Shadows Over Arcadia

I am Ren Drakemore, age 9, second prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia—and I am currently on a quest to gain power and influence in the Kingdom of Hyperion.

The knuckles of my gloved right hand rap sharply three times against the iron door. It rings mournfully like a bass drum, echoing down the dark street lined with tightly packed buildings shrouded in night. The rooftops blot out the moonlight, leaving the ground in shadow.

I listen closely, but there's no sound from inside, only the impatient swish of Huckleberry's tail and the faint scent of ash drifting from the smoke stack above. I glance up at the black cloud overhead, stealing what little light the moon still offers. Where there is smoke, there is fire. And where there is fire, someone should be tending it.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Shadow asks behind me, standing beside the wagon.

"This has to be it."

"Are you sure? All the buildings look like grey squares."

"Yes, but this one's a grey rectangle. And it has a chimney."

"They all have chimneys."

A fair point I refuse to acknowledge.

Lacking heating runes, Hyperion buildings rely heavily on fireplaces, which means countless chimneys. That would usually be a helpful clue when looking for a blacksmith's workshop in Cairndorn. Still, based on the King's directions, and the metal plaque above the door embossed with two Hyperion firearms crossed in an X, I'm confident this is the workshop of the royal artificer.

"This is the place," I repeat, rapping on the door twice more, a bit harder this time out of frustration.

I received a letter from the King by courier this morning, informing me of the location and that his artificer would be expecting my visit. I spent the entire day helping improve local farms, all the while excited to finally meet one of these intriguing artificers and learn about their marvelous creations.

Now, all that built-up anticipation crashes against this cursed, closed door.

A heavy metal clank is followed by a screech as the door grinds inward, flooding our portion of the street with blinding lamplight. My eyes narrow and my hand shoots up to shield them. Even though this is exactly what I've been waiting for, the sudden brilliance of my heart's desire still catches me off guard.

"What's the meaning of this!?" a man's voice demands from somewhere within the torrent of light.

"I… uh…" I falter, taken aback by the question. The obvious answer to the meaning of knocking would be, We wish to enter, but the man's aggravated tone makes me think I'm missing something.

"Oh… you're Arcadian," he mutters.

As my eyes adjust, the scowl of an older man with a short salt-and-pepper beard comes into focus. His eyes look huge—no, there's something metal strapped over the upper half of his face, with large glass lenses that magnify them far beyond normal spectacles.

"How can you tell?" I ask indignantly. It's not the first time someone in Hyperion has so confidently guessed my origins, but today I've gone out of my way to dress for work in the field, not as a noble. The constant disdain aimed at my countrymen is beginning to grate on me.

"Brown eyes, for one. And your impatience." He points at various parts of me as he continues, dressing me down. "A kid in expensive boots, with a heavily armed escort, confidently wandering about at night."

"Okay, I get it."

"Not to mention you knocked three times." He holds up three fingers dramatically, as if that alone should mean something to me. It doesn't.

"Everyone knows you don't answer the door when a stranger comes at night and knocks thrice."

I didn't then, and I still don't now, know why that would matter. In an attempt to get the conversation back on track, I skip to the point. "Are you Mr. Ayla?"

"And you must be the prince the King warned me about."

I frown at his choice of words, though I am relieved when he steps aside to let us in.

As Shadow and I enter, my attention is immediately captured by the most wondrous and peculiar room I have ever seen. It feels like a grand showroom, with every wall lined by tables and cabinets crowded with strange metallic objects in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. Under the warm glow of countless oil lamps mounted along the walls, they gleam and glitter as if competing for my attention.

"What did he say about me?" I ask.

"Oh, just that you made quite the… hu… impression," he says, a faint trace of a suppressed chuckle in his voice. "But I know why you are here, and I simply cannot help you."

"Why? I just—"

"I'm too busy," he cuts me off, striding across the room and waving away my words as if batting at a fly. "Honestly, what was he thinking? I have no time for an apprentice."

"I promise I won't get in your way!" I say, hurrying after him.

"This is no daycare either," Ayla retorts, reaching another metal door. He wheels around and points a accusing finger at me. "The King may want me to humor your passing interest, but he also ordered a ruddy load of firearms to be delivered tomorrow."

"I could help!"

"You could also blow up half my works—hey, put that down!" Ayla shouts across the room.

I glance over my shoulder to see Shadow carefully setting down a metal sphere etched with an intricate web of heating runes.

"Sorry."

Ayla takes a deep breath, pausing to glare at Shadow before fixing his stern gaze back on me.

"I simply can't teach you."

