I am Ren Drakemore, the unwanted second Prince of Arcadia, who will one day take the throne from my tyrannical father and good-for-nothing brother. And today is my 8th birthday.

For most people, birthdays are joyous occasions, or so I've been told. They are meant to be a time to gather with loved ones and celebrate life. But when your birth also marks your mother's death, the day carries only sorrow.

Every year, on the 10th day of Blossomarc, the entire kingdom holds a grand festival. Commoners and nobles alike celebrate the memory of Queen Arin. In a way, my birthday is widely observed, but never for me. Even if they knew of me, would they rejoice in the birth of the prince who stole their queen?

Even in death, my mother casts a long shadow. How great she must have been to be so loved, even now, so many years later. Surely that love is only matched by the hatred they would bear for the one who took her from them. It matters little that I know not how I did it.

All night long, the sounds of nagging music and cruel, mocking laughter drift up from the city streets, echoing through my tower and rattling inside my head. Pressing my pillow over my ears does little to mute the concussive blasts in the sky, each one flooding my room with bursts of blinding, disorienting color. Same as every year, sleep will not come. And same as every year, Willow will hold me, keeping me from breaking apart in her arms.

She will undoubtedly plan something private to mark the day for me. She always does. Most likely, she'll arrange a special meal and present me with some thoughtful gift. Every year, she goes to great lengths to fulfill some imagined checklist of birthday traditions she believes human children desire. I'm grateful for the effort, but it's obvious she doesn't fully understand humans, children, or birthdays.

If I had the choice, I'd rather skip it altogether and focus on my training. Nearly being devoured by a monstrous worm three years ago has a way of motivating you.

That fight with the dreadcoil taught me an important lesson: I can't rely on magic alone. If I'd been alone and burned through all my mana the way I did that day, I would have been defenseless. Gavin, who has mana reserves similar to mine, uses it far more efficiently. That's why I asked him to train me in swordplay and physical enhancement spells, skills that will let me conserve mana.

Gavin agreed, but told me he would have to do so in secret. My dear father had ordered the few nobles who even know I exist to keep their distance. Gavin saw that command as a betrayal of duty and chose to come anyway, slipping into my tower most nights for an hour of practice before joining Lady Willow and me for dinner, then heading home.

Under his guidance, I've grown stronger and more capable with a sword. One of his first lessons was that physical conditioning helps reduce the toll mana drain takes on the body, so I've made strength and endurance training a part of my daily routine.

My magical training with Willow has also advanced. I can now command four puppets at once, linking my thoughts and vision with them over several miles. They are great sparring partners when Gavin isn't around. My collection has grown: four humanoid constructs, a flock of hummingbirds, and a hawk with steel talons and a razor beak.

I haven't neglected my studies either. By assigning two puppets to read separate books at once, I can finish over a hundred volumes a year, absorbing knowledge across countless subjects. I've nearly burned through Lady Willow's entire library and am already searching for new sources.

The biggest change came six arcs ago, when Lady Willow finally agreed, after years of my pleading, to teach me offensive magic. She decided my control had improved enough to safely handle destructive spells. Since then, I have mastered second-tier spells in fire, earth, wind, and water magic.

Spell tiers do not measure power, but rather complexity and the order in which they are typically taught. The strength of any spell depends entirely on the caster's magical capacity. According to Willow, mages only need to learn all first-tier spells in every element to graduate. This means I have already gone beyond the standard curriculum of certified mages, a fact I am quite proud of.

I remember the day Lord Griswald used the first-tier fire spell Fire Lance against the Dreadcoil. The crater it left behind gave me a clear benchmark for a trained mage's power. My version of Fire Lance now leaves the same level of destruction. I'm not claiming I could defeat a battle-hardened warrior like Lord Griswald, but matching his strength with a spell at age eight feels like a promising start.

Right now, I'm working on a unique puppet, unlike any of the others. Its wooden frame is reinforced with iron and outfitted with armor, clothing, boots, gloves, a hooded cloak, and a mask to conceal its true nature. I've armed it with a sword and several daggers purchased from a local blacksmith.

What sets this puppet apart are two specialized enchantments: Replicate Voice and Thought Transmission. Replicate Voice allows it to speak and mimic any voice, while Thought Transmission enables telepathic communication, letting me guide it from a distance and send messages without speaking.

"I think you're about ready," I say to myself, studying the puppet as it hangs from its support frame.

The tower door creaks open, and Lady Willow steps inside, her traveling cloak draped elegantly over her shoulders, a magical storage bag at her side. She left earlier to make our weekly potion delivery to the apothecary.

"Welcome home, Lady Willow!" I call from across the workshop with a smile. "How's Lady Muara?"

