Shadows Over Arcadia Chapter 3: 3. The Rot

Read chapter 3 of Shadows Over Arcadia by Zacheas on NovelPedia.

3. The Rot I am Ren Drakemore, age 5, and I am the unwanted second prince of the kingdom of Arcadia. https://shadowsoverarcadia.com/api/storage/objects/uploads/94d9f12d-768f-4ec3-a12d-51b487be4617 “Good morning, Young Master. Time for breakfast.” Lady Willow’s voice is as gentle on my ears as my silken pillow is against my head. I slowly open my eyes to find a visage of serene beauty, with brilliant blue eyes and flawless porcelain skin, smiling down at me as she sits at the edge of my bed. I smile and pause for a moment, taking in her graceful elegance before sitting up. Her lavender scent drifts toward me. I can think of no better way to wake up. “Good morning,” I mumble through a yawn, stretching my arms above my head. As comfortable as my bed may be, its allure is nothing compared to what today promises. Today is the day I’ve been waiting for. I eagerly dress myself and skip down the spiral staircase to the second floor of the tower, where Lady Willow has placed breakfast on the large dining table. Most days, I find eating alone at a banquet table built to seat guests I’ll never host… depressing. I usually carry my meals to the couch and bury my thoughts in a book rather than face the vast emptiness of that grand table. Why do we even have a table this size, when we both know I’ll never have company? But today is different. Today is exciting and new. Today, Lady Willow is finally letting me leave the castle with her. I scarf down my plate of sausages, eggs, and toast, too excited to take my time. I know we are not leaving until later, but I rush through my routine anyway, as if moving faster will somehow make the time pass quicker. Lady Willow sits across from me, watching with an amused smile. There is no plate before her. At meals, she always seems content to simply watch me eat. In fact, I have never seen her eat anything before. I assume the fae do not eat human food. “Thank you for breakfast, Willow!” I say, pushing my empty plate away and hopping to my feet. “Of course, Young Master,” she replies with a small nod, her voice as melodic as harp notes. I wipe the remnants of the meal from my lips with my sleeve, the savory taste of Willow’s cooking still lingering on my tongue. She silently nudges my napkin a little closer. Her cooking is surprisingly good for someone who doesn’t eat. “Now, please begin your studies. You will have less time today because of our errands, but that is no excuse to slack off,” she says, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Yes ma’am,” I say as I down a glass of water and rush down the staircase to the first-floor workshop. The first floor is as chaotic as ever. Books spill from overflowing shelves and lie stacked in uneven piles between an eclectic mix of tables, couches, and cabinets gathered from who-knows-where. Every surface is buried beneath books, magical tools, half-finished projects, or crafting supplies. Years of Lady Willow’s lessons have carved the workshop into a patchwork of subjects and experiments, each claiming its own corner of the room. I cross to one of the couches. My wooden, Ren-sized puppet sits motionless on the faded cushions, its limbs slightly askew. Kneeling beside it, I place a hand against its cool wooden chest and focus on the spell Lady Willow painstakingly taught me: the Mind Transfer enchantment. I recite the incantation mentally in the ancient arcane tongue, the words forming clearly in my thoughts like etched runes. Pale blue light flows from my hand, swirling in a warm, steady current of concentrated mana. I feel the familiar pull as the magic anchors to the puppet’s core, linking us. As the spell completes, the puppet’s head lifts. Its blank face tilts toward me, and though it has no eyes, I can feel its awareness. A wave of fatigue crashes over me. This is the most advanced spell I have learned, and it drains a significant portion of my limited mana. The puppet shifts its weight and begins moving its limbs, as if testing its range of motion. “Good?” I