Arcane Heir: History's Strongest Mage

"Oh, you two are related? What a coincidence," Rudy said, his tone brimming with innocent wonder.

Judging by his expression, it was clear he had no idea what the Prichard name signified—or if he did, he hid it well.

Magnus ignored the remark, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips, gaze still remaining on Melody.

"Still frosty as ever, I see," he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Though I must admit, I find it rather interesting to hear news of your betrothal."

At his words, Melody shifted in her seat, visibly uncomfortable.

Michael realized then that their façade had been pierced. The Winterbornes' ties to the royal family meant they likely adhered to a stricter code of propriety than most nobles. If Magnus knew the truth—and Michael was certain he did—that could spell trouble.

This isn't good. If everyone finds out we lied… Michael's gaze flicked to the handsome man.

Magnus finally turned toward him, his composed expression unwavering. He regarded Michael with quiet interest, and the weight of that gaze made Michael's heart thump in apprehension. A few choice words from this man could turn the entire student body against him.

"Very interesting," Magnus said smoothly. "To think you'd agree to a betrothal with this ice queen. Are you fond of being abused?"

Michael blinked, caught entirely off guard. What kind of question is that? And how am I even supposed to answer?

"I—" He barely got the word out before a voice boomed from nearby.

"I'd like to say a few words," Bartholomew announced, his trademark smile firmly in place. "But I'll keep it short—many of you are probably too hungry to listen anyway."

A ripple of chuckles rolled through the older students.

"Here at Arcadia," the headmaster began grandly, "we pursue the Arcane—gathering like-minded individuals and equipping them with the knowledge to forge their own paths of exploration."

He gestured expansively, his voice resonating through the hall.

"By building upon the work of those before us, we reclaim what was lost to time—restoring what is rightfully ours."

The passion in his words carried through the room, filling the students with a quiet, swelling sense of purpose. Michael felt it too—his pulse quickening, drawn in by the mystery and allure of the arcane.

"So, my little seedlings," Bartholomew continued, his tone almost reverent, "we will feed and nourish you, granting you our protection and our knowledge, in hopes you will grow into towering trees—stretching toward the heavens and bearing fruit that the whole nation may share." His arms opened wide as though to embrace them all.

For a heartbeat, the great hall held its breath in silence. Then Magnus began to clap, the sharp sound echoing through the chamber. One by one, others joined in until the hall thundered with applause.

Michael found himself clapping as well, swept along by the headmaster's fervor. Now he understood why the man called them seedlings—and why talent alone was not the sole key to entering Arcadia.

As the echo of the applause lingered, Michael felt a deep yearning for the knowledge the headmaster promised. Not just as a weapon to grow stronger and one day get revenge on his mother's killers, but to truly explore the boundless mysteries of the arcane.

Michael had always been fascinated by magic, though until now, he'd never been able to pursue it. Bartholomew's words struck him like a spark to dry tinder—reigniting a passion that had smoldered quietly within him all these years.

"Now, let us feast!" Bartholomew declared, clapping his hands together with a resounding smack.

Across the hall, food materialized on the long tables in a shimmering display of magic. The air instantly filled with the mouthwatering aroma of freshly roasted meats, rich stews, and warm, spiced bread.

At the violet table, platters of golden roast chicken, thick cuts of red meat, steaming vegetables, hearty stews, and a gleaming crystal punch bowl appeared in an instant. The sight alone made Michael's mouth water.

Rudy was the first to pounce, carving into the chicken with surprising precision, severing the thigh in one clean motion. He showed no awareness of the impressed glances from nearby students—his entire focus fixed on stacking his plate high with as much food as it could possibly hold.

The others quickly followed suit, their earlier conversations and tensions evaporating in the face of such a banquet.

Michael moved forward as well, carefully choosing a modest assortment of items. To anyone watching, he might have seemed like a picky eater, though in truth he was simply wary of overindulging too soon.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Melody glaring at him, her lips pursed ever so slightly in what looked suspiciously like a pout.

Without a word, he reached for her plate, filled it neatly, and set it back in front of her.

"Here," he said.

Melody flinched in surprise. Even though he was no longer her butler, she still seemed conditioned to expect him to serve her.

She glanced down at the plate and let out a soft huff. "I don't like green beans."

"I know." Michael's grin turned devilish as he went back to arranging his own plate.

Such open defiance would have been unthinkable back in the Winterborne manor. But here, in Arcadia—and in full view of so many students—there was nothing she could do.

It was a small thing, but the gesture filled Michael with a quiet satisfaction. It was mischief, yes, but also a subtle reminder to both of them: here, he was no longer her servant.

Magnus, lounging nearby, observed the exchange with keen interest, a lazy grin curving his lips.

Unaware of the scrutiny, Michael continued loading his plate until he came across a platter of perfectly seared red meat, juices pooling invitingly on the serving tray. Just looking at it made his stomach growl.

He took a generous portion and returned to his seat, unable to resist sampling it immediately.

The first bite nearly stopped him in his tracks. The meat melted on his tongue, its deep, savory richness flooding his senses. Despite all the delicacies he'd enjoyed as a noble's son and later as Melody's butler, nothing he'd tasted compared to this.

As he savored the flavor, he felt an unexpected ripple through his meridians. The mana flowing within him seemed to stir—to dance—as though the taste itself was awakening something deep inside.

What the hell is this?