The plane shuddered violently. Warning lights bathed the cabin in crimson as oxygen masks dropped from overhead compartments. All around me, passengers clutched armrests with white-knuckled grips, their faces contorted in terror.
"This is your captain speaking. We're experiencing severe turbulence. Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened."
Turbulence was an understatement. The aircraft lurched sideways, sending my research papers scattering across the aisle. I lunged to gather them—the culmination of fifteen years of work, equations that could revolutionize human longevity.
Another violent jolt. My head slammed against the window. Through the glass, I watched as the right engine erupted in flames.
My heart hammered against my ribcage as adrenaline flooded my system. The metallic taste of fear coated my tongue while my ears registered the cacophony of screams around me. The plane banked sharply, and I felt weightlessness in my stomach as we began to plummet.
So this is how William Harrington dies, I thought with surprising clarity. Not in a laboratory surrounded by admiring colleagues, but in a metal tube hurtling toward the Atlantic.
The papers I'd fought to save slipped from my fingers. Equations that could have slowed human aging by targeting telomere degradation at the cellular level—all meaningless now. The irony wasn't lost on me.
As the oxygen thinned and my consciousness began to fade, my mentor's words echoed in my mind: "Knowledge never truly dies, William. It merely transforms, like energy."
The plane disintegrated around me. Pain exploded across every nerve ending as my body was torn apart. Then darkness. Complete, absolute darkness.
And then... light.
Blinding, overwhelming light. And sound—a cacophony of voices speaking words I couldn't understand. Large hands cradled me, and I felt... small. Impossibly small.
I tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but all that emerged was a pitiful wail.
"A healthy baby boy, Lady Theresa," a woman's voice announced. "Congratulations."
Baby? I tried to move, to protest, but my limbs refused to cooperate.
A beautiful woman with silver-streaked auburn hair gazed down at me, her eyes swimming with tears of joy. "Arthur," she whispered. "Welcome to the world, Arthur Valistein."
---
The pieces came together slowly over the first months of my new existence. I was no longer William Harrington, decorated mathematician and physicist. I was Arthur Valistein, firstborn son of Baron Edmund Valistein, in a world utterly unlike the one I'd left behind.
A world where magic—not science—reigned supreme.
I discovered this truth at just past my first birthday. I was practicing walking, still unsteady on my infant legs, when I stumbled over the edge of a rug and fell hard against the corner of a side table. Pain blossomed from my forehead, and blood trickled into my eye.
My mother rushed to me, cradling me in her arms. "Hush now, Arthur," she soothed. Then, to my astonishment, she placed her palm over my wound and whispered, "*Luxae Sanara*."
A warm, golden light emanated from her hand. The pain receded like an outgoing tide, and I felt the skin of my forehead knitting back together.
Magic. Actual, undeniable magic.
In that moment, everything changed. If magic existed in this world, then perhaps the fundamental laws of physics and mathematics I'd spent my previous life studying could be applied in ways I'd never imagined.
I reached out with clumsy fingers, trying to touch the fading glow around my mother's hand.
"Lux," I said, my first coherent word in this new life. "Lux."
My mother gasped, her eyes widening. "Edmund!" she called to my father. "Come quickly! Arthur just spoke—and he's trying to use magic!"
---
By age four, I had developed a rudimentary understanding of this world's magical system. Elements formed the basis: water, fire, earth, air, lightning, light, and darkness. Most practitioners had an affinity for one, perhaps two elements if they were talented.
I discovered early that I had affinities for fire, lightning, water, and—most unusually—darkness. Four elements was unheard of, especially for a child.
My father, a fire mage of modest power, tried to keep my abilities secret from those outside our household. "The Duke's men are always watching," he would warn. "Talent like yours attracts dangerous attention."
Duke Ragna controlled the region around our small barony, including the diamond mine that should have brought prosperity to our family. Instead, the Duke had manipulated old laws and taxation to drain nearly all profit from my father's lands, leaving us with a noble title but peasant's means.
It was around this time that my sister Sylphi was born. The moment I saw her tiny face, something fierce and protective awoke within me. In my previous life, I had been an only child, devoted entirely to my research. Now, I had someone to protect.
"I won't let anyone hurt you," I whispered to her sleeping form. "I'll become stronger. Strong enough to protect our family."
