A coughing fit took hold of me as I was finishing the reverse Akhnot circle with a shaky hand. I relinquished my grip on the brush and hastened to stifle the sound with the blanket draped over my shoulders, nearly suffocating myself in the process. Yet, I succeeded in muffling the sound. I cast a wary gaze toward the door of my chamber, anxious that the noise might have echoed through the expansive corridor outside, beckoning someone to rush to my aid—whether it was needed or not. An interruption now would be catastrophic, having come this far.

  When my breath finally steadied, and my fears subsided, I returned to my task. Any intruder would surely be alarmed by the sight that would greet them, should they dare enter uninvited; two glass bowls bubbled furiously with multicolored liquids, and no fewer than sixteen symbols adorned the floor—some permanently etched with paint, others temporarily formed with sand and powder. The curtains, tightly drawn, bore the marks of frantic scribblings, for I had run out of parchment in the midst of my calculations. Candles, crafted from unconventional wax, bathed the room in a flickering light.

  It was nearly over. My damned life would finally end or turn around forever, and at this point, I cared not which.

  In this unforgiving world, I possessed but two assets of worth. The first was an enviable perk indeed—wealth. Many a fool, no doubt, would eagerly exchange his life for mine, yearning to inhabit my place, unwittingly condemning themselves to a prison most hellish. The second was my mind. I made no dishonest claim in calling myself a scholar of no small talent. In whatever pursuit I chose to undertake, I swiftly demonstrated competence. Self-taught in the art, my achievements in alchemy alone were, if I might admit, considerable.

  Being the third-born of the Duke of Teloran and the Baroness of Nilsten, and the fifteenth in line for the throne of Irghumin, I had never once had any material desire denied. Not even my elder brother, fourteenth in line for the throne and the future inheritor of my father’s titles, had enjoyed such indulgence. It was not a matter of competence, skill, or even favoritism; he simply lacked my father’s pity.

  I entered this world during a fierce winter storm, a few rooms down the hall in the east wing, eighteen years ago. From the moment I drew breath, it was evident that something was horribly amiss. I had been told that even at birth, I had been frail and bony, with a deformed and twisted right foot—now long gone—a spine marred with protrusions, and an inability to cry as all newborns should. By all accounts, I was a failure from the very start, destined to die. Most children born under such dire circumstances would have perished, and I would have preferred it, harboring no ill will toward my would-be parents for allowing nature to take its course. Yet, I was not like most children. As the second-born son of a near-regal lineage, I was not permitted the release of death. The name Cafligen forbade it. Renowned physicians were summoned from across the kingdom and even neighboring lands. Sisters of Light and so-called holy men and women paraded through my father’s estate, bestowing blessings and employing their methods—whether genuine or fraudulent—to prolong my life a little longer. Every passing magian, and any practitioner of arcane or lost healing arts, was invited to lavish meals and luxurious accommodations on the condition that they attempt to aid me. Even notorious but celebrated criminals were among those who graced our halls. Each contributed modestly to the cause, and through the collective expertise and resources invested in me, a grand miracle was wrought: I, a frail and cursed creature, had been sustained for nearly two decades.

  An exhaustive list of my ailments would bore most and interest only those physicians with a penchant for studying abominations to test their mettle. Nonetheless, those who had the misfortune of interacting with me needed some understanding of my condition. I suffered from a feeble heart and was prone to fainting. Though I could walk unaided with the assistance of my wooden prosthesis and cane, I could manage no more than the span of a room. My nose, rendered utterly useless, left me breathing solely through my mouth, and each morning greeted me with a throat raw from the labored effort. My vision was barely functional with the aid of custom spectacles, yet anything beyond arm’s reach remained a blur. My right ear was deaf, necessitating that others address me on my left and raise their voices. Numerous otherwise harmless foods were inexplicably poisonous to me, drastically limiting my diet. Even the simple act of speech was draining. Beneath my thick bed robes, I bore the indignity of a cloth diaper, for it was a necessity. Lastly, I implored that any who had the misfortune of meeting me for the first time be forewarned of my grotesque appearance, sparing me their gasps of horror as they entered my chamber.

  Never having set foot beyond the walls of the mansion in which I was born, a duller mind might have succumbed to ennui. Yet, I had a purpose and a flicker of ambition, which would soon be rewarded. Though I could not store all the texts in my room, I had been told no less than three bookcases in my father’s library were filled with the volumes I had requested throughout my life. My interests naturally gravitated toward arcana, alchemy, and medicine, and I was well-versed in each, having earned recognition for my proficiency. I took pride in my expertise, attained through rigorous research and occasional discourse with visiting magians and mavericks. Whenever I suffered from common afflictions—such as splitting headaches, fevers, or rashes—I was permitted, and expected, to rise from my bed and concoct my own remedies, sometimes with the assistance of one of the de Irchard sisters, should my vision be too blurred or my pulse too weak.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  It was unfortunate, however, that my lifespark was as feeble as my body. Though I knew the theory and could effortlessly recite the Artanical equations to conjure fire or bend the wills of others, I lacked the vital energy to fuel them, not even as a jest. My talents in the arcane arts, such as the Artan Legacy, remained confined to the realm of theory—until tonight. Tonight, I would be reborn, attain what others could only dream of, or perish in the attempt. Hence, I could not afford any interruptions from the sisters.

