Gideon Bastius
The cheap wood of the workbench groaned under the impact of my fist.
"It would be desirable, Master Gideon," I snarled, pitching my voice into a nasal, pompous whine that perfectly mimicked King Glayder's latest request, "if you commenced the immediate development of a seafaring vessel capable of traversing enormous oceanic distances."
The mocking echo hung in the air, thick with the scent of ozone from a half-melted candle and stale coffee.
"Sometimes!" I roared, shoving back from the bench, sending a fresh cascade of schematics, stress calculations, and rejected coil designs fluttering to the already paper-carpeted floor like confetti at a funeral for common sense.
"Just sometimes! A 'Thank you, Gideon,' or maybe a 'You absolute genius, Gideon, how do you do it?' would be appreciated!" My fist connected with the table again for emphasis, making a precariously balanced scale model of a mana-conversion engine rattle alarmingly. "Is basic gratitude too much to ask? Apparently!"
I slumped back into my chair, the familiar, angry heat simmering beneath my skin. The sheer, galling audacity!
"First," I muttered, scrubbing a grease-stained hand over my face, feeling the grit of sleepless nights, "they strong-arm me into teaching those snot-nosed brats at Xyrus starting next year. As if I have time to spoon-feed fundamentals while the continent creaks like a rotten ship!"
My gaze swept the chaotic panorama of my workshop—half-built artifacts humming with unstable mana, walls plastered with equations, the floor a treacherous minefield of tools and components. "And now? Now, on a whim, they want a transoceanic vessel? Revolutionary maritime transportation conjured out of thin air? As if I just whistle and continent-spanning engineering miracles appear? Bah!"
The flask Himes had pressed on me—something foul-smelling but potent he claimed came from a dwarven distillery in the northern hills of Darv—felt cool in my hand. I uncorked it and took a deep, burning swig.
The liquor seared a path down my throat, a momentary distraction from the bureaucratic inferno. Was this newfound "unity" among the three kingdoms actually an improvement? For me? Doubtful.
At least when I was just the Glayder family's resident mechanical slave, the demands, while incessant, came from a single, predictable source of entitled ignorance. Now? Now I had the Eraliths with their forest-born impracticalities and the Greysunders with their way too luxurious requests and veiled threats all piling their impossible wish lists onto my already buckling workbench.
To me this was just more multiplied hassle.
My brooding was cut short by the heavy, rhythmic thump of Himes's steps approaching my sanctum sanctorum—the basement of my hous in Xyrus. The door creaked open, revealing his perpetually unimpressed face. "Master Gideon," he intoned, his voice always that irritatingly calm of his.
"I don't care about visitors, Himes!" I barked, not looking up from a particularly vexing equation for stabilizing mana inside artifacts. "Tell whoever came to bother me that I am out, or dead. Just pick up an excuse, everything is fine."
"Actually, Master Gideon," Himes continued, utterly unfazed by my outburst—decades of service had inured him, "the visitors today are… particular."
"Get. To. The. Point." I ground out, each word punctuated by the tap of my stylus on the bench.
"They are Prince Corvis Eralith of the Kingdom of Elenoir," Himes announced, "accompanied by Miss Alanis Emeria. She is a nurse and one of the Eralith Family's assistants. You have met her before, sir. A couple of times, if memory serves."
Alanis? Alanis Emeria? The name cut through the fog of irritation like a beam of focused light. Images surfaced: sharp, intelligent eyes the colour of tens of gems observing council meetings, asking surprisingly pertinent questions about field-medic mana applications; a calm, efficient presence during the tedious inter-kingdom liaison gatherings; a quiet wit that had punctured Blaine Glayder's pompous bluster, earning a rare, genuine chuckle from me before I could stifle it.
Fine woman. More than fine. She had a brain that actually functioned, a rare commodity among the political ornaments usually paraded before me. Competent. She didn't waste my time with drivel.
The prospect of enduring another royal whelp evaporated, replaced by a flicker of… not anticipation, certainly not. Professional curiosity? Tolerance? Fine. Alanis being here meant it wasn't just royal posturing. Probably. Hopefully.
"Alanis Emeria?" I repeated, feigning only mild recollection, though my scowl softened almost imperceptibly. I shoved the flask into a drawer, suddenly conscious of the state of the workshop, the state of me.
"Fine," I grunted, waving a dismissive hand that sent another flurry of papers airborne. "Fine, Himes. Show them in. But if the prince starts bleating about things coming from the realms of dreams, I'm throwing him out the window myself. Understood?"
I started haphazardly shoving the most volatile-looking projects under tarps, creating a marginally less explosive path through the paper blizzard. Alanis might have a brain, but royal children were invariably tedious. Still… her presence made the intrusion marginally less intolerable. Marginally.
Corvis Eralith
The polished stone pavement outside Gideon Bastius's house felt unnervingly quiet after the vibrant chaos of Xyrus Academy's main corridors. Alanis stood beside me, her posture impeccable, her expression the calm mask of the expert royal aide.
