I had studied extensively that the initial decade of mastering the Artan Legacy was often devoted to proper lifespark utilization. Without sufficient acclimatization, its use could lead to unwanted side effects, and it was the foundation for even the most rudimentary hexerei. Each Artanical equation had an ‘answer’, which was conveyed through lifespark upon triggering the sigil. For instance, if the equation were ‘two plus two’, the magian would need to express ‘four’ using lifespark while activating the sigil. Mastering the expression of such answers—learning to channel a result like ‘four’ or any other using lifespark—was a rigorous process, akin to learning a new language, known as ‘Gildo’.

  Artanical equations were reputedly so intricate that solving notably complicated examples could require years of study. Moreover, each individual’s equation had unique variables—resonancy, crimdor, and potence, to name a few. The fact that I had successfully used the Artan Legacy last night suggested that my variables and answers remained functional within Princess’s body. The reason for this phenomenon could only be tied to the nature of souls—a subject beyond my current expertise.

  I had undoubtedly tapped into her lifespark. I knew as much; my original body had never possessed enough to trigger even the simplest hexerei. Yet Princess, it seemed, overflowed with that ethereal force. Not only was she brimming with energy, but the expected aftermath had also proven far less severe than anticipated.

  Upon awakening, I could only surmise that Princess harbored a latent talent for Artalar. Her body was once again beyond my control, which offered a measure of reassurance in its familiar rhythms. A faint nausea lingered, accompanied by a mild headache, but nothing more. Though I lacked any true point of comparison, the paltry discomfort following the use of three sigils seemed a trifling consequence. I could diminish the pain further by brewing Almeda tea, an alchemical remedy capable of soothing far more grievous ailments in a much weaker body.

  Princess’s consciousness stirred alongside mine and immediately began to howl.

  “Ohhhh! Ohhh! Ahh!” she cried incessantly. I could not ask if something troubled her, for her mirror lay abandoned on the nightstand, and her hands were occupied clutching our head in torment. My lamentation over this inability to inquire further, however, was short-lived, as the ever-gracious Fermina soon came to our aid.

  “Aufelia, are you alright?” Fermina, dutiful as she was, descended from her bed and approached with concern.

  The dawn had barely broken, marking the earliest hour we had risen since inhabiting Princess. The first light of day poured in behind Fermina, casting her in a divine glow. Her white gown seemed to radiate, ethereal and angelic, and her hair gleamed golden as she moved. It was a vision of beauty, an illusion both haunting and sublime.

  “My head! I feel like my head is splitting!” Princess griped with a genuine sentiment. Had I not known better, I might have believed she was in excruciating pain. Yet I shared in her senses and could attest that the discomfort remained mild. Nevertheless, to my astonishment, Princess began to wail, tears streaming freely from our eyes.

  “What is happening?” a delicate voice wondered, accompanied by the soft patter of bare feet upon carpeted floors. I could not see Rascal, for Princess’s squinted eyes and blurred vision obscured our world. All I could do was listen as she fretted for our sake.

  “Aufelia says her head hurts,” Fermina summarized with calm authority. “Riatna, please get dressed and fetch a servant. Instruct them to summon one of the physicians.”

  “Y-yes, Fermina,” Rascal replied, hastily complying with the command.

  “No! Princess! Under no circumstances must you allow them to call a physician!” I screamed within her mind, unsure if my desperate plea could be heard. Even if we had stood before a mirror, Princess’s cries of "It hurts! It hurts!" would have drowned out my voice.

  I persisted nonetheless, for it was all I could do. Thorban, the old court physician, was a man of considerable skill—a master of the Artan Legacy. He would undoubtedly recognize Princess’s symptoms for what they were: the signs of a novice unaccustomed to wielding lifespark. The revelation that such a young woman, untrained in the arts, had managed even the simplest of sigils would spark an uproar beyond the confines of Highsummit Manor. It would attract a cascade of unwelcome attention, which, in turn, could expose the secret we fought so fiercely to protect.

  “Princess, you must not allow them to summon a physician! They might refer you to Magister Thorban, and we cannot risk that. You cannot meet with him!” I continued to cry out in desperation, praying that my words might eventually penetrate her consciousness.

  To my immense relief, my prayers were answered. Fermina, with the tender grace she effortlessly exuded, took hold of our head, pressing her forehead against ours to ascertain our body temperature. The sudden closeness momentarily arrested our breath and sent our heart into a wild rhythm. Fermina’s sapphire blue eyes became both window and mirror, reflecting not only our shared pain but also a serene strength that made me wish to linger in that gaze. In that fleeting moment, the pain—both physical and emotional—seemed to dissipate. Yet I could not afford to be lulled by such solace, not when Princess’s very life hung in the balance.

  “You must not allow them to call a physician upon us, do you understand? They will uncover our use of Artalar. Rumors of last night’s incident with the maid are surely already circulating through the mansion. Should the magians learn that someone of your age could cast hexerei, they could descend upon us from all corners of Irghumin. They would discover our shared existence. They will learn that I employed theurgy!”

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  That was enough to spark a reaction in Princess. She ceased her wincing, adopting a demeanor more befitting the adult she was meant to be. “I… I feel fine! Do not call anyone!” she requested, her voice tinged with panic as she rose from the bed with what felt like immense effort.

  “Aufelia, go back to bed! You are in no condition to walk around!” Fermina stressed, attempting to stop us, but Princess sagely resisted the loving efforts.

  “Riatna, don’t you dare call anyone, you hear?” Princess steeled herself, blinking away her tears as she realized the gravity of our situation. She approached Rascal, placing both hands on her younger sister’s shoulders with a firmness that belied her fragile state. “I just have a headache; don’t bother Dubart’s physicians with this, much less the Magister!”