---
By age ten, I had far surpassed what my parents or their hired tutors could teach me. While other children struggled with basic magical formulas, I was deconstructing advanced incantations, applying differential equations to magical energy flow, and developing my own modified spells.
"The squared amplitude of a fire manipulation spell increases exponentially when you factor in the thermal coefficient," I explained to my confused tutor one afternoon. "Traditional formulas waste nearly sixty percent of potential energy in conversion loss."
Master Thorne, a retired battle mage my father had convinced to teach me, stared as I demonstrated. I traced a modified fire sigil in the air, whispering the incantation with my precisely calculated adjustments. The resulting flame was three times the size it should have been, with half the magical energy expenditure.
"By the Five Spires," he whispered. "Arthur, what you're doing... it's revolutionary."
Sylphi, now six, watched with wide-eyed fascination from the doorway. Later that evening, as I helped her practice her own budding water magic, she asked, "How do you know all these things, brother?"
I smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I see patterns, Syl. In everything."
---
On a crisp autumn morning, as I practiced conjuring lightning in the garden, I overheard my father arguing with men at our front gate.
"The Duke's tax is already triple what is lawful," my father insisted. "We cannot pay more."
"Duke Ragna believes Baron Valistein's financial troubles are exaggerated," a cold voice replied. "Particularly given rumors of your son's remarkable talents. The Academy would pay handsomely for such a prodigy."
I froze, electricity still crackling between my fingertips.
"My son is not for sale," my father growled.
That evening, during dinner, I broke the uncomfortable silence. "Father, I want to attend The Arcanum Spire."
My mother's fork clattered against her plate. "Absolutely not. You're far too young."
"The normal entrance age is fifteen," I acknowledged, "but they make exceptions for exceptional talents."
"And you believe yourself exceptional?" my father asked, though his eyes held no doubt.
"I know I am," I replied simply. "And I know that our family needs the opportunities the Academy can provide. The stipend for noble families who send their children there could save our lands."
My father's shoulders sagged. "Arthur, The Arcanum Spire isn't just a school. It's a battleground of politics and power. Talented students disappear. Duels—officially forbidden—result in deaths every year."
"I've heard rumors," I admitted. "About how the Grand Inter-Academy Tournament is used to eliminate political threats under the guise of competition."
"Not just rumors," said Master Thorne, who had joined us for dinner. "I taught there for twenty years. Behind its reputation for excellence lies a pit of vipers."
I nodded solemnly. "As the old saying goes: 'Knowledge is power, and power draws the predators.' I understand the risks."
"Then why would you want to go?" my mother asked, distress evident in her voice.
Before I could answer, a sharp knock echoed through our modest hall. Our butler appeared moments later, escorting a tall woman in deep blue robes trimmed with silver. The sigil of The Arcanum Spire gleamed on her chest.
"Forgive the intrusion," she said, her voice like smooth steel. "I am Magister Lysandra Caelum, Talent Scout for The Arcanum Spire." Her piercing gaze found me. "I've come about your son."
"How did you—" my father began.
"Word travels," she interrupted. "Especially when a ten-year-old boy recreates advanced formulas and improves upon them." She turned to me. "Your modifications to the standard lightning progression are of particular interest."
I met her gaze steadily. "I simply applied principles of energy conservation."
A small smile touched her lips. "Indeed. The Academy would welcome such... insight."
"My son is too young," my father insisted.
Magister Lysandra's expression hardened. "Duke Ragna has expressed personal interest in young Arthur's education. He's offering to sponsor him directly. I would advise you to consider this opportunity carefully, Baron Valistein."
The threat was thinly veiled. If my father refused, the Duke would find other ways to get what he wanted—possibly by fabricating debts or charges against our family.
"I'll go," I said firmly. "On the condition that my family receives the full noble stipend."
The Magister nodded. "Naturally. You would begin at the winter solstice."
After she departed, my family sat in stunned silence. Sylphi's small hand found mine under the table.
"You don't have to do this," my father said at last.
But I did. In my previous life, I had sought to extend human lifespan through science. Now, in this new world, I would master the formulas of magic to protect those I loved.
"In the Academy," I said, watching as a small flame danced above my palm, "I'll learn what I need to ensure our family's security." The flame twisted, forming the sigil of House Valistein. "And no one—not Duke Ragna, not anyone—will threaten us again."
For in this world of magic and intrigue, I had been given a second chance. And I would not waste it.