held more calculation than most children possessed. He wore clothing that cost more than most families earned in a year—fine wool tunic with silver threading, soft leather boots, a cloak clasp that was definitely enchanted.
A legitimate prince. One of the King's acknowledged children.
And clearly unhappy about Sol's existence.
"Good morning," Sol said carefully, sitting up. His tiny body made him look even more pathetic next to Marcus's height advantage.
"It's not," Marcus said flatly. He crossed his arms. "Let's establish something right now, Sol." He said the name like it was an insult. "We all know what you are. A damn peasant slumming it with us. Father's latest indiscretion. You might fool the servants, might fool the tutors, but we know."
Sol remained calm, cataloging information. Marcus was establishing dominance early, trying to set the social hierarchy before Sol could find footing. Classic bully behavior, but with the legitimate grievance of a prince protecting his territory.
"I'm not trying to fool anyone," Sol said quietly.
"Aren't you?" Marcus leaned down, getting in Sol's face. "You're here, in the Royal Estate. In the Academy. In our quarters. Breathing our air, eating our food, taking our Father's attention." His voice dropped to something colder. "We all know you're the King's bastard. Everyone's talking about it. The servant who used to bring Father his evening wine? She had a son who looks remarkably like you."
Ah, Sol thought. The King created a specific cover story. Smart. Easier to control one narrative than let dozens spring up naturally.
"But understand this," Marcus continued, straightening to his full height. "Blood doesn't make you family. You're an accident. A mistake. And I won't call you my brother."
The words hung in the air, sharp and final.
Then Marcus turned away from Sol with the deliberate dismissal of someone who'd said everything worth saying. He walked back to his own bed—the largest one, Sol noted, positioned to catch the best morning light.
[Social Dynamic: Established][Marcus: Dominant, hostile, will not accept Sol][Power Structure: Marcus at top, Sol at bottom][Immediate Threat: Low (verbal only)][Long-term Problem: High (Marcus will undermine Sol constantly)]
Sol looked at the other two occupants.
The second boy—Kieran, Marcus had called him—was about seven, with darker hair and softer features. He sat on his bed looking uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact. Not actively hostile, but not willing to contradict Marcus either.
[Analysis: Kieran][Age: 7 years old][Level: 8][Appearance: Brown hair, brown eyes, smaller build][Emotional State: Uncomfortable, conflicted][Personality Assessment: Follower, not leader. Dislikes conflict.][Threat: Minimal]
The girl—Lyra—sat on the bed farthest from Marcus's, her legs tucked under her. She was about six, with auburn hair in a practical braid and gray eyes that watched everything with quiet intelligence.
[Analysis: Lyra][Age: 6 years old][Level: 7][Appearance: Auburn hair, gray eyes, simple but quality clothing][Emotional State: Sympathetic but cautious][Personality Assessment: Independent thinker, sense of fairness][Potential Ally: Moderate probability]
"I'm Lyra," she said, since Marcus had made no introductions. "That's Kieran." She gestured to the quiet boy. "And you've met Marcus."
"Pleased to meet you," Sol said, using the formal courtesy he'd learned centuries ago, then immediately regretting it. Too refined for a four-year-old from an orphanage.
Marcus caught it immediately. "Pleased to meet you?" he mocked. "What orphanage teaches courtly language? Or did Father's servants drill you in proper speech before letting you into polite company?"
Sol adjusted. "The matron taught me to be polite," he said, making his voice smaller, less certain. "Is that wrong?"
"It's fake," Marcus said. "Just like everything about you."
Kieran finally spoke up, his voice tentative. "Marcus, maybe—"
"Maybe nothing," Marcus cut him off. "I'm going to breakfast. Alone." He swept toward the door, his cloak dramatically swirling behind him—an affectation he'd clearly practiced. "Kieran, come."
Kieran hesitated, glanced at Sol with something like apology, then followed Marcus out.
Sol and Lyra were left alone in the room.
She hopped off her bed and approached, studying Sol with unabashed curiosity. "You don't look like a peasant," she observed.
"What does a peasant look like?" Sol asked, genuinely curious about her perception.
"Scared. Nervous. Rough around the edges." She tilted her head. "You look... calm. Like you've seen worse than Marcus being mean."
Perceptive, Sol thought. At six years old, Lyra had better social observation skills than most adults.
"I have seen worse," Sol admitted carefully. "The orphanage wasn't always nice."
"Marcus is Father's legitimate son," Lyra said, sitting on Sol's bed uninvited. "From his first marriage. Princess Catherine. She died when Marcus was five." Her voice carried matter-of-fact sympathy. "He's been angry ever since. Angry at Father for moving on. Angry at the world for taking his mother. Angry at you for existing."
