[Day Three of Recovery][Location: Academy Infirmary][Time: Mid-Morning]
Sol drifted toward consciousness slowly, awareness returning in stages. First came the sounds—voices, many of them, speaking in hushed tones. Then sensations—the soft bed beneath him, the warm sunlight through windows, the dull ache in his mana pathways that meant he was healing but not yet healed.
Then the voices became words.
"—unprecedented for someone his age—"
"—the contract binding was masterwork level—"
"—divine blessing must have—"
"—Father will want to meet him formally—"
Sol's eyes opened to chaos.
His small infirmary room was packed with people. Nobles, by the look of their clothing—high-quality fabrics, elaborate embroidery, jewelry that probably cost more than most families earned in a year. They clustered around his bed like he was an exhibition piece, speaking over and around him as if he weren't there.
[Room Occupants: 14 people][Nobility: 11][Academy Officials: 2][Healers: 1][Available Floor Space: Minimal]
"The youngest Contractor in recorded history—"
"—implications for the royal line—"
"—if he can make bindings at four years old—"
Sol tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His head spun, his pathways burned, and the noise was overwhelming.
"Everyone OUT."
The voice cut through the chatter like a blade. Sharp. Commanding. Unexpected.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his face set in an expression Sol had never seen before—protective anger mixed with something that might have been genuine concern.
The nobles turned, ready to argue with whoever dared interrupt their examination of the fascinating child-Contractor. Then they saw who had spoken, and several immediately began deferring.
"Prince Marcus, we were just—"
"Get away from him," Marcus said, his voice cold and precise. "He needs rest, not to be gawked at like a curiosity in the Royal Museum. Out. Now."
"But the contract implications—"
"Can wait until he's recovered enough to stand without looking like he'll collapse." Marcus stepped fully into the room, and Sol realized he was using his status deliberately—crown prince, heir apparent, someone with actual authority here. "Let him sleep. Let him heal. Or do I need to make this a royal command?"
The nobles began filtering out, some reluctantly, others looking embarrassed at being called out. The Academy officials followed, though one paused to speak quietly with the healer.
Within two minutes, the room was empty except for Marcus, the healer finishing her checks, and Sol still processing what had just happened.
Marcus walked to the bedside, looked down at Sol for a long moment. His expression was complicated—layers of emotion Sol couldn't quite parse. Pride mixed with resentment. Respect mixed with frustration. Something genuine underneath all the usual masks.
"Get out of my brother's room," Marcus said suddenly to the healer, who was still adjusting Sol's blankets. "He's fine. You can check on him later."
Brother's room. Not "the bastard's room." Not "Sol's room." Brother's room.
Sol's analytical mind caught it immediately—the first time Marcus had ever referred to him as brother without sarcasm or mockery.
The healer looked surprised but nodded and left, closing the door behind her.
Marcus stood there, meeting Sol's gaze. Sol watched him back, waiting.
Then Marcus's face flushed slightly—actual embarrassment, breaking through his usual perfect composure. He turned quickly toward the door. "Rest. You look terrible."
He left before Sol could respond.
Sol lay back against the pillows, his mind trying to process what had just happened. Marcus had defended him. Protected him from noble curiosity. Called him brother.
And then gotten flustered when Sol woke up and noticed.
What just happened?
[MP: 34.7/126.4] (Recovering, but still depleted)
[Several Hours Later]
Sol woke again to quieter company. Lyra sat in the chair beside his bed, reading a book. Kieran stood by the window, looking out at the Academy grounds.
"You're awake," Lyra said immediately, setting her book aside. "How do you feel?"
"Like I channeled 850 MP through a body designed for 126," Sol said honestly. "Which is accurate."
"Professor Aldwin says you'll recover fully," Lyra said. "But you need to rest for at least another four days. No magic, no cultivation, definitely no contracting ancient forest guardians."
"Noted."
Kieran turned from the window. "Everyone's talking about you. About what you did." His voice was quiet, awed. "You saved us. All of us. Even though we walked into danger like idiots."
"Especially since you walked into danger like idiots," Sol corrected gently. "That's when people need saving most."
Lyra smiled slightly. "The whole Academy knows now. Sol, the four-year-old who made a master-level contract. Who rehabilitated a broken guardian binding. Who borrowed divine power through a soul-bond and survived." She paused. "You can't hide anymore. Everyone knows you're... extraordinary."
Sol had figured as much. His carefully maintained low profile had exploded spectacularly.
"Marcus has been weird," Kieran said suddenly. "Since we got back. He's been... quiet. Not scheming-quiet. Actually quiet. Like he's thinking about something important."
"He visited you twice," Lyra added. "While you were unconscious. Just stood there staring at you like he was trying to figure out a complex puzzle. Then left without saying anything."
"He cleared your room of nobles this morning," Sol said.
"He what?" Lyra's eyes widened. "Marcus? Our Marcus? Crown-prince-Marcus who hates you?"
