Two weeks have passed since I began my apprenticeship with my master, Archmage Margareth. As I still cannot read these strange letters — which seem like an ancient lost language from another time and place — Margareth is teaching me through tales, fables, and, most importantly, visual demonstrations that capture my childish attention while feeding my adult mind.
When my father first brought me to her residence, I was astonished, barely able to hide it. It wouldn't be correct to call that a house, but a mansion — or perhaps even a palace.
— Now I understand what she meant when she said the training would be expensive — I thought, as my eyes scanned the property with barely contained awe.
Upon passing through the majestic wrought-iron gates, adorned with subtly carved arcane symbols that glow with an almost imperceptible light at dusk, the first thing that stands out is the absolute grandeur of the residence. Margareth's mansion rises before me as an undeniable symbol of power and history, its facade decorated with bluish-white marble columns and sculptures that seem to defy not only the passage of time, but the very laws of nature. Every stone seems to tell centuries of history, every carving whispers arcane secrets, creating an atmosphere of luxury and sophistication that transcends mere material ostentation.
The gardens are a natural extension of this calculated splendor. Polished stone paths, some with veins that seem to pulse with a life of their own, wind through meticulously manicured shrubs, exotic flowers I don't recognize from any earthly catalog, and fountains that produce an almost hypnotic melody as they touch the crystalline waters that reflect the sky in impossible ways. The scent of the flowers blends with the fresh breeze, creating an almost surreal atmosphere, where every detail seems to have been planned not just to impress, but to teach something about the harmony between the natural and the arcane.
Upon entering the main building, I am immediately enveloped by the vastness of the entrance hall, which seems larger inside than its external appearance would suggest. The marble floor, with intricate geometric patterns that seem to subtly shift when not directly observed, reflects the soft light emanating from crystal chandeliers suspended from the vaulted ceiling, while the imposing staircase with wrought-iron railings in the shapes of mythological creatures seems to invite me to ascend, where, I presume, the deepest secrets of this extraordinary house rest. Here, there are no common or ordinary furniture — each piece is a masterpiece, many clearly enchanted or created through the arcane arts. Elaborate tapestries adorn the walls, depicting mythological scenes and arcane battles that transport the environment to a distant past, perhaps of kings, kingdoms, and legendary arcanists whose names have been forgotten by time.
The velvet and polished wood furniture in the various living rooms maintains the same standard of sophistication and timeless luxury, in an impeccable harmony between the ancient and the contemporary that suggests time flows differently in this place. Every detail, from the silver chandeliers with flames that never extinguish to the Persian rugs that seem to float millimeters above the floor, reveals that the inhabitants of this house not only have the world at their feet, but perhaps the power to shape it according to their will. The reverent silence that permeates the place seems to guard the stories and memories of a lineage that transcends common nobility. Every corner is a living narrative, and the atmosphere, both welcoming and majestic, transforms the simple act of being there into a privilege reserved for a few.
The perception that Margareth's residence is not just a home, but an icon of arcane power and ancestral tradition, is almost tangible in the air I breathe. Upon crossing its threshold, it seems that we are transported to a dimension where time drags and bends, where the echoes of past generations whisper in the walls with almost audible voices, while the history of a lineage of arcanists unfolds before our mortal eyes.
— Do Archmages have a higher noble status than ours? This mansion makes our residence look like a peasant's hut — I thought, with a touch of childish envy I couldn't completely suppress.
For comparison, a baronet's residence — in my case, mine — combines modest elegance and functional simplicity. Its facade, composed of common gray stone, is discreet and traditional, with a well-maintained slate roof and wide windows, but without any decorative exaggeration or visible enchantment.
The wrought-iron gate of our house stands out only for the subtlety of the family crest, and the garden, although limited in size and without exotic flowers, is well cared for by my mother with personal dedication. Upon entering our residence, the hall is spacious enough to receive guests, covered in dark wood, with soft lighting provided by common candles, without the luxurious adornments or arcane elements found in larger mansions. The furniture is classic in style and of good quality, without ostentation, but worthy of our position.
The walls of our house are adorned with discreet tapestries depicting hunting scenes or local landscapes, and the furniture is practical and functional, with velvet sofas already a little worn and wooden tables that tell stories of generations through their marks. The environment radiates a sense of comfort, well-being, and unpretentious good taste, without any effort to impress visitors. The bedrooms are adequately sized, with simple wooden furniture and modestly quality fabrics, creating a cozy and familiar space that smells of lavender and fresh bread.
The dwelling of a baronet like us reflects a more restrained and functional nobility, centered on everyday comfort and the daily routine of a family that, despite the title, lives just one step above common peasants, far from the almost supernatural ostentation typical of high-standard arcane residences like Margareth's.
— No comparison... — I said softly, so my father wouldn't hear and feel diminished.
By the way, my little sister's name is Vivian.
She has a delicate appearance that already captivates everyone around her. Her hair is light brown, fine and soft as silk, forming small curls at the ends. Her eyes, a deep and expressive navy blue, resemble our mother's, but with a unique sparkle that seems to contain wisdom beyond her age. Her face is perfectly round, with slightly rosy cheeks that invite touch, and a tiny nose that wrinkles when she smiles. I have no doubt that she will be as beautiful as our mother, perhaps even more so, combining maternal delicacy with strong features inherited from our father.
Only Vivian, with her toothless smiles and curious glances, can make me forget all this comparison between rich and poor nobility, between arcane power and everyday simplicity. When I think of her, my heart warms with a renewed purpose: one day, I will be powerful enough to ensure that she never has to worry about anything.