  Magister—a lofty title bestowed upon every magian in service to a Lord. It often seemed that magians were either esteemed Magisters or fugitives hunted by the law.

  “It’s… it’s alright,” Rascal answered, attempting to free herself from our grasp. “I don’t like old Thorban either. He smells and always makes you strip to heal you,” she added with a shudder. I had been unaware of that particular detail. Though healing sigils were not my area of expertise, was such indignity truly necessary, you old fox? “I was actually going to run to Master Dubart’s. He can probably make some me…”

  She trailed off, the word ‘medicine’ caught in her throat as she suddenly teared up. In the fog of sleep, she had forgotten that I was dead, and in her moment of distress, she had instinctively thought of me for help. Rascal, my dear child… How I longed to embrace you.

  Princess fulfilled that desire. She felt her sister’s sorrow and wrapped her arms around that soft, warm body. “I miss him, too,” Princess whispered—though surely she lied. I had been a constant thorn in her side. “I’m alright now; I think I bumped my head against the headboard when I woke up,” she fabricated a commendably innocuous story.

  “She does not have a fever,” Fermina observed, her worry tempered by Princess’s more composed demeanor. “Perhaps we could inquire in the kitchens if anyone knows how to brew Almeda tea,” Fermina suggested, unknowingly echoing the very remedy I had planned.

  I had brewed that concoction for each of the sisters on many occasions. It was a versatile remedy, effective against most aches, soreness, and particularly helpful for easing womanly cramps. Though they were often too shy to request it directly, I had always been happy to rise from bed and prepare it for them. Unfortunately, the odds of any cook in the manor possessing the requisite skill to properly craft such a tea were so slim that they would be better off not asking.

  Princess nodded in agreement, and her sisters encouraged her to rest and refrain from overexerting herself, doubtless linking this episode to her recent fainting spells during evening prayers. Once they had left, my host was kind enough to retrieve the mirror.

  “What in the name of the Three Suns is happening?” Princess exclaimed, no longer pretending to be free of pain. She clutched her head as though it might split apart, kicking at the bed and hyperventilating in panic. “Dubart, my head is going to explode! Or split in two! Or… or something! I think… Dubart, I think I am dying!”

  “These are merely the aftereffects of the Artan Legacy’s usage by the uninitiated,” I replied, attempting to soothe her with reason. “Your symptoms are akin to muscle soreness after strenuous physical exertion. The pain manifests sometime after overexertion and persists until the body recovers from the strain. In this case, your lifespark is depleted. Recovery times vary, and given your lack of prior experience, I cannot hazard an accurate guess as to how long your symptoms might endure.”

  “It hurts so much, Dubart,” she complained, wailing, pride thrown aside, begging for help. “If this is what happens, I don’t want to do it ever again.”

  “What baffles me is that I should be experiencing the same pain as you,” I mused aloud, or at least as much as one could while imprisoned within another’s mind.

  “You mean you don’t feel this… this torture!?” she accused, her voice laced with resentment.

  “I do, but to me, it is only a mild headache,” I responded truthfully, though with a measure of guilt for not sharing in her suffering, despite being the direct cause of it.

  “Mild? How can this be mild?” she shrilled at me piercingly. “This is the worst pain I have ever felt!” she shrieked, her voice sharp with incredulity. “I feel like a little man is inside my head, smashing with a hammer everywhere! Dubart, I can’t take it anymore. I feel something will break!” she once again requested my assistance.

  “If you are truly that desperate, there is a sigil I am familiar with, though I cannot claim complete mastery. It suppresses pain for a time…” I hesitantly suggested, uncertain of her willingness to entertain such a notion.

  “No! Absolutely not! No more of that accursed Artalar, do you hear me? No more of your stupid Artan Legacy! Ever!” she vehemently refused, punctuating her statement with a frustrated bounce on the bed, glaring at her reflection in the mirror as though it had personally wronged her.

  It was likely for the best. I had yet to unravel the intricate complexities of the Artanical equation required for that particular sigil.

  “In that case,” I pivoted, attempting to soothe her with a more practical suggestion, “if you can manage to get us to the kitchen, I could guide you in instructing the cooks to brew a passable remedy. The mansion is well-stocked, and there is bound to be one or the two key reagents to alleviate your condition.”

  “Dubart, I can barely stand…” she murmured, her voice fading as the pain gnawed at her strength. “I don’t think I can get dressed on my own, much less make it all the way to the kitchen. Maybe even looking for an errand boy would be too much. It hurts so much…” she repeated, appealing to my sense of pity and succeeding. “I am going to throw up.”

  I could not help but sigh inwardly, frustration and sympathy entwined within me. Another approach presented itself, though I doubted she would accept it. Nevertheless, I ventured forth. “There is one other method,” I began cautiously, carefully weighing my words. “While I cannot attest to its efficacy firsthand, I have heard that it offers some relief. The theory behind it is sound.”

  “What is it? D-don’t be roundabout! I’m dying here!” she demanded.

  “The sins of the old ones. The Ritual of Living Liquid. I could, theoretically, control the blood inside your body, which would allow me to allocate it in ways that could lessen headaches.”

  A tense silence descended between us, the weight of my suggestion hanging in the air. Theurgy had bound me to her form, and though it was a dark art forbidden by the highest laws, we both knew the peril of invoking it further.

  “Maybe,” she finally spoke, “maybe I’ll just wait for Fermina or Riatna to come back. I’ll ask them to walk me to the kitchen,” she concluded.

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