"Called me his brother," Sol added. "Then got embarrassed when I woke up and noticed him."
Lyra and Kieran exchanged glances.
"That's..." Kieran searched for words. "Unprecedented."
"Marcus doesn't get embarrassed," Lyra said. "And he definitely doesn't defend people he hates. What did you do to him in that forest?"
"I saved his life," Sol said. "Along with everyone else's. Maybe that changed something."
"Or maybe seeing a four-year-old do something he couldn't broke something in his worldview," Lyra suggested. "Marcus's entire identity is built on being superior. You just proved you're not inferior. That has to be..."
"Devastating," Kieran finished. "For him."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while. These two had become genuine friends, Sol realized. Not allies of convenience, not social connections—actual friends who visited when he was injured and worried about his recovery.
"Thank you," Sol said quietly. "For visiting. For caring."
"Of course we care," Lyra said. "You're our friend, Sol. Peculiar, overpowered, ancient-soul-in-child-body friend, but ours."
[That Evening][Location: Still the Infirmary][Time: After Dinner]
Sol was attempting to eat the bland soup the healers insisted was all his stomach could handle when the door opened.
Marcus entered, alone this time, carrying a small package wrapped in cloth.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
"Everyone else visited," Marcus said finally. "Lyra, Kieran, Godfrey's been here six times, Professor Aldwin checked on you twice, even Mira from breakfast brought you flowers. So I..." He trailed off, seeming uncertain how to continue.
Sol waited. This felt important—whatever Marcus was building toward, interrupting would ruin it.
Marcus approached the bed, set the package on the side table. "This is from the royal kitchens. Actual food, not healer-approved bland garbage. Don't eat it until tomorrow or you'll make yourself sick, but... yeah."
"Thank you," Sol said carefully.
Marcus pulled the chair closer and sat, his posture stiff and formal. He stared at his hands for several seconds, clearly struggling with something internal.
Then, finally: "Thank you, Sol. For kind of saving our lives."
The words came out grudgingly, forced through pride like squeezing water from stone.
"Kind of?" Sol asked, unable to help himself.
"Well, technically Godfrey's divine protection should have—" Marcus stopped, shook his head. "No. That's bullshit. Godfrey's protection was shattered. That woman would have killed all of us if you hadn't... done whatever you did. Contract magic I still don't fully understand." He met Sol's eyes. "You saved us. Saved me. Even though I've been..."
"A complete ass?" Sol offered.
Marcus's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Yes. That." He looked back at his hands. "You're still a bastard. That hasn't changed. You're still Father's mistake, still someone who shouldn't technically be here."
"Thanks, I was worried you'd gotten soft."
"But," Marcus continued, ignoring the sarcasm, "you're a peculiar one. A peculiar bastard." He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "You're not what I thought you were. Not just some opportunistic orphan trying to climb socially. You're... something else. Something I don't understand yet."
"I'm four years old," Sol said.
"You're not, though," Marcus said flatly. "I don't know what you are—reincarnated soul, possessed by ancient spirit, blessed with impossible knowledge—but you're not a normal four-year-old. And pretending otherwise insults both our intelligence."
Sol was quiet. Marcus wasn't wrong.
"I've spent three months trying to make you leave," Marcus continued. "Trying to prove you don't belong here. Trying to..." He grimaced. "Trying to hurt you and everyone around you until you gave up and went away."
"I noticed," Sol said dryly.
"And then you saved my life." Marcus's voice held something like wonder. "After everything I did to you, to Kieran, threatening Lyra and the others—you still saved me. You could have let that woman kill me. Could have escaped and claimed you couldn't save everyone. But you didn't."
"Letting you die would have been murder," Sol said simply. "I don't do that."
"Most people in your position would," Marcus said. "I would have. If our positions were reversed, if you'd spent months tormenting me, then I had the chance to watch you die with plausible deniability?" He shook his head. "I'd have let you die. Gladly."
"That's concerning," Sol observed.
"That's honest," Marcus corrected. "And it makes you..." He struggled for words. "Better than me. Which I hate. But also... respect? I think?" He looked frustrated with himself. "I don't know how to process this."
Sol studied Marcus—this nine-year-old crown prince, trained from birth to see the world as competition, status, power. Who'd just had his worldview cracked open by a four-year-old doing the impossible and choosing mercy.
"You don't have to process it immediately," Sol said. "People are complicated. Relationships are complicated. We don't have to resolve everything tonight."
Marcus was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward, his expression becoming serious. "I feel like if I want my life to be more interesting, I should stay by you. Things happen around you. Impossible things. Divine blessings, ancient contracts, forest guardians—three months of knowing you has been more eventful than nine years of perfect royal education."
He held out his hand.
"Truce," Marcus said. Not asking—offering. "I won't apologize for what I did. I can't. That's not who I am. But I can acknowledge that you're not my enemy. That having you as an ally is better than having you as a target. That you're..." He hesitated. "That you're genuinely my brother. Even if neither of us chose it."