"And you?" Sol asked. "What's your story?"
Lyra smiled slightly. "I'm Father's daughter from his second marriage. Queen Elara. She's alive, but she lives in the Summer Palace because she and Father had a... disagreement. So I'm here, learning to be useful instead of ornamental."
A queen's daughter, but one whose mother had essentially separated from the King. Complicated family dynamics.
"Kieran?" Sol prompted.
"Father's son from a third relationship. Before he married Elara. So technically a bastard like you, but acknowledged early and educated as nobility." She picked at a loose thread on Sol's blanket. "He's nice, but he follows Marcus because it's easier than thinking for himself."
Sol processed this. The royal family was more fractured than he'd realized. Multiple marriages, affairs, legitimate and illegitimate children scattered throughout the Estate.
"Why are you being nice to me?" Sol asked directly.
Lyra shrugged. "Because Marcus is mean to me too. Different reasons, but same result. We're both 'lesser' in his eyes—me because I'm a girl, you because you're baseborn." She looked at him with those sharp gray eyes. "Enemy of my enemy, you know?"
Sol almost laughed. A six-year-old proposing political alliance through ancient proverb.
"That's pragmatic," he said.
"Father says I'm too pragmatic for my age." She stood. "Come on. If we don't get to breakfast soon, all the good pastries will be gone. And trust me, you want the honey ones before Marcus eats them all."
Sol hopped down from his bed and followed her out. The hallway was elegant but designed for children—lower door handles, artwork hung at child eye-level, magical lights that adjusted brightness based on time of day.
"The Academy is divided into age groups," Lyra explained as they walked. "We're in the Primary Division—ages four to ten. There's Intermediate for eleven to fifteen, and Advanced for sixteen to twenty. We have classes together, eat together, sleep in the same wing."
"How many students?"
"In our division? Twenty-three, now that you're here. Mix of nobles, wealthy merchants' children, and scholarship students who tested high enough."
They entered a dining hall sized for children—tables at appropriate heights, chairs with cushions, serving staff who smiled instead of being formal. The room was already half-full with students eating breakfast.
Marcus sat at the center table with Kieran beside him and several other children clustered around—clearly the popular group. He saw Sol enter and his expression darkened, then he deliberately turned away, giving Sol his back.
Message received: You're not welcome at this table.
Lyra led Sol to a smaller table near the window where a few other children sat. "This is the 'interesting people' table," she announced. "Everyone else is boring."
A small girl with spectacles looked up. "Is he the new bastard everyone's talking about?"
"I'm Sol," Sol said, deciding to own the situation rather than hide from it.
"I'm Mira," the girl said. "I'm here on scholarship. My parents are bakers, so I'm basically a peasant too." She said it without shame, almost with pride. "Want some bread? I convinced the kitchen to use my mother's recipe. It's better than the noble stuff."
"Sure," Sol said, accepting a roll that did indeed smell amazing.
The other children at the table introduced themselves: Thomas (merchant's son), Elena (minor noble), and Finn (another scholarship student). None of them seemed particularly interested in Sol's supposed royal blood—they were more curious about whether he could read yet and if he knew any games.
Sol felt himself relaxing fractionally. These children were... normal. Uncomplicated. They treated him like a person, not a scandal.
Across the room, Marcus was holding court, his voice carrying. "—obviously desperate for Father's approval. You'll see. He'll try too hard in classes, volunteer too much, make himself obviously eager. It's pathetic, really."
Several children laughed. A few looked uncomfortable.
Lyra leaned close to Sol. "Ignore him. He does this to everyone new. Last month he convinced half the class that Elena was lying about being able to read. Took her two weeks to recover socially."
"Why don't the teachers stop him?" Sol asked.
"Because he's technically right most of the time. He just says it cruelly." Lyra took a bite of honey pastry. "And he's the crown prince. The heir. Most people won't risk angering him."
Sol filed that away. Marcus wasn't just a bully—he was a politically protected bully. Challenging him directly would be complicated.
But Sol hadn't survived 847 years by confronting every problem head-on. Sometimes the better strategy was patience. Observation. Letting enemies defeat themselves.
"What's our first class?" Sol asked, changing the subject.
"Basic Magical Theory," Mira said, pushing her spectacles up her nose. "Professor Aldwin teaches it. He's ancient but brilliant. Today he's supposed to start explaining mana pools."
Sol kept his expression neutral, but internally he was amused. He could probably teach that class better than the professor. But he'd have to sit through it, pretending to learn things he'd mastered before these children's grandparents were born.
The role of a precocious child was going to be exhausting.
