The Archmage's Second Act

Chapter 1: The Second Morning

Chapter 1: The Second Morning

The smell of lavender and old parchment shouldn’t have been there. The last thing Eldrion remembered was the sky splitting open, the taste of copper on his tongue, and the agonizing heat of the Forbidden Chronos Ritual tearing his soul from his marrow. He should have been ash. He should have been nothing.

Instead, he was under a warm duvet.

"Ugh... damn it," Eldrion groaned, his voice cracking with a high-pitched timber that didn't belong to him. He squeezed his eyes shut, his head throbbing. "Everything hurts. Is this the afterlife? Because it’s surprisingly cozy for a guy who just tried to break the laws of physics."

He forced his eyes open. The ceiling was white-plastered with wooden beams—familiar beams. He knew every knot in that wood. He’d spent years staring at them as a boy, dreaming of escaping the Mysthaven estate.

"No way," he whispered, sitting up abruptly. His vision swam. "No, no, no. This is a joke. This has to be an illusion. A high-level mental trap?"

He looked at his hands. They were soft. No scars from the Battle of the Frozen Peak. No calluses from decades of wielding the Staff of Aethelgard. Just the pale, thin fingers of a teenager who had spent more time reading books than practicing his forms.

"I’m small," he muttered, flexing his fingers. "I’m tiny. I’m a literal child again."

A sharp knock at the door made him jump.

"Young Master? Are you finally awake? Your father is going to have a fit if you miss the morning meal again."

The door creaked open, and a woman in a crisp apron stepped in. It was Elara, the head maid. In his previous life, she had died during the Siege of the Capital. Seeing her alive, her face lacking the wrinkles he remembered, sent a jolt of ice through his chest.

"Elara?" he breathed.

"Don't you 'Elara' me, Eldrion," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or did you stay up all night again trying to brew those 'invincibility potions' out of pond water and sugar?"

Eldrion let out a shaky laugh, rubbing his face. "Something like that. I think I just had a really, really long dream. What day is it?"

Elara sighed, walking over to pull the curtains wide. The morning sun flooded the room, blinding him. "It’s the fourteenth of Solis. And before you ask, yes, it’s the day the post arrives. You’ve been moping about it for a week."

"The fourteenth of Solis..." Eldrion’s heart hammered against his ribs. "Wait. Which year?"

Elara paused, narrowing her eyes as she felt his forehead. "Are you sick? It’s the year 492 of the Third Era. Honestly, Eldrion, if you’ve managed to catch a fever just by thinking too hard, your father is going to lose his mind."

"Four-ninety-two," Eldrion whispered. "I’m sixteen. I’m actually sixteen."

"And I'm the Queen of Valoria," Elara joked, swatting his shoulder. "Get up. Wash your face. You smell like old sweat and existential dread. I’ll bring up some tea, but you better be dressed by the time I get back."

"Yeah, yeah. I’m moving," Eldrion said, his mind racing.

As soon as she closed the door, Eldrion scrambled out of bed. He stumbled, his legs feeling uncoordinated and weak. He made his way to the full-length mirror in the corner. The reflection that stared back was a boy with messy obsidian hair and startled violet eyes. He looked fragile. He looked like a victim waiting to happen.

"Okay, Eldrion," he told his reflection. "Think. If the ritual worked, the mana should still be here. The soul is the vessel, not the body."

He sat cross-legged on the floor, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath, reaching for the familiar spark in his core—the roaring ocean of power he had commanded as an Archmage.

He searched. He pushed. He reached into the void where his mana heart should have been.

A moment later, he let out a strangled yelp and collapsed forward, clutching his chest.

"Ow! Son of a—! That’s it?"

He panted, his heart racing. He had felt it. Not an ocean. Not even a pond. It was a puddle. A pathetic, shallow, muddy puddle of mana. His veins felt like they were clogged with sludge.

"This is bad," he hissed, gritting his teeth. "This is really bad. My mana circuits aren't even fully formed yet. They’re... they’re practically vestigial. How did I ever become an Archmage with this garbage starting point?"