"Lady Muara couldn't buy any of our potions," Willow replies calmly as she hangs up her cloak.

"She couldn't buy any of them?" I ask, confusion and surprise mixing in my voice. "What happened?"

"It seems Lord Fobos has decided to sabotage our potion-making venture," Lady Willow says as she climbs the spiral staircase, beckoning me to follow.

"What did he do?" I demand, hurrying after her. "How did he sabotage us?"

At the top of the stairs, she settles at the tea table by the window and motions to the chair across from her. I pull it out and sit quickly, waiting for her explanation.

"Tell me what that pompous jerk did," I say, frustration bubbling over.

"When I arrived at the apothecary, Lady Muara told me she couldn't accept our shipment. Her storage was already full," Willow says, her voice as composed as ever. "The Merchant's Guild has made sure every shop in the capital is stocked to the brim with healing potions."

"How is that sabotage? Shouldn't she honor her deal with us first?" I ask, frowning.

"Guild rules give priority to contracts made through them," Willow explains. "Lord Fobos is flooding the market through Guild channels, cutting us out entirely."

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"But where is he even getting the potions?" I ask. "I thought there weren't many people making high-grade ones locally."

"You're correct," Willow says with a knowing smile. "They couldn't have sourced that many inside the kingdom. Most likely, they imported large shipments from neighboring nations."

"That must be costing them a fortune," I say as the thought sinks in. "Buying at full price, paying for transport… they're probably taking a huge loss just to stop us from earning coin."

"And with trade negotiations between nations happening in person," I add, "it would take a competent person at least six arcs to secure contracts, acquire the goods, and transport them to flood the market. Fobos doesn't exactly scream competent to me."

"Indeed," Lady Willow says dryly. "For someone like him, I'd estimate closer to two years, four arcs, and ten days." She tilts her head, thoughtfully. "Give or take a day."

I blink at her, bemused. "That is… a very specific estimate."

"Naturally," she replies, a smirk tugging at her lips. "But, Lord Fobos' short-sightedness works in our favor. By flooding the capital's market, he's created a massive deficit of potions in neighboring nations. Prices there will soar."

The thought settles, and I can't help but feel a flicker of satisfaction. "So by trying to ruin us, he's actually handed us an even greater opportunity," I say, shaking my head at the irony.

"Thankfully, Lord Fobos isn't particularly clever," Willow remarks, her tone laced with bored amusement. "You would be wise to learn from your adversary's mistakes."

"Always consider not just the immediate effects of your actions," she continues, "but the ripple of consequences they will create and how people are likely to respond, even many steps ahead."

"Understood," I say, mulling over our options. "As for the potions we couldn't sell today, we could take them to a neighboring nation instead. Hyperion is closest and has friendly ties with Arcadia."

"On the other hand, we could give today's potions to the commons for free," I suggest. "I want to keep making deliveries to our friends there, even if we can't sell locally."

What Fobos may not realize is that my goal isn't only to make money selling potions. Whether I ever sell another or not, I still want the poor of the commons to have access to them. And I want them to know those potions come from me. I want the people of this kingdom to know I exist, to speak my name with gratitude. I want them to remember that I gave them life when my father and his loyalists would have let them die.

Lady Willow studies me in silence, her expression unreadable. "If that is what you wish," she says evenly. "But you must think about how Lord Fobos will respond when he learns of this, assuming he hasn't already."

Moments later, Lady Willow and I leave the castle again, her magic bag in hand, heading for the commons. We pass through the nobles' district, where clean streets and ornate homes give way to humbler surroundings. Once inside the gates, we turn off the main road, winding through side streets and narrow alleys until we reach Mr. Langly's house.

For a time, I distributed potions myself, handing them out openly to those in need. But it soon became clear that this drew too much attention. Flaunting our disregard for the Guild's rules was not just unwise, it was dangerous.

Instead, we devised a better system. We partnered with Mr. Paul Langly, a trusted member of the commons. Mr. Langly was a local healer of sorts, someone the impoverished turned to when they had nowhere else to go. His treatments relied heavily on home remedies, whose effectiveness and safety I found... questionable, to put it kindly.

Still, he was an honest man, and our arrangement helped everyone. With our potions in his hands, his treatments became one hundred percent effective and zero percent snake oil.

There are plenty of ingredients that go into potions, but snake oil isn't one of them.

We arrive at a ramshackle apartment building with a crooked lean that looks ready to topple, likely as unsettling to its neighbors as it is to look at. The wood is warped and weathered, and an old sign above the entrance reads "Healer." The paint is faded and peeling, but enough to mark it as Mr. Langly's practice.