[One Hour Later][Location: Classroom Seven, Primary Division]
Professor Aldwin was indeed ancient—easily in his eighties, with a beard that touched his waist and eyes that still sparkled with intellectual curiosity. He stood in front of a chalkboard covered in diagrams of human bodies with glowing points marked throughout.
[Professor Aldwin Analysis][Level: 234][Class: Theoretical Mage / Educator][Specialty: Magical foundations and theory][Reputation: Excellent (respected by students and peers)][Teaching Style: Patient, thorough, encouraging questions]
"Mana pools," Professor Aldwin was saying, his voice surprisingly strong for his age, "are not physical organs. You cannot dissect a body and find one. They exist in the space between physical and spiritual—what we call the 'astral layer.'"
He tapped the diagram. "Every living being has a mana pool, though most never learn to access it. Those with magical talent can sense theirs, and with training, expand it."
A hand shot up—Marcus, naturally. "Professor, is it true that mana pool size is hereditary? That noble bloodlines have naturally larger pools?"
Sol could see where this was going.
Professor Aldwin considered. "There is some correlation, yes. Children of powerful mages tend to have higher baseline capacity. But correlation is not destiny." He smiled. "I've taught nobles with pathetically small pools and peasant children who could rival archmages. Heredity provides a starting point, not an ending point."
Marcus's expression suggested he'd heard what he wanted to hear: that his noble blood gave him advantage.
"Now," Professor Aldwin continued, "let's discuss how mana pools grow. Can anyone guess?"
Several hands went up. The professor pointed to a quiet boy in the back.
"Using magic makes it grow?"
"Partially correct! Using magic to the point of depletion—carefully, mind you—does stimulate growth. What else?"
"Meditation?" Mira offered.
"Yes! Meditation techniques can expand capacity. What else?"
Lyra raised her hand. "My mother said being in places with lots of mana helps. Like the Royal Gardens or the Great Library."
"Excellent! Environmental exposure is crucial for young mages." Professor Aldwin wrote on the board:
MANA POOL GROWTH FACTORS:
Repeated depletion (controlled) Meditation techniques High-mana environments Mana-rich food/materials Age (natural growth until ~25) Contracts/Bonds (advanced)
Sol's attention caught on that last one. Contracts and bonds. The professor knew about that method?
"Number six is quite advanced," Professor Aldwin said, as if reading Sol's thoughts. "Some mages form contracts with entities—spirits, demons, even magical artifacts—that share mana reserves. This can artificially boost pool capacity, though it comes with obligations."
He knows, Sol thought. He actually knows about contract-based growth. I wonder what else he knows.
Professor Aldwin's eyes swept the room and paused fractionally on Sol. Just a moment, but Sol caught it.
He knows who I am. Or suspects.
The King had said he'd assign Sol private tutors. Had he also briefed certain professors? Told them to watch for unusual knowledge or capabilities?
"Now," Professor Aldwin said, "I want everyone to try a simple meditation exercise. Close your eyes. Focus inward. Try to sense your own mana pool—it will feel like a warmth in your chest, or a reservoir of potential."
The children closed their eyes obediently. Sol did the same, though he didn't need to "try" to sense his mana pool—he could feel it constantly, that pathetic 37 MP reservoir that used to be 10,000.
Around the room, he could sense other children's pools through his Contract Vision:
Marcus: 89 MP (impressive for age nine) Kieran: 52 MP (average for age seven) Lyra: 61 MP (above average for age six) Mira: 43 MP (average) Various others: ranging from 28 to 95 MP
All larger than Sol's. All naturally larger because they were older, their bodies more developed.
It rankled, but Sol forced patience. He'd grow. He had advantages they didn't—knowledge, technique, understanding of contracts.
"Good," Professor Aldwin said. "Now, I want you to try something simple. Imagine that warmth expanding slightly. Just a tiny bit. Don't force it—coax it. Mana responds to intent, not pressure."
The children's faces scrunched with concentration.
Sol felt his own pool respond to the exercise—not because he was trying hard, but because he'd done this ten thousand times before. His pool expanded fractionally, room made for growth.
[MP: 37.2/37.2]
Barely measurable, but progress.
"Excellent!" Professor Aldwin said. "Some of you felt it. That slight expansion. Do this daily, and over months, you'll see real growth."
Marcus's hand shot up. "Professor, I felt mine expand a lot. Does that mean I'm particularly talented?"
Professor Aldwin's smile was patient. "It means you have a vivid imagination, Marcus. Real growth is measured over weeks and months, not minutes. But your enthusiasm is noted."
A few students giggled. Marcus flushed but said nothing.