  The de Irchard sisters were my lifeline and my only companions throughout my days. When I reached eleven years of age, my frail weight became too burdensome for the compassionate old maid who had once cared for me on top of her other duties. It was then decided that I would require constant care, provided by three young and comely maidens who would attend to my every need, whatever it may be. The sisters were orphans of a once-prosperous family, rendered destitute by the recent Repubian invasion that claimed the lives of their kin. My father had taken them in, binding them to servitude and reserving the right to marry them off as he saw fit. They were neither full-fledged maids nor mere guests. Their sole responsibility was to cater to my every whim—a burden they undoubtedly resented, some more than others.

  Fermina, the eldest of the de Irchard sisters, was two years my senior. She possessed a gentle soul, far kinder than I deserved. Amicable, cheerful, and empathetic, she had even shed tears of pity for a wretch such as me. I had taken care to conceal my feelings for her so as not to burden the poor maiden, but I had recorded my thoughts about her sky-blue eyes, her enticing lips, and her near-divine presence in writing. Should I meet my end, those writings would be discovered—a prospect that filled me with both dread and exhilaration. Then, there was Princess and Rascal.

  Princess, two years my junior, was known to most as Aufelia, but rarely did I use her given name. Our mutual loathing was hardly a secret. She was a spoiled, petulant child who detested having her flaws pointed out. She carried herself like true royalty, and though I had not ventured outside to confirm it, she was rumored to be ‘The Prettiest Flower in Irghumin’. Yet, her beauty did little to temper her vile temperament, her malice towards others, or her unyielding arrogance. I often reserved the more demeaning tasks for her or purposely sought to make her life difficult, while she, in turn, ridiculed and tormented me at every opportunity, sometimes even striking me physically. We had a tacit understanding never to involve others in our feud, so none was aware of how cruel she had been to me for nearly half of her life.

  Rascal was simply Rascal. A year younger than Princess, she was a merry and mischievous spirit, adored by all despite her affinity for infantile pranks, even at the expense of one as frail as myself. Though not the brightest, Riatna performed her duties well enough and was, for the most part, a bubbly presence that lightened the mood. Her laughter was loud and unrestrained, and she was easily amused—a welcome distraction from the dreariness of my existence. She was also the only person I had ever seen nude, after curiosity had gotten the better of me—a spectacle that nearly claimed my life, much to my mortification. That particular incident, much to my continued embarrassment, had become a favored anecdote shared within the mansion, its retelling ever met with chuckles among my father’s court and servants alike.

  The de Irchard sisters alternated their care for me, ensuring that one of them was always present, either by my bedside or just beyond the threshold. It so happened that the depths of the night fell to Princess, and dismissing her when I tired of her presence aroused no suspicion. A faint, guilty satisfaction lingered within me, knowing this would occur on her watch, and I harbored a dark hope that, should anything go awry, she might bear the weight of that guilt forevermore.

  My sweat, chilled with dread, coursed down my useless nose and dampened my spectacles, distorting my sight even further. With the final arc I etched, all preparations were complete. I flung aside my robe, stripping myself bare—an act that on any other night would have been sheer folly, courting death itself. Propped only by my cane, I swallowed the scalding concoction in one agonizing draught, nearly choking on its heat. The bottle slipped from my feeble grasp, yet the glass did not shatter upon the floor; it merely rolled away, clearing my path. I intoned the incantations, adhering to their necessary rhythm. There was no need to slice for blood, as I had already coughed forth more than enough, still warm. I smeared it across the symbol behind me, daubed it upon my brow, and scattered the remainder into the last boiling elixir, which darkened ominously.

  I was doing it—at long last, it was happening! Either death would claim me, or deliverance would. The fruit of all my labor, my studies, and my relentless pursuit of knowledge was about to ripen. I was prepared to invoke the dark arts of theurgy, employing the long lost Ritual of the Transcendent Soul. I had pored over ancient manuscripts, desperately piecing together fragments of lore that hinted at the ritual’s workings. It would free my essence from the shackles of my failing flesh, allowing my immortal soul to ascend into a form of pure energy—ageless, radiant, and mighty. Yet I was fully aware of the peril: if the ritual faltered, I might sever the thread of life without gaining anything in return; or worse, my soul might prove too fragile to endure outside of its corporeal vessel. Nevertheless, I was ready to confront these risks.

  With a scream, as fire seared my throat shut and blue flames erupted from my mouth, I hastily dipped my finger in ink, my vision dimming to nothingness, and hoped to scrawl the final sigil upon my chest in blindness. My trembling hand faltered, devoid of confidence. My breath ceased; my body crumpled backward, and my eyes burst within their sockets.

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