The words land like a dagger to the heart. For the last five days, I've been eagerly anticipating the chance to learn about these fascinating creations. And now, here they are, arranged enticingly before me, only for him to tell me they are out of reach. The one person who can teach me stands right in front of me, yet he refuses. It feels like starving for the very thing I want most while it is dangled just inches away. I haven't even had a fresh book to read in five days.

"I'll pay—"

"Listen, I simply can't teach you," he cuts me off again. "But I know how you Arcadian nobles are… so if you just want to poke about, my son can show you around."

With that, he turns and swings open the door, sending a wave of hot, dry air rolling out. Beyond it lies a much larger room, a massive furnace at its center, surrounded by strange equipment and stacks of wooden crates.

"Alastor!" Ayla calls into the room as I crane my neck, trying to see more of the workshop. A workbench sits in the corner, surrounded by containers of parts, and on top of it rests what looks like a longer version of a firearm, half assembled. My curious gaze is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a boy about my age beside Ayla.

A tangle of dirty blond curls spills from beneath a leather cap. Attached to it is a set of lenses that, like his father's, magnify his hazel eyes to absurd proportions. Hopping into view, his oversized eyes gleam with curiosity, and his lips hold a fixed grin.

"Yes, Dad?" the boy asks. He rotates the goggles from his eyes to his forehead, where they lock into place on his cap.

"This is Prince Drakemore of Arcadia. He's curious about artificing," Ayla says, gesturing toward me. "Could you give him a tour of the shop?"

"Sure thing." Alastor's smile widens as his eyes meet mine. He steps forward, dusting off his gloved hands on his leather apron before placing his right fist over his heart in greeting. "I would love to show you around."

His next step is more of a skip as he excitedly bounds into the room, waving for me to follow. I turn after him, baffled by how his enthusiasm seems to somehow eclipse my own, though only for a heartbeat. In that moment, I realize hope is not lost. I am not being turned away. There is still a chance I can learn how these strange marvels work.

"And only touch what my son says is safe to touch!" Ayla says, directing the words squarely at Shadow, who is still inspecting the orb he picked up earlier. He looks up at Ayla's words. "Yeah, I mean you, big guy." He maintains his warning glare as he backs out of the room, the door closing behind him with a sound like a gong.

"Please forgive my father," Alastor says, stopping halfway down the table to the left of the room.

"He doesn't like Arcadians very much, does he?"

"It's not Arcadians exactly."

"Nobles?"

"It's war," Alastor says with a sigh as he slips onto one of the many wooden stools set around the display tables.

"What does that have to do with Arcadians?" I ask, now thoroughly confused.

"Here, look at this. It will help explain." Alastor gestures toward a strange statue. The moment my eyes land on it, my mouth falls open. I lean in, transfixed.

It is a larger-than-life, bulbous metal flower in constant motion. Its twisted stem turns slowly in its base, its leaves spiral like corkscrews, and its petals bounce up and down, swaying as if caught in a perpetual gust of wind despite the still air. The most captivating part is the lifelike metal hummingbird, frozen mid-flap with its long, narrow beak balanced on the flower's bud. Though the flower moves constantly and the bird shifts with it, the sculpture remains perfectly balanced on its base.

As someone who has made many metal constructs, I have never seen one so incredibly detailed. Every feather seems to be its own hand-crafted piece.

"This is a masterpiece," I whisper, sitting beside Alastor in awe. "Did you use magic?"

"No magic," Alastor says with a proud smile. "I made it with my hands and my tools alone."

"You made this?" My voice rises in awed disbelief.

"Want to see the best part? Bring your hand here!" he says with a giddy tremble, waving me closer to the statue.

"Yes!" I respond without thinking. There is no other answer. If this can somehow be made more wondrous than it already is, I must see how.

I reach out, and Alastor takes my hand, turning my palm up and extending my pointer finger beneath the beak of the bird. He moves so quickly I have no time to protest. As the flower rotates, he slips the tip of my finger under the beak, lifting it away from the bloom.

Both the metallic flower and the bird wobble aggressively when parted, making me flinch, but Alastor keeps my hand steady. After only a few quick wobbles, they return to equilibrium—the bird balanced gracefully on my finger, the flower continuing its slow, hypnotic dance without its avian partner.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Alastor lets go of my hand, and we both stare at the metal bird, seemingly frozen in time, balanced on my finger and gently swaying with the small movements of my hand. I hold my breath, afraid that even the slightest motion will send this priceless creation toppling to the table and shattering into a million pieces. Watching it gives me the strange feeling that time has slowed for me as well. The metallic swirling and clicking around the room seems quieter, and the light reflecting off its many facets glistens like a gem.