The class continued with basic theory—what mana was (condensed life energy), how it differed from stamina (physical energy), why some people could use it and others couldn't (sensitivity and training).
Sol paid attention despite knowing everything already, because he could observe his classmates. See who was genuinely interested versus who was just attending because they had to.
Lyra took meticulous notes despite being six. Mira asked thoughtful questions. Kieran seemed to understand concepts but rarely volunteered. Marcus alternated between showing off his (admittedly decent) knowledge and making subtle jabs at other students.
And through it all, Professor Aldwin taught with patient enthusiasm, clearly someone who genuinely loved helping children learn.
When the class ended, Professor Aldwin called out, "Sol? A moment, please."
Sol's stomach tightened. Here it came—whatever the King had arranged.
The other students filed out. Marcus shot Sol a look that clearly said, "Already in trouble? Typical."
When the room was empty, Professor Aldwin gestured to a chair. "Sit, please."
Sol climbed into the chair—another reminder of his infuriating smallness—and waited.
The professor studied him for a long moment. "King Aldric spoke with me yesterday. Told me you were... special. That you might benefit from supplementary instruction beyond what the other children receive."
"Did he say why?" Sol asked carefully.
"He said you were unusually bright. Precocious. That you'd been reading before arriving at the Academy." Professor Aldwin leaned back in his chair. "He also said I should evaluate you carefully and report back on your actual level of understanding."
A test, then. The King wanted confirmation of Sol's capabilities before committing more resources.
"What would you like me to demonstrate?" Sol asked.
"Tell me what you know about mana pools," Professor Aldwin said. "Not what I just taught—what you actually know."
Sol considered how much to reveal. Too little, and he'd waste the professor's time. Too much, and he'd seem impossible.
"Mana pools aren't just reservoirs," Sol said slowly. "They're living systems. They grow based on stress and recovery cycles, similar to muscles. The meditation technique you taught is good for beginners, but there are more efficient methods."
"Such as?"
"Mana cycling," Sol said. "Where you deliberately deplete your pool to specific thresholds—30%, 50%, 70%—then recover. Each threshold triggers different growth responses. Most people stop at 50% because going lower feels dangerous, but the real growth happens at 30%."
Professor Aldwin's eyebrows rose. "Where did you learn that?"
"I read it," Sol lied smoothly. "In a book at the orphanage. The matron had some old texts."
"What book?"
Sol scrambled mentally, pulling from actual memory. "Foundations of Thaumic Theory by Magister Ellsworth. Second edition, published about ninety years ago."
Professor Aldwin stood abruptly and went to a bookshelf. He pulled down a worn volume—Foundations of Thaumic Theory—and flipped through it. His finger stopped on a page, and his expression went carefully neutral.
"This information is on page 347," he said slowly. "Buried in a footnote. Most people miss it because Ellsworth was notoriously bad at organizing his thoughts."
"The footnotes were more interesting than the main text," Sol said truthfully. He'd met Ellsworth once, 400 years ago. The man had been brilliant but scattered.
Professor Aldwin closed the book and returned to his chair. "King Aldric was right. You are special." A pause. "But also, I think, very good at hiding just how special."
Sol said nothing, letting the professor draw his own conclusions.
"I'm going to recommend advanced tutoring," Professor Aldwin said. "Private sessions three times per week, in addition to regular classes. You'll study at the pace you're capable of, not the pace of your peers." He smiled slightly. "Though I'd advise you to remain mediocre in regular classes. The other children—especially Marcus—won't respond well to being outshone by a four-year-old bastard."
"I understand," Sol said.
"Do you?" Professor Aldwin leaned forward. "Because understanding intellectually is different from understanding socially. You're about to live in a very complex environment, Sol. Marcus will undermine you. Other nobles will judge you. Commoners will either resent you or try to use you for proximity to the King. And all of them will be watching to see if you're worthy of the resources being spent on you."
"I've dealt with complicated social dynamics before," Sol said carefully.
"At four years old?" Professor Aldwin's tone was gently skeptical.
Sol caught himself. "I mean... I'll learn. I'm good at learning."
Professor Aldwin studied him for another long moment, then nodded. "Your first private session is tomorrow evening. Come to my office after dinner. And Sol?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever you're hiding—and I know you're hiding something—I hope it's for a good reason. Because secrets in royal courts have a way of becoming weapons."
Sol left the classroom with those words ringing in his head.
He'd survived his first day. Made tentative allies. Identified his primary enemy. Started understanding the social landscape.
But Professor Aldwin's warning was valid: secrets became weapons.
And Sol had the biggest secret in the kingdom walking around in a four-year-old body.
He just had to keep it hidden for four more months.
Then the Thirteen would know.
And everything would change.