"Your Highness," she murmured, her voice low and smooth as polished river stone, yet carrying an undeniable note of caution, "I don't suggest you get your expectations too high. Mister Bastius is… renowned for his temperament. And his disinterest in social niceties."
Her gaze, sharp and observant like a forest hawk, flickered towards the imposing oak door that separated us from the legendary artificer.
"Patience will be our greatest asset today."
Well, that's precisely why I brought you, Alanis, I thought, the silent response echoing in the vault of my mind.
I remembered the subtle attraction Gideon had once harbored for Alanis before the tidal wave of war drowned such personal nuances. Before she, like so many others, faded into the background noise of Dicathen's collapse.
The recent flurry of inter-kingdom diplomacy had hopefully ignited that spark, or at least planted her firmly in Gideon's memory as someone worth tolerating.
Not that her presence was merely strategic. A wave of genuine appreciation washed over me. Alanis Emeria wasn't just a political tool. She was the steady hand that had bound my sprained wrists after Albold pushed me too hard in training, the calm voice that had talked me down from frustrated tears when I didn't develop a core, the efficient presence applying healing salves when Mom's gentle touch or Tessia's fierce concern wasn't available.
Why was I here? Grampa. Always Grampa. He dragged along as his shadow while he engaged in Elder-ly discussions with Director Goodsky—talks undoubtedly revolving around Tessia's progress, the Academy's future, and maybe the increasingly precarious state of the continent.
While they navigated the currents of high politics, I saw an opportunity. A chance to step off the sidelines, however tentatively. Gideon Bastius wasn't just famous; he was the crucible where Dicathen's technological future was being forged. If anyone could grasp the implications of what I knew, could translate meta-awareness into tangible advantage, it was him.
And Alanis… Alanis was my passport past the inevitable bristling defenses.
The thought of the day ahead settled like lead in my stomach. Long didn't begin to cover it. After navigating the minefield of Gideon's workshop, I needed to gather the frayed edges of my courage for an even more perilous encounter: Cynthia Goodsky.
The Director. The former Alacryan spy. The woman whose piercing gaze felt like it could peel back layers of pretense to the terrified core beneath.
Yes, it could be dangerous. The admission was cold, stark. Revealing knowledge of Uto, Draneeve, Kai Crestless, the Greysunders' venomous treachery… it screamed 'traitor's knowledge' or worse, 'spy'. One misstep, one hint of suspicion I couldn't deflect, and the fragile sanctuary of my life could shatter.
But the alternative? The phantom images were relentless, burned into my mind by the 'perfect instance': Elshire Forest destroyed, Zestier shattered, my parents' proud faces contorted in defeat, Tessia… No. The cold fear was eclipsed by a hotter, fiercer resolve.
A new, insidious doubt had recently begun to gnaw at the edges of my resolve, however. When? In the original timeline, the Alacryan hammer blow fell after Arthur delivered the blueprints for transcontinental ships to Gideon which quickened the arrival of the Alacryans in Dicathen, but that wasn't the only cause.
Without Arthur here, without that catalyst, did the invasion timeline shift? Push forward? Stall? The portals in the Beast Glades, the one later discovered near Darv… were they the only ones? What if Agrona had sown more gateways across Dicathen like hidden landmines, unknown even to the perfect instance? The possibility was chilling, expanding the scope of the unseen threat exponentially. Time wasn't just against me; it was a labyrinth with shifting walls.
Yeah, I needed to act fast. Before the walls close in completely. I had to assume that I had a year seeing that soon after my birthday in two weeks the Tri-Union will be declared officially.
"I think I have some cards in hand," I replied to Alanis, forcing a confidence into my voice I didn't entirely feel. It wasn't just bluster. The meta-knowledge was a card, albeit one I had to play with agonizing care. Alanis herself was another. My position, however fragile, was a third.
"I am sure of it, Your Highness," Alanis responded, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. That simple, unwavering belief, was a balm. Her respectful nod wasn't just protocol; it was a silent pact, an acknowledgment of the unspoken weight I carried.
Finally, after an eternity measured in the frantic beats of my heart and the slow crawl of dust motes in the sunbeam, the heavy oak door groaned open.
Himes, Gideon's long-suffering butler, stood framed in the doorway, his expression, his posture radiating a weary resignation that spoke volumes about the chaos within.
"Master Gideon will see you now," he intoned, stepping aside. Taking a steadying breath I didn't truly feel, I followed Alanis inside.
———
I had always known Gideon lived in a mess, but reading about it and seeing it firsthand were two entirely different experiences. His workspace was utter chaos—scrolls, clothes, bottles, and random scraps of various materials littered the floor, each piece of clutter telling a story of his relentless, unorganized genius.
I tightened my grip on the blueprints I had brought. If there was one thing that could catch Gideon's attention, it was his passion for his craft. Despite his gruff demeanor, his fascination with Arthur's knowledge was proof enough—he cared deeply about his work, even if he didn't show it in conventional ways.
"Miss Emeria, good to see you," Gideon greeted, his tone just short of irritated, though nowhere near as annoyed as he could be. Then he turned his attention to me, his posture shifting as he attempted—rather unsuccessfully—to adopt a professional air.
