Kael, long-suffering majordomo to House Thorne, struggled to conceal his disquiet. Young Elian’s behavior, a stark departure from his usual indolence, had become profoundly unsettling. “So, you claim I am the eldest son of House Thorne?” Elian’s voice, a resonant baritone, held an unfamiliar edge, devoid of its usual whine. “And this is the Conclave of Veridia. The notion of a ‘Spectral Dominion’ or a ‘Nexus Citadel’ holds no currency here.” Indeed, it was peculiar. The young master, though never celebrated for his intellect, rarely exhibited such profound detachment from reality. Kael wondered if a new, more potent strain of thought-altering vapors had found its way into the manor. Of late, the indulgences of noble scions had become a public scandal. But Elian Thorne? His particular brand of ineptitude was usually too predictable for such elaborate self-deception. ‘Thorne’s Folly,’ they called him. While his younger siblings navigated the political currents of the capital with burgeoning ambition, Elian Thorne, at twenty-five, had merely withered in the isolated ancestral estate, a stagnant pool of wasted potential. Kael maintained a professional calm. “Young master, today marks the arrival of Lady Seraphina, the esteemed daughter of House Valerius. She is, as you are aware, your betrothed, and she values aristocratic decorum above all. Preparing for her visit would be prudent. It is your first direct audience; a favorable impression is paramount—” “Something more vital requires my attention.” Elian cut him off mid-sentence, his gaze fixed on a distant point, a flicker of something calculating in their depths. Regardless of his apparent mental fracture, the young master’s tone carried an unprecedented weight. “Lead me to the eldest living resident of this estate. Understanding the terrain of my future dominion takes precedence over charming a stranger, however esteemed her lineage.” Uncannily strange. The young master, who had languished within Thorne estate for twenty-five years, now professed a sudden imperative to comprehend his world’s future. What choice remained for Kael? “As you wish, young master.” Fulfilling his duty was his solitary mandate. --- Kael guided Elian away from the manicured courtyards and toward the estate’s outer settlements. Following the Age of Sundering, countless displaced citizens had sought refuge near powerful houses. The manor walls, however, could not contain them all, leading to the organic sprawl of the outer villages. Initially, these settlements displayed a semblance of order, sturdy dwellings lining cobbled paths. But as they ventured deeper, the proportion of ramshackle hovels and makeshift shelters steadily increased. Slosh. Kael grimaced as his polished boots sank into muddy water. A rising tide of refuse-laden air assailed his nostrils. He glanced at Elian, a silent question in his eyes. “Do you truly insist on this, young master? If your interest lies in our territory’s history, the Arch-Scribe’s archives or the manor library offer far more reliable and comfortable means of enlightenment. We can still turn back.” “Proceed.” Elian appeared oblivious to their squalid surroundings. He stepped into the mire without hesitation, the hem of his pristine breeches instantly soaking, a dark stain creeping upward. ‘His breeches are ruined.’ Kael felt a knot of perplexity tighten in his chest. He anticipated an outburst, a typical fit of aristocratic pique. Yet, Elian showed no discernible reaction. This new demeanor was utterly incomprehensible. House Thorne, while ancient, held only middling prestige. Yet, the former Elian had constantly boasted of his noble birth, throwing tantrums over minor inconveniences. Villagers often gossiped about his temper and his utter lack of talent. Now, to witness this composure. Was this the same individual who once vowed to die before leaving the castle walls, defying even his lord father’s direct command? ‘…Perhaps a cranial injury?’ Their hurried pace brought them to their destination. Kael stopped before a lean-to shack, its timber framework groaning under the weight of decay. He looked at Elian, caution in his voice. “It’s here. Old Master Theron. He served House Thorne before its formal recognition, a master cartographer, charting the very ley lines that nourish our commerce. He is past ninety now; his passing could occur any hour. The difficulty is… his legs failed him years ago. You will need to enter to converse.” Slowly, Kael surveyed the immediate vicinity. The stench was overwhelming, a cloying blend of damp earth, unwashed bodies, and fermenting waste. Thick, silken webs draped across the shack’s entrance, forcing any viewer to recoil. This was no place for a noble scion. Kael had repeatedly urged retreat, yet Elian had continued