Inside, the air is stale. A dingy hallway stretches ahead, lined with doors leading to cramped, single-room family quarters. The first door on the right bears a smaller copy of the outside sign, marking it as Langly's apartment.

I knock, and the door creaks open a moment later. Mr. Paul Langly stands before us, a skinny, ancient man with long, unkempt white hair and a beard only a shade darker. His tunic and apron are stained, reeking of old, spilled remedies.

If I'm being honest, his appearance doesn't inspire much confidence in his skills as a healer. Still, many in the commons swear by him.

Today, though, he looks far worse than usual. A black eye darkens his left socket, fresh cuts mark his swollen lip and right eyebrow, and his own dried blood mixes with the usual stains on his clothes. He limps painfully as he steps aside to let us in.

"What in Gaia happened to you, Mr. Langly?" I ask, concern tightening my voice as I take in his injuries. "Are you hurt? Willow, please, a potion."

"Darn right I'm hurt, Yer Princeliness," Langly mutters, taking the potion Lady Willow hands him. She had already anticipated the request and produces it with her usual efficiency.

Langly lowers himself onto his bed with a wince, pulls the stopper from the potion, and downs it in one gulp. A faint green glow spreads over him as the magic takes hold, knitting his cuts closed, reducing the swelling, and fading his dark bruises back to his usual pale white.

"Some of yer father's knights, on the order of his lordship Fobos, did me the discourtesy of payin' me a visit, they did," Langly says angrily, setting the empty bottle aside.

"Lord Fobos sent knights here, and they just beat you up? For no reason?" I ask, my voice rising in disbelief.

"Oh no, no, no, that weren't all," Langly says bitterly, his frustration clear. "They also took the potions. Accused me of havin' stolen goods, they did. Called it a warnin'."

"A warning?" I ask, my jaw tightening.

Langly nods, his gnarled fingers gripping the edge of his bed. "Aye, a warnin'. Said if I'm caught with 'stolen goods' again, I'll be thrown in the dungeon, I will. And yah know what they meant by 'stolen,' don't yah, lad? It's them potions yah've been so kindly providin'."

My hands clench into fists, blood boiling in my veins. My father and Lord Fobos have gone too far, harassing and stealing from a man who does nothing but help others. Their actions are a message meant for me. They will undo any good I try to bring to these people, hurting their own subjects just to spite me. The thought is so vile that I feel a sharp urge to test a few of my newly learned spells on Lord Fobos.

Lady Willow places a steadying hand on my shoulder, sensing my rising anger. "Calm yourself, young master."

"Why should I be calm? Shouldn't we get even?" I argue, fists trembling at my sides.

Lady Willow lifts an eyebrow, her tone steady with a hint of humor. "If you truly want to get even with the King and Lord Fobos, it shouldn't be for this. Let's not forget, they've done far worse than stealing a few potions and roughing up Mr. Langly."

"I don't know, M'lady," Langly interjects indignantly. "From my perspective, this is pretty bad." His words are ignored as Willow continues.

"And besides," she says, "you already have a long-term plan for revenge, one you won't throw away over a single slight. Remember, your goals are far greater than this small offense."

I fall silent for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. "But it's infuriating," I say at last, my voice quieter but still edged with frustration. "I want to do something now."

"Patience, young master," Willow replies, her tone firm yet kind. "Achieving your goals requires a calm mind and deliberate actions. To outmaneuver your enemies, you must thwart them subtly, striking from the shadows. When you defeat them, it should be in such a way that they never even realize you were the architect of their downfall."

She's right, of course. Acting rashly might feel satisfying in the moment, but it would put everything we're building at risk.

"Fine," I concede with a sigh, leaning back in my chair. "I'll play it smart. But someday, they'll pay for what they've done."

"In any case, we can't leave the potions here with Mr. Langly. Those knights are sure to return, and if he has a new stock of potions, they'll probably arrest him," Willow says matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I'm not looking to get my ass beat again. No way, no how," Langly says with a determined shake of his head.

We apologize to Mr. Langly for the trouble and make our way back to the castle, the potions still in hand.

It's frustrating that Lord Fobos has made it harder to get these potions to the people who need them most. Still, there's a silver lining. Many of the commoners in the capital know I'm the one providing these potions. After today, word will spread that Lord Fobos, or perhaps even the King himself, ordered knights to steal medicine and beat an innocent man. Langly is a notorious talker, and his loose lips will carry the story through every corner of the slums.

The capital isn't the whole kingdom, and not every commoner elsewhere suffers the same way. But news like this travels fast, and when people beyond these walls hear how their fellow citizens are being treated, their faith in the crown will falter too. That works in my favor. If the common folk, who make up most of the kingdom, come to see me as their true benefactor, their support will become another piece on the board, one I can move at the right time to corner the King.

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