"Making beautiful things like this is why my father became an artificer," Alastor says as he slips his own finger under the bird's beak, lifting it from my hand. His smile is nostalgic, but there is a note of sorrow in his tone. "And why I want to be an artificer too." He skillfully places the bird back on its flower perch.

"It's not just art," he adds, turning to me with that hopeful smile returning in full as he leaps to his feet. There is a passionate conviction in his voice, paired with an urgency for me to understand. "Artificers create things that solve problems and make people's lives better!"

He begins moving down the table, and I follow as he points to several items on display. "We make replacement limbs for amputees, filters to purify water, electric lights, and even steam engines that move people and cargo long distances faster than a horse ever could!" He finishes by gesturing toward a small metal wagon of sorts with many wheels, a cylindrical body at the front, and several square cars attached in succession.

"Not a lot of cargo," I remark flatly.
"And only very small people," Shadow chimes in, now standing beside me.

"It's a concept model," Alastor says defensively. "There is a real, full-size version that moves between Astradel and the city of Hillcrest on the western border."

My eyes widen. "I'd like to see that! Can I ride it?" My heart beats faster as I start to imagine myself on a metal behemoth flying through the open country, the wind in my face.

"Unfortunately, no," he says, slumping back onto a stool. "That was my father's life's work. He meant it to bring our people together by shortening the time it takes to travel across the kingdom." His gaze hardens, staring daggers at the model steam engine. "But all they use it for now is moving men and materials to and from the front line."

"He doesn't like seeing his creations, meant to help people, turned into tools of war," Shadow says, glancing at a firearm like the one Daniel uses, sitting in a bracket farther down the table.

"Exactly," Alastor responds. "My father resents that he is forced to work for the king, making things that destroy instead of things that make people's lives better."

"As for why he distrusts Arcadians…" he says, pointing toward me.

"For Arcadia, war is profit and glory," I say with a nod. Now I understand. Mr. Ayla hates war, and my kingdom thrives on it. Our largest export is mercenaries. Other kingdoms pay vast sums to hire the most skilled and dangerous soldiers to fight at their side, and our warriors serve with pride. In Arcadia, status and wealth are earned through demonstrations of power and wisdom on the battlefield. It is ingrained in the culture, where the most powerful rule.

"You could also say that your father's creations have saved your entire kingdom from being slaughtered by the demon army," Shadow says, now looking at one of the longer firearms I had seen earlier, partially assembled.

"You could," Alastor replies with a sad shake of his head. "And he might even agree… but it's more complicated than that. One of those same weapons was used to kill my mother."

Shadow pauses at that, glancing back at us with no reply. "I'm sorry," I say, though the words sound hollow even to me. How could I truly be sorry for something I had no part in? It is a foolish impulse, this need to apologize. More truthfully, I can relate. The mention of his slain mother makes my heart sink, and thoughts of the mother I never knew force their way into my mind. I look down, hiding the wetness gathering at the edges of my vision before it can become a torrent.

"I lost my mother too," I say, my voice edged not with sympathy, but with a petty need to point out that Alastor still has something I do not. "But at least you still have your father."

"You lost both your parents?" Alastor places a hand on my arm, his expression full of concern.

"My father is still alive. He just hates me, blames me for her death, and wants me dead," I say scornfully. I don't even know why I'm telling him this. He doesn't know me, doesn't care about me. His father hates people like me. Why am I saying anything at all? I ball my fists and glare at my boots like they've wronged me too.

"I can only imagine how deep the void is from losing both your parents—and the anger that must be eating at you." he says, his voice soft but steady. How dare he act like he knows me? I want to pull away and storm off, but another part of me realizes…

"You're not alone. I could never truly understand what that's like," he says, and in the empathic sorrow of his hazel eyes I catch a maddening spark of hopeful optimism. "But you are not alone."

I look up and meet his gaze again. He's right. I'm not alone. I have Willow, Shadow, Maribel, Gavin, Griswald… and maybe Alastor. Just as true, I can't let myself fall apart like this. I take a breath, gather myself, and pretend to yawn while wiping away my tears. Alastor withdraws his hand, and I give him a short, quiet, "Thanks."

"You know," Alastor says after a short, awkward pause, "I think your soul will see your mother again one day."

"Why do you think that?" I ask, caught off guard. My cautious skepticism can't quite smother the small flicker of hope that I might one day see her again.

"Because that's what Oberon teaches," Alastor says with a small shrug. "When I die, I believe Oberon will take me to where my mother's soul rests."

"You follow Oberon? The god of death?" I ask. Willow taught me a little about him. She has a certain respect for the gods, being nearly as long-lived and having seen their work herself, with a particular fondness for Oberon over Votheron and Celestia.