onward, unwavering. “Wait here.” Kael gasped, caught off guard. There was no trace of hesitation. Reaching out, Elian swept aside the webs with an almost dismissive gesture and ducked inside. His gaze, accustomed to the dimness, swept over the cramped space. “You are the resident of this dwelling?” “Young master, you would grace such a humble place as this?” Theron, a wizened form beneath a mound of threadbare blankets, jolted. He struggled to rise, his ancient limbs refusing the command. “Remain seated. Listen.” Elian settled onto the packed earth before him, heedless of the grime. The old man, bewildered, could only stare at Elian’s eyes, a strange luminescence within their depths. “I require full knowledge of House Thorne’s domain. Its foundations, its history, its vulnerabilities. This will be a lengthy discourse. Let us converse at leisure, perhaps with the aid of this.” Swish. Elian produced a flask of amber liquid from his coat. Theron’s eyes, wide with astonishment, fixed on the bottle. Elian offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, a gesture that seemed to melt away the old man’s apprehension. “Quickly.” At this lowest ebb of his existence, Elian Thorne, the man who was once the Crimson Architect, chose to adapt, not merely to endure. Initially, Theron’s words faltered, a hesitant trickle. But as the spirits warmed his throat and Elian maintained a posture of intense, unyielding focus, the old man’s wariness dissolved. He spoke freely, his voice gaining strength. “Lord Thorne, your great-grandfather, was originally a shrewd broker of specialized minerals. He built a modest fortune on rare earth shipments from the Ashfall Peaks. Then, an unprecedented opportunity arose: supplying the newly formed Conclave’s burgeoning military with refined arcane alloys. The War of Unification raged, a chance to transcend one’s station. After the war’s conclusion, Lord Thorne, elevated to Baron at the grand convocation…” The narrative flowed, a torrent of names, dates, and forgotten machinations. Much of it constituted fundamental knowledge for any Thorne heir. Yet Theron, unbridled by inhibition, recounted every detail, every whispered secret he knew. Elian’s judgment had been precise. He had inquired of Kael what moved the old man, and the majordomo, with a sigh, had mentioned Theron’s inability to keep a secret when in his cups. The flask had been a deliberate stratagem. Thus, he extracted the information he required, piece by painstaking piece. The man, still unaccustomed to the identity of ‘Elian Thorne,’ steadily constructed a comprehensive internal map of this new world. ‘Elian, then.’ Elian Thorne. No, his true designation, long abandoned, was ‘The Crimson Architect.’ He had spent most of his previous life as the unseen hand behind empires, a master manipulator of geopolitical currents, orchestrating the rise and fall of nations with cold, surgical precision. He had lived a life of ultimate control, a grand game of cause and effect. Having achieved every conceivable objective, having seen every possible outcome, he had calmly orchestrated his own vanishing act, a final, intricate design. It was a singular grace to complete his ultimate design and step away, but when he opened his eyes, he was within the corporeal form of Elian Thorne. It was a preposterous turn of events. At the moment of his engineered disappearance, the Crimson Architect had been on the precipice of a profound transition, a shift into a purely informational existence, a ghost in the machine of reality. But he had no desire for an ephemeral, disembodied eternity. He wished to remain a tangible force. So, he had refused the final ascension. Most grand strategists ultimately seek to transcend the physical, to become pure influence. But the Crimson Architect preferred the grit of tangible reality, the direct application of will. Now, at the crossroads of an unforeseen new existence, he swiftly embraced the reality presented before him. ‘Is this a cosmic jest, or a divine recompense for my refusal of ultimate influence?’ The answer held no import. A new life. A novel environment. For the Crimson Architect, these were the only variables that mattered. His final years in his previous life had been an exercise in supreme, yet profound, boredom. But the raw, chaotic landscape of this new existence promised to imbue his being with renewed purpose. ‘Sentient beings require objectives. Having achieved all, I found myself in a sterile perfection, bereft of human struggle. This is, in fact, advantageous. Elian Thorne, the Conclave of Veridia; this world, brimming with unknowns, shall be my new challenge.’ His heart, or rather, the intricate neural network of his new mind, quickened. The Crimson Architect had lived a life that would echo through the annals of history, a silent legend. Yet, in retrospect, the period before his ultimate triumph, when every day presented a fresh crucible of risk and counter-strategy, had been far more stimulating than his final, placid years. He was not one to exist in placid normalcy. That, precisely, was the nature of the Crimson Architect. “...And that, young master, is all I retain.” Theron’s voice, now hoarse, trailed off. Perhaps due to the lengthy conversation, the old man, a stranger mere hours ago, now seemed a familiar fixture. “I am grateful. Your insights prove invaluable. Compensation for your service will follow.” “No, young master. Simply to converse with one of your station, to have my words heard, is a blessing beyond measure.” Elian, the man formerly known as the Crimson Architect, offered a subtle, almost imperceptible smile. It was time to return. Just then, a commotion erupted outside. Bang! Thump! “You worm!” Loud, violent noises pierced the stagnant air. Something was transpiring near their shelter. His expectations proved correct. Stepping out, Elian observed a cluster of burly men, their fists raining down on a youth, barely past adolescence. Crack! Thwack! Thwack! “Filthy whelp!” “Perish!” The boy, despite the brutal assault, emitted not a single cry. This silence seemed to inflame his attackers further. They continued their indiscriminate beating, intent on inflicting maximum damage. With each blow, the boy’s body convulsed. Exposed skin beneath his torn tunic was already a canvas of crimson bruises, his face a pulped mess, blood streaming from his nose. A small crowd had gathered, drawn by the violence. Yet, upon observing the stylized iron fist tattoos emblazoned on the men’s forearms, they averted their gazes, fear palpable in their stiff postures. “What occurs here?” “Young master!” Kael rushed to Elian’s side. He had been observing the scene with a pained expression, now speaking in a hushed, urgent tone as Elian approached. “They are likely the Iron Grip Enforcers, young master. The debt collection arm of the Obsidian Syndicate, notorious throughout the Conclave. The boy likely owes a substantial sum. We should… simply ignore this. Entangling ourselves with them yields no benefit.” Elian’s gaze swept over the Enforcers. Usury. Exorbitant interest rates leading to inevitable default, followed by brutal enforcement. ‘The crucial issue is the imposition of external justice within the purview of this territory.’ This was the domain of House Thorne. As Theron had meticulously explained, it was the lord’s prerogative to adjudicate all disputes and enforce all decrees within his lands. Allowing an outside entity to dispense violence was an affront to that sovereignty. Elian Thorne. He was still mapping the intricate psychological terrain of this new identity. Yet, one truth remained irrefutable: the original Elian Thorne was dead. The first items he had encountered upon awakening were a crude suicide note, purportedly penned by the former Elian, and scattered remnants of hallucinogenic compounds. That will, a testament to Roman’s utter fragility. The Conclave, perpetually poised on the brink of conflict, mandated that each noble house furnish a quota of troops and a single representative for two years of compulsory military service. Elian Thorne had been selected. His father, unwilling to sacrifice his two promising younger sons, had designated Elian for the battlefield. So, Elian had chosen death. Terrified by the grim tales of war, he had ended his life on a night of deep intoxication. ‘From this moment, I am Elian Thorne.’ The previous life, for all its grand designs, was but a former iteration. Whatever existence the original Elian Thorne had endured, the values and principles of the Crimson Architect would now define this vessel. “Desist.” “Young… young master!” Kael started, lunging to restrain Elian as he stepped forward. But it was already too late. Elian’s voice, amplified by an unshakeable will, cut through the clamor. The Iron Grip Enforcers, who had momentarily ceased their assault, turned, their brutish faces contorted in puzzled confusion. “Elian Thorne?” It was a remarkable sight. The problem, for them, was that even the ignominious reputation of Elian Thorne had reached their ears. A hulking man, his face scarred and vicious, seemingly their leader, spoke with a mocking sneer. “Mind your own affairs, Young Master Thorne. We will conclude this business.” “Tsk, trying to impress your little girlfriend, are we? This is Syndicate business. Walk away, boy, unless you wish to be next.” The sneer deepened, revealing a gold-capped tooth. The other enforcers chuckled, their heavy boots scuffing the mud, a predatory glint in their eyes. They had clearly underestimated the new Elian Thorne. ---

Veridian Primer