Recovery was not gentle.
Prince Atelion Abdryth Maetyr Aurelion spent three days confined to his chambers, his internal circulation pathways slowly stabilizing under strict supervision.
Healing magic repaired torn channels and soothed internal damage—but it could not erase the memory of what had nearly killed him.
Pain lingered.
And pain remembered.
He did not attempt to circulate Mana.
He did not allow Aura to rise beyond the minimum needed to move.
Instead, he thought.
Aura and Mana did not reject each other out of hatred.
They rejected each other because both demanded authority over the same vessel.
Aura hardened reality.
Mana bent it.
When both claimed dominance, the body became collateral.
The solution, Atelion realized, was not fusion.
It was order.
A knock broke his concentration.
"Enter."
Sir Althred Veyron stepped inside, unarmored yet imposing, presence sharp enough to bend the air.
Behind him came the Head Butler, hands folded calmly, expression unreadable as ever.
"You asked for mentorship," Sir Althred said. "Understand this—such a request is not made by princes lightly."
"I know," Atelion replied evenly. "That's why I waited until I understood the cost."
The Butler inclined his head slightly.
"Most do not survive long enough to reflect."
Sir Althred's gaze hardened.
"If we teach you, you obey.
No unsupervised experiments.
No shortcuts.
No arrogance disguised as intellect."
Atelion met his eyes.
"Agreed."
"Magic," the Butler added, "will begin with theory only.
You will not circulate Mana near Aura until restraint becomes instinct."
"I understand."
A pause followed.
Sir Althred studied him closely.
"Why pursue this path at all?"
Atelion answered without hesitation.
"Because in ten years, my empire falls if I don't."
That was not prophecy.
It was preparation.
Sir Althred exhaled slowly. "Then we begin… carefully."
That evening, reports arrived from across the empire.
Border tension.
Merchant disputes.
Noble unrest.
And rumors.
"A boy in the southern districts," a spymaster reported.
"Talented.
Violent.
Untouched by the law. Survivors claim he moves like a shadow."
Atelion listened without reaction, committing the detail to memory.
Another report followed.
"An unregistered ruin discovered near the western pass.
No dungeon records match it. A patrol entered. None returned."
Unfamiliar.
That unsettled him more than anything else.
The story he had read had not mentioned such places. Which meant either they were insignificant…
Or history had erased them.
Later that night, Atelion stood alone by the window, gazing at a world no longer confined to printed pages.
Somewhere beyond his sight:
• A blade was being sharpened for the wrong reason.
• A gifted mage waited in chains.
• A princess with red hair and golden eyes walked steadily toward a fate she did not yet understand.
And beyond even that—
There were movements without names.
Influences without faces.
Threads pulling at events quietly, patiently.
Atelion did not pretend to understand them.
That ignorance, he knew, was dangerous.
"I'll change what I can," he murmured.
"And adapt to what I can't."
For the first time since awakening in this world, he accepted a truth more frightening than destiny:
The future was no longer written.
And that meant it could be worse than the ending he remembered.