He tried to circulate a simple cooling spell—a basic Rank 1 trick. His veins burned as if he were injecting liquid lead.

"Damn it! My capacity is abysmal," he shouted at the empty room. "I’ve got the knowledge of a god and the engine of a broken lawnmower!"

He flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. In his past life, he had been a late bloomer, only gaining real power after the Academy. But he didn't have time to be a late bloomer this time. The Great Calamity was only fifteen years away. If he didn't start now, the world would burn just like it did before.

There was another knock. Elara was back with a tray.

"I heard shouting," she said, setting the tray on the nightstand. "Are you arguing with the furniture again? Because the furniture usually wins."

"I’m just... frustrated with my progress," Eldrion said, sitting up and taking the cup of tea. He took a sip. It was perfect. He’d forgotten how much he missed her brewing. "Elara, do you think I'm weak?"

Elara stopped, her expression softening. She sat on the edge of the bed. "Where is this coming from? You’re a Mysthaven. You’ve got more brains in your pinky than most of the knights have in their whole heads."

"Brains don't stop fireballs, Elara," he said bitterly.

"No, but they tell you when to duck," she replied, poking his nose. "Stop being so dramatic. You’re sixteen. You aren't supposed to be a master of the arcane yet. You're supposed to be annoying, messy, and slightly too obsessed with old books."

"I'm serious," Eldrion said, looking her in the eye. "I feel like I'm running out of time. Like there's a clock ticking that only I can hear."

Elara sighed, smoothing his hair. "You sound like your father. He’s always worried about the future, too. Just eat your toast, Eldrion. The world isn't going to end before breakfast."

"You’d be surprised," he muttered.

"Eat," she commanded, standing up. "And then get to your desk. There’s a pile of mail waiting for you. I think I saw something with a wax seal from the capital."

Eldrion froze. "The capital?"

"The Arcanis Academy," she said with a wink. "Don't act like you haven't been waiting for it. Now, move! I’ve got floors to scrub."

She left him alone again. Eldrion ignored the toast. He lunged for the desk in the corner, shuffling through the envelopes until he found it. The heavy, cream-colored parchment was embossed with a golden crest: a dragon entwined around a staff.

He tore it open with trembling fingers.

To Eldrion Mysthaven,

It is with pleasure that we acknowledge your application to Arcanis Academy. Your entrance examination is scheduled for the first of Harvest. Please arrive at the gates no later than—

Eldrion stopped reading. The date. The first of Harvest.

"That’s three weeks from now," he whispered.

In his original timeline, he had ignored this letter. He had stayed home, cowed by his father’s insistence that he wasn't ready, that his mana was too weak to compete with the high-nobility prodigies. He had stayed, and by the time he finally went to the Academy two years later, he was already behind. He had missed the chance to meet the people who could have helped him stop the shadows. He had missed the chance to save his family.

He looked around the room—the room of a boy who was afraid of the world.

"Not this time," he said, his voice gaining a hard edge. "I don't care if my mana veins are thin as hair. I don't care if I have to rebuild my entire core from scratch."

He stood up, walking back to the mirror. He looked at the weak boy in the glass, but this time, he didn't see a victim. He saw a foundation.

"Hey, Elara!" he yelled toward the door.

She popped her head back in, looking surprised. "What? Is the toast too crunchy?"

"Pack my trunks," Eldrion said, his eyes burning with a light she had never seen in him before. "I’m not waiting for the afternoon carriage."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, laughing. "The Academy doesn't start for weeks. Your father hasn't even signed the travel papers."

"Then I'll sign them myself," Eldrion said, grabbing his cloak. "I'm going to Arcanis. And I’m going today."

"Eldrion, wait! You haven't even finished your tea!"

"Keep it warm for me, Elara," he said, flashing her a grin that was far too old for his face. "I’ve got a world to fix, and I’m already sixteen years late."

He strode out of the room, the weight of the past lifting from his shoulders. His body was weak, his mana was a joke, and he was penniless—but he was Eldrion Mysthaven, the Archmage of the End Times. And this time, the end was going to have to wait.