But back to the central point of my studies. As I still cannot read or write in this strange world, Master Margareth began to tell me about the history of the arcane arts — and not magic, as I mistakenly imagined based on my previous life.
— Elian, arcane energy has existed in this world for a long time — Margareth said, sitting in a red leather armchair in her private library, surrounded by ancient tomes that seemed to pulse with forbidden knowledge.
She paused calculatedly, observing my reaction, and continued in a melodious voice that seemed to carry the weight of centuries:
— Accounts in history books — or rather, in the history of the arcane arts — indicate that their use began at least five thousand years ago, when the world was still young and the borders between the mortal and divine realms were more tenuous.
— Five thousand years ago? — I thought, trying to process the information. — Is this world as old as Earth? By the way, is this planet in the same universe as mine, or am I in a completely different reality?
Margareth continued her narrative, seemingly oblivious to my internal musings:
— The oldest accounts say that those who taught humans to use the arcane arts were deities who walked among us. These records, or rather, these primordial writings, were found on stone tablets in underground temples that predate our current civilization.
Margareth stopped, looked directly into my eyes as if trying to assess my comprehension, and asked softly:
— Do you understand what I'm explaining, little one?
— So, does that mean the first humans in this world wrote similarly to the Sumerians in ancient Babylon on Earth? It's interesting how certain patterns repeat between worlds... — I thought to myself, fascinated by the implications.
I nodded for her to continue, trying to appear like an attentive child and not an adult analyzing civilizational patterns across dimensions.
— It is described in these ancient texts that these deities were beings so immense and powerful that the tallest and strongest human of that primitive people seemed like a fragile child beside them. Some accounts speak of beings with multiple arms, others of entities that changed shape according to their will, and still others of creatures made of pure light or darkness.
With a certain skepticism that I couldn't completely disguise, I asked a question that seemed logical to me:
— And why did they teach us such arcane arts, master? Wouldn't they fear that we might use this knowledge against them someday?
Margareth looked at me with an amused smile that didn't reach her eyes, and replied with a question laden with irony:
— Do you really think mere humans, even armed with arcane knowledge, could defeat truly transcendental beings, Elian? It would be like an ant challenging a storm.
Before I could elaborate my reasoning, she continued, her voice taking on a darker tone that sent shivers down my spine:
— They didn't teach us out of benevolence or altruism. They taught us because humans were dying by the thousands. And they weren't natural deaths, but caused by divine beasts, ancient demons, supernatural beings from other planes, and even by entities for which we still have no explanation or complete understanding. Arcane knowledge was a tool for survival, not a gift.
Margareth took a sip of tea from a cup that seemed made of translucent porcelain, and her expression grew even darker, almost menacing. She spoke, with a cold voice that seemed to come from somewhere else:
— And it wasn't just for that. It was also for fun.
When I asked, with the innocence that my childish appearance allowed me, what she meant by "fun," she quickly cut me off with a brusque gesture of her hand and changed the subject, as if she had said more than she intended.
— Elian, it's been two weeks since you started learning with me, right? — I nodded silently. — Until now, I've told you a little about the emergence of the arcane arts, but I've hardly taught you how to generate phenomena using the energy that flows in all things.
Margareth stopped, studied me for a moment with those penetrating green eyes that seemed to see beyond my childish facade, and continued with renewed determination:
— From now on, in addition to continuing to study to learn to read and write our language, you will also begin to meditate to awaken your inner arcane consciousness.
— Meditate, huh? I did a lot of that in my past life, since, as a "mage" in my initiatic order, one of the fundamental principles was daily meditation to calm the mind and perceive subtle energies — I thought, feeling a certain comforting familiarity with the concept.
— But not only that — Margareth added, interrupting my thoughts. — You will also study the nine levels of arcane power, noble etiquette for when you are in the presence of royalty, and specific Arcanist etiquette for when you interact with other practitioners.
— Arcanists? — I asked, genuinely curious about the specific terminology of this world.
— Yes, Arcanists — she confirmed with a solemn nod. — Even if many call me Archmage Margareth, the correct and respectful term would be Arcanist Margareth. The title "mage" is only used for those who, at some point in their career, did something that deeply displeased the kingdom or the established arcane order.
I looked at my mentor in astonishment, unable to hide my surprise at this revelation. She saw my questioning expression, gave a bitter smile that seemed to carry decades of resentment, and continued in a controlled voice:
— Don't worry, little Elian. You will not be stained by my past dishonor. When you are older and able to fully understand the complexities of arcane politics, I will tell you what happened for me to carry that title.
I made a neutral expression and nodded respectfully, but internally my mind was buzzing with curiosity. What could she have done so serious to receive such an apparently dishonorable title? And why, despite that, did she seem to maintain so much power and influence?
Margareth abruptly pulled me out of my reverie with a firm touch on my shoulder.
— Elian, from today on you will begin to meditate to feel the arcane energy flowing within you. But remember well what I'm going to tell you: you can only meditate in my presence, under my direct supervision. Do not try to do this at home or anywhere else, or besides putting yourself in mortal danger, you will put your entire family in danger.
When she said "your entire family," Vivian's innocent little face immediately came to my mind like lightning, and I felt a genuine shiver of fear. Hastily, I replied with all the seriousness my childish voice could convey:
— Yes, master. I understand perfectly.
Margareth continued speaking for a few more minutes about the dangers of unsupervised arcane meditation, citing horrifying cases of children who tried to practice alone and ended up transformed into things I dare not repeat, until my father arrived to pick me up, putting an end to my first true lesson in the arcane arts...