"He's the god of life and death," Alastor corrects. "And neither Votheron nor Oberon ever claimed to be gods. People gave them that title."

"Are you sure about that?" I ask, doubtful. "I've read plenty of scriptures that call Votheron and Oberon gods."

"Those were written by their followers," he says matter-of-factly. "I've studied the teachings of all three. First-hand accounts of what they actually said are rare, but Celestia is the only one ever recorded claiming she was a god."

His certainty leaves me unsettled. It's the opposite of what the temple teaches, and yet… I know how little I truly understand about the gods. The way Alastor speaks, so sure of himself, makes me wonder if he might be right.

"I love to read… a lot," I say with a raised brow, "but I'd rather study things I can actually use, instead of stories about gods I'll probably never meet."

"There's at least one god everyone will meet one day," Alastor chuckles, "and I'd rather know what he'll expect from me when I do."

"Votheron is dead, and neither Oberon nor Celestia has lifted a finger to help either of our countries," Shadow says dismissively from across the room, not even looking up from what appears to be a metal gauntlet as he works his way down the table.

"He's got good hearing…" Alastor mutters, glancing over his shoulder at Shadow.

"The gods are interesting and all, but the real reason I'm here is because I want to learn to be an artificer," I say, a pang of frustration creeping into my voice.

"My father doesn't have—"

"Time, I know," I cut in, rubbing my temple. "But what about you? Can you teach me?"

"Me? I'm just an apprentice."

"Are you kidding?" I gesture toward the dancing hummingbird statue. "I could learn a lot from you."

"My dad needs me."

"What about books? Do you have any instructional manuals or blueprints I could borrow?" I'm practically begging now.

"The only manual we have is my father's design ledger. It has all his inventions, and he definitely won't lend it to anyone." Alastor frowns, clearly confused by my persistence.

"You only have one book?" I blink, struck by the absurdity of it. Every noble family in Arcadia has a collection of books.

"Books are expensive," Alastor retorts. "And they take years to write."

Are they? I never realized how lucky I was.

Before I can reply, Shadow calls from the far end. "Do you have a sister?"

"No."

"Then who's the young woman dying in the other room?"

His voice is calm, but in my head his thoughts are urgent: Withering. Bad case.

I'm already moving. Using my diagnostic enchantment, I now see her too — a young woman whose body is being ravaged by the withering.

"We think she's homeless," Alastor says bleakly. "She came knocking a few hours ago, already very sick."

"She needs healing," I say, striding toward the rear door where Shadow is headed.

"My father was going to take her to that new apothecary outside town," Alastor says, following close behind. "We've heard there's a talented healer there who can even cure the withering."

"Oh? Talented, you say?" I stop at the door, a silly grin tugging at my lips.

Shadow doesn't stop. He pushes through the door, his heavy footfalls thudding down the hall.

"Please don't go in there!" Alastor shouts after him, looking worried. "Dad will be angry…" he mutters, realizing Shadow is already long gone.

"Come, I think we may be able to help her," I say cheerfully, stepping into the hall with a bit of swagger. "But tell me more about this healer you mentioned."

"Oh, you haven't heard of him?" Alastor asks as we pass several doors down the hall. "Apparently he's not only very skilled, but also very generous."

"Skilled… and generous?" I repeat, beaming with pride. My stride turns into more of a strut as we step into a dimly lit room. Shadow is already there, kneeling beside the bed of a thin young girl with tangled brown hair. I hear her labored breathing over the faint creak of Shadow's armor. The air is thick with the stench of someone who has lived too long on the streets without the means to clean themselves.

"Yeah, we've heard he only charges what people can afford, and sometimes treats people for free," Alastor continues.

I nearly gag but manage to stop myself. Times like this, I envy Shadow's inability to smell.

"Cleanse," I intone, sweeping my hand across the room. Along the arc of my motion, dust, grime, and filth vanish, leaving the air with a refreshingly neutral scent.

"Wow… you can do that?" Alastor says, wide-eyed.

"More like have to," I quip. "I can't stand smells like that."

"We know her," Shadow says quietly, brushing the girl's hair from her face.

I move to his side, placing my hands over her and letting my healing magic flow. A gentle green glow fills the room, shimmering off Shadow's armor. "She's Lyra Cromwell," I say flatly, focusing on the spell.

I remember the memory Shadow shared a year ago when Lord Cromwell had posted a guild request to find his daughter. She had fled to escape an arranged marriage at twelve years old. Shadow lied, telling Cromwell she had been killed by a beast, and helped her slip away to Hyperion.