Professionalism and Gideon, just by first glance, were clearly not friends.
"Prince Corvis, to what do I owe your visit?" He asked, his eyes silently conveying the words he didn't bother to speak aloud: Be quick, and be gone soon, brat. I held back a chuckle, bowing slightly.
"It's an honor to meet you, Artificer Gideon," I said with a practiced politeness. Before he could dismiss me or lose interest, I cut straight to the point. "I'd like to talk to you about business."
Gideon Bastius was a man driven by two things—his intellect and his time. Praise fed the former, but respecting the latter mattered even more.
As I considered my approach, a thought flickered in the back of my mind. Was I being manipulative?
I was calculating, deliberately tailoring my words and actions to fit his personality—was that wrong? Was I behaving like some kind of sociopath, analyzing people's tendencies to achieve the best possible outcome in a conversation because I knew them like open books?
Then, another realization struck me. I didn't really have many personal connections outside of my family. The few friendships I maintained—Albold and more or less Alea—were ones tied to the Eraliths. Not necessarily built on shared experiences, but on circumstance.
I wondered if I truly knew how to connect with others beyond strategy and necessity. And if not—was it time to change that?
Grampa is totally right, I thought. I really need to go to school and make acquaintances outside of politics.
"Business? Listen, Prince, I don't have ti—" Gideon began, but I cut him off by handing him my blueprints.
"I'd really appreciate it if an expert like yourself could review them," I said firmly.
For the past few days, I had spent every waking moment working on a project that could help Dicathen—something that wouldn't easily fall into Alacryan hands, at least not until it was too late for them to use it against us.
I had secretly met with Elder Camus, relying on his expertise in wind magic for guidance. I had also combed through every document in my father's possession regarding the materials available in Elenoir and throughout Dicathen. From all of this research, I had devised a blueprint for a mana-powered communication device—a radio that, instead of using conventional radio waves (which I had no means of harnessing), would transmit information through wind-affiliated mana particles.
This device would be a game-changer, a replacement for the expensive and rare communication scrolls currently used in Dicathen, as well as the slow and inefficient long-range projection gear.
Gideon's eyes widened as he stared at the blueprint. "T-this is…" His voice faltered. Then his gaze snapped between me and Alanis. "Who gave this to you?"
Alanis, ever composed, responded, "You should speak with His Highness, Mister Bastius." Thank you for the assist, Alanis!
"I designed the blueprint myself," I replied, making sure to acknowledge the help of Elder Camus. "With the insightful help of Elder Camus Selaridon."
Gideon fell silent, his expression shifting into deep contemplation. His sharp eyes scanned the blueprint, analyzing every detail.
Finally, he spoke. "How old are you? Nine, ten? How can a kid design something this well?" His tone carried equal parts suspicion and curiosity.
I forced a small smile. "I grew up drawing with my sister a lot!" I said, though I cringed inwardly at my own attempt to sound innocent. I was deliberately downplaying my intelligence to appear less intimidating—this was definitely despicable.
"Frightening kid," Gideon muttered. Then, after a pause, he sighed. "Alright. What do you want? I'm listening."
Perfect.
"I need your expertise, Master Gideon. You're the most acclaimed artificer in Dicathen," I stated.
"You speak of needing my skills when you just handed me a blueprint that's revolutionary for both magical theory—specifically in how wind mana particles function—and technological advancement," he countered.
I held his gaze steadily. "I'm still just a kid. I don't have your experience, nor your craftsmanship."
"If that's the case, why show this to me personally? You could have just gone through your parents and hired me." He raised an eyebrow, testing me.
He was right—but secrecy mattered. I couldn't risk unwanted attention from the Greysunders or any potential spies. More importantly, I wanted to build a genuine working relationship with Gideon. He was too valuable to be reduced to a mere political asset.
"I prefer direct dialogue with the people I intend to work with," I answered honestly. "And beyond that, I don't want to trouble my parents. Their duties as Elenoir's monarchs already weigh heavily on them."
They wanted their children to have a happy, carefree childhood. Had I asked, they would have blindly supported me—that was the kind of parents they were. But I preferred to rely on myself when it wasn't necessary to burden them.
"What exactly are you planning?" Gideon asked, a genuine spark of interest flickering in his eyes.
"Oh, simple," I replied, retrieving my blueprint thanks to Alanis distracting Gideon. I fully intended to give it to him, but for now, I wanted to keep control of the conversation.
"I want to bypass my lack of a mana core," I stated plainly.
Both Gideon and Alanis froze, their eyes widening in shock.
"Kid…" Gideon sighed, rubbing his temples as if trying to will away the absurdity of my words. "I'll admit—it's terrifying that you, a child without a mana core, were able to design something this advanced. But there are some things that are still just dreams."
The usual skepticism. I had heard it all before.
"So?" I asked, lifting the blueprint slightly, hovering it near a half-burnt candle. "Is it a yes or no?"
Gideon let out a sharp breath, staring at me, then at the blueprint.
Finally, with a reluctant nod, he muttered, "Fine. Yes."