The admiration I received was not limited to my cherished Fermina alone. As I sat in my father’s expansive library, composing and forging letters with a deliberate mimicry of my former shaky penmanship, Princess herself offered praises.

  “When you were controlling my hand, it was like a spider gone mad!” she had said. “It was so precise; at first, it looked like you were making random scribbles because of how fast you were doing it, but it all took shape and made sense. It didn’t take you a third of the evening from start to finish!”

  Even at this late hour, the library was far from vacant, with its three floors bustling with quiet activity. Leaning towards the hand mirror under the table, I whispered about the utterly absurd difference between using her hands and the arduous struggle I had endured with my own. To illustrate this further, I swiftly drew a sigil on paper—a task that would have once consumed an entire day of slow, painstaking labor, now completed in mere moments, thanks to Princess’s unwavering steadiness.

  “I love watching you draw,” she admitted and gushed about. “I had never seen anyone do it so fast.”

  Tears welled in my eyes without a clear reason, and suspecting that the surge of emotion was not mine alone, I inquired with gentle curiosity, “Why are you so emotional this evening, my dear Princess?”

  “You know what you did, you tear-jerking bastard,” she blubbered. “The letter you wrote for us… in your will… Dubart, I had no idea you felt that way about us. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  I had indeed poured my thoughts onto paper, baring my soul, for it seemed improbable that Dubart Cafligen would ever reemerge in this world under his own name. I could not let such an opportunity pass without expressing my profound gratitude for the unwavering care the three sisters had bestowed upon my feeble self for years. They had fought their revulsion, attended to my every need, and given me a reason to carry on. Without them, I would have succumbed to despair long ago, a wretched existence, ended by my own hand. If not by my own volition, I would have perished in solitude, bereft of hope. They were indeed my saviors. I may have embellished my words in order to justify that nearly all my belongings would be bequeathed to them, but I could not disclose that detail to Princess after her heartfelt confession.

  “You are most welcome, Princess. Even your bickering, I have come to appreciate. You remember what to do with that letter in the morning, do you not?” I inquired, seeking reassurance.

  It was too perilous to roam the mansion, sneaking in a dress, which was a shame, for I had wished for Princess to retrieve and burn another letter from my room—one I had written for Fermina. That letter was intended to be read posthumously. Should I be alive when its contents were revealed, I could not endure the mortification.

  The living will I had just written was sealed in an envelope marked ‘postmortem’. I did not possess the Cafligen family’s coat of arms to affix in wax, as I had never needed to sign anything officially. This, however, played to our advantage, as a will penned by me would logically lack a formal seal. The plan was for Princess to request an audience with my brother, at which point she would recall the letter I had supposedly given her days earlier.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  This plan hinged on the hope that Princess would regain control of her body by morning. Feeling refreshed and aware of the risks, I decided it was time to rest. Gathering the necessary documents, the mirror, and our thoughts, we made our way down the dimly lit hallway towards our room in the east wing.

  “What was that thing you drew? That complicated circle?” Princess wondered inside my head.

  I suspected that even the uninitiated might recognize it if named aloud. “A sigil, also known as an ‘arcane circle’,” I explained, though her curious ‘Hmm’ urged me to elaborate further. “It is used in arcana. Surely, you have heard of the Artan Legacy? It is often referred to as ‘Artalar,’ a discipline of science intertwined with mathematics that manipulates energy for various purposes. Like Magister Thorban or the magians who frequently visited me. Have you at least read Relimu and Potello?” I referenced a well-known children’s tale about a mischievous magian who played escalating pranks on his friend until inadvertently causing his demise.

  “Oh! Yes, yes! Like when Relimu writes that symbol under Potello’s flower stand, and it blows up when he says the magic words?” Princess correctly guessed. In the version I had read, it was a fruit stand.

  “Precisely. Artalar, or the Artan Legacy, requires a sigil, an incantation, lifespark, and a trigger,” I summarized. She seemed interested, encouraging me to proceed. “The sigil is the ‘symbol’ you were mentioning. The incantation would be the ‘magic words’ although it is more of an addendum of the solved Artanical formula. Lifespark is the energy, which can be fueled by one’s will or borrowed from other sources. The trigger is what causes the arcane reaction to occur; it all requires a deep understanding of each sigil’s individual Artanical equation.”

  “By Ivinis; you sure know your stuff. How about it? Can you do it? Say magic words and make magic?” Princess transparently goaded. She wanted to see me try.

  “No, no one can,” I corrected her common misconception. “Magic defies logic, willing things into existence without cause. Arcane studies are far more intricate, Princess. Arcana manipulates energies precisely, and for the arcane reactions to occur, you have-”

  “Yes, yes. I get it,” she interrupted me. “Fine, can you do Artalar? Were you ever able to?” she rephrased.

  “Not truly. Impossible in my former vessel,” I admitted readily. “I was far too frail. As for your body, I have yet to test its potential.”

  “Use some of that Artalar!” she urged, sounding more like Rascal in her excitement. I had anticipated this since she first asked about the sigil. “Just do anything! Make sparks or light, like the Magister.”

  I had no fewer than seven solved Artanical equations at my disposal and was working on others. I was not opposed to attempting one or two, given the opportunity. However, I needed to ensure she understood the risks.

  “Bear in mind that using lifespark for the first time can be taxing. You might feel soreness in the morning,” I cautioned.

  “It’s fine, just do it!” she encouraged me, excited.

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