Looking at her now, dressed in rags, homeless, and barely saved from death in the gutter, I cannot help but wonder if she would have suffered less had Shadow returned her. As Shadow's actions are essentially my own, I feel a very uncomfortable pull in my mind. One that tells me I need to make this right.

Lyra's eyes fly open and she gasps, as if startled awake, just as the green glow of my spell fades. Her gaze darts frantically around the room before locking on Shadow. "Shadow?" she cries in alarm. In an instant, the shock crumbles into sorrow. Lips trembling, eyes brimming, she throws herself at him with a wailing sob.

Her arms wrap around his neck as if clinging to life itself, her face buried in his shoulder, muffling her quiet sobs into his cloak. Shadow accepts it without hesitation, gently patting her back. "I'm sorry, Lady Lyra," he says softly. "I had no idea—"

"You're him… aren't you…" Alastor's voice comes from behind. I turn to find him staring at me, wide-eyed.

"You mean that talented, skilled, and generous healer who owns the new apothecary?" I say with a smug smile. "Yes, that would be me." I give a theatrical bow.

"And you know her," Alastor adds, gesturing toward Shadow, who now carries Lyra in his arms while she continues to sob uncontrollably.

"It's a long story, but yes."

"She will be coming with us," Shadow says firmly.

"I can't believe you're a healer. You're my age!"

"I think it's just as impressive that you're an artificer at yours," I shoot back.

"Nice of you to say, but I think the world needs more healers than artificers."

"Why not become a healer then?"

"I'm not a mage."

"But you could be," I say matter-of-factly. While in Hyperion I've kept my guard up, maintaining a skin-tight barrier and using my mana sense to measure the capacity of those around me. "You have just over one thousand mana capacity, which meets the minimum requirement to attend the Arcadian Academy of Magic."

"I have mana?" Alastor's voice carries excitement mixed with shock.

"Yes, you do," I say, grinning because now I know exactly how to get what I want. Everyone wants something. If I can give it to them, they'll want to help me back. That is what Willow taught me.

"I'll make you a deal. I will teach you how to use healing magic, and in return, you teach me how to be an artificer."

"Are you sure I can learn it? Doesn't it require an aptitude?" he asks skeptically.

"Anyone with mana can learn the basics with enough dedication and a good teacher," I say, puffing up my chest. "And you would be learning under the best in Astradel."

The best by virtue of being the only healer in Astradel that I know of.

Alastor's eyes light up. "I'd love to take you up on that, but I need to ask my father first."

"Go ahead," I say, watching him hurry from the room.

For a moment, Shadow and I sit in silence, the only sounds the fading echo of Alastor's footsteps and Lyra's sobs softening into quiet breaths.

"Do you think she'll be all right?" Shadow asks in my head, looking down at her as she seems to fall asleep again in his arms.

While I was healing her, I saw a lot of old bruises and fractures. Whatever she's been through… it's going to take time to recover from mentally as well as physically.

"It's my fault."

Our fault, I correct him. But we'll make it right.

A moment later, Mr. Ayla strides back into the room, his eyes narrowing at Lyra. "Did… you really heal the girl?"

"Yes,"

He studies her resting peacefully in Shadow's arms, his expression losing some of the hard edge from earlier. A flicker of cautious hope replaces it.

"And is it true you can teach my son to be a healer?" he asks.

Mr. Ayla proved harder to convince, but the chance for his son to learn the rare and coveted art of healing magic was too tempting to refuse. His mistrust of my Arcadian origins lingered, yet in the end, hope outweighed caution. This skill could free Alastor from a lifetime at the forge, sparing him the fate of crafting weapons for the kingdom or being forced to wield them in war.

We agreed that Alastor would join me at the apothecary every other day, while I split my own time between that work and helping with Hyperion's farms. The rest of his days would still be spent assisting his father. It was a fair compromise.

It worked out well for me too. I am glad to be learning the craft of an artificer, and even more glad that my teacher is Alastor. He's only a few arcs older than me, loves reading and learning, and I respect both his skill and his artistry. I don't share his views on pacifism, but I find him interesting. Talking with him was… fun.

As for Lyra Cromwell, Shadow and I brought her back to the apothecary. She will need time to recover before deciding what comes next. She needs a home, a job, something stable. I plan to stay in Hyperion for only another arc, and I will not see her thrown back on the streets when I leave. Returning to her family in Arcadia is impossible. If Lord Cromwell does not kill her outright, he will make her life a misery for running away.

Part of me knows I share the blame for where she ended up. I helped her escape, then left her to fend for herself. That was a mistake I will not repeat. Whatever she chooses in the future, I will not abandon her again.