Sol looked at the offered hand. At Marcus's face—proud, defensive, but with something genuine underneath. Something that might have been hope, or respect, or just exhaustion from months of pointless antagonism.
No apology. No admission of wrongdoing. Just acknowledgment that continuing the conflict was stupid.
It was the most Marcus-like olive branch possible.
Sol started laughing.
Not mockery. Genuine amusement at the absurdity of it all. At Marcus's carefully constructed non-apology apology. At the sheer peculiarity of a crown prince offering truce to a bastard brother who'd just saved his life.
Marcus's expression flickered—hurt, then defensive. "What's so funny?"
"I'm the weird one?" Sol managed between laughs. "Marcus, you just gave the most backwards, pride-wrapped, technically-not-an-apology truce offer I've ever heard. And I'm 847 years old. I've heard a lot of apologies."
Marcus stared at him. "You're mocking me."
"No," Sol said, his laughter fading to a smile. "I'm saying you're so peculiar, Marcus. So absolutely, impossibly peculiar. You can't just say 'I'm sorry I was terrible, let's be friends.' You have to wrap it in seventeen layers of justification and pride-preservation and technical truth."
"I'm a crown prince," Marcus said stiffly. "We don't apologize. It shows weakness."
"You're a nine-year-old who nearly died and is trying to make peace with the four-year-old who saved him," Sol countered. "And you're making it as complicated as possible because you can't admit you were wrong."
Marcus's jaw tightened. For a moment, Sol thought he'd overstepped—pushed too hard, broken whatever fragile peace Marcus was offering.
Then Marcus laughed.
Not his usual cruel amusement. Genuine, surprised laughter that made him sound his actual age.
"Okay," Marcus said, grinning despite himself. "Okay, fine. You're right. I'm being ridiculous. I'm offering truce in the most Marcus way possible and you're calling me out on it." He kept his hand extended. "Does that mean you're accepting or not?"
Sol reached out and took Marcus's hand. "Truce. Even though you're peculiar and I'm weird and neither of us is normal."
"Deal." Marcus shook firmly, then released. "So. Brothers?"
"Brothers," Sol confirmed. "The peculiar kind who insult each other constantly but don't actually try to kill each other anymore."
"That's fair." Marcus leaned back in his chair, looking more relaxed than Sol had ever seen him. "So what happens now? You recover, go back to classes, continue being impossibly talented while pretending to be a normal child?"
"Probably," Sol said. "And you continue being crown prince, except now you occasionally defend your bastard brother instead of tormenting him?"
"Occasionally," Marcus emphasized. "Let's not get carried away. I still have a reputation to maintain." But he was smiling slightly. "Though I suppose having the Academy's miracle child as an ally isn't terrible for that reputation."
"Using me for political advantage already?"
"Obviously. I'm still a crown prince. But I'll use you honestly now, not maliciously. That's progress."
It was, actually. Sol recognized genuine growth when he saw it—Marcus acknowledging that alliance was better than antagonism, that Sol's abilities were assets rather than threats.
"Your friends are going to be confused," Sol observed. "You spent months convincing everyone I was worthless. Now you're defending me."
"They'll adapt," Marcus said confidently. "I'm the crown prince. Where I lead, others follow. If I say you're under my protection now, they'll accept it." He paused. "Some grudgingly. Frederick and his group won't like it. But they'll adapt or face social consequences."
"You really do think in pure political terms, don't you?"
"It's how I was raised." Marcus shrugged. "Everything is status, power, influence. But..." He looked at Sol thoughtfully. "Watching you make that contract, seeing you choose to save everyone even though you could barely stand—that was pure. No politics. No calculation. Just choice."
"There was plenty of calculation," Sol admitted. "I analyzed the situation, considered options, made strategic decisions about how to use the Shared Soul connection—"
"But you chose mercy," Marcus interrupted. "That woman—Meridith—you could have just bound her. Forced complete submission. Made her a slave. But you didn't. You healed her instead. Gave her back herself." His expression was complex. "That's not calculation. That's character. And it's something I don't have."
"You have other strengths," Sol said diplomatically.
"I have ambition and pride," Marcus corrected. "Which are useful but not the same as being genuinely good." He stood up. "That's why I'm offering truce. Because you're better than me in ways I can't learn. And maybe if I stay close, some of it will rub off."
"That's surprisingly self-aware."
"I'm crown prince," Marcus said. "Self-awareness is survival. Kings who can't see their own weaknesses don't stay kings long." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Sol? The nobles who were bothering you this morning? I've arranged for guards to keep them out. You're recovering under royal protection now. Anyone who wants to gawk at the miracle child can wait until you're actually healthy."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I did, actually. You're my brother now. Brothers protect each other." Marcus opened the door. "Even peculiar brothers who make everything complicated."
He left, leaving Sol alone with his thoughts.
[Analysis: What Just Happened][Marcus: Extended genuine truce][Motivation: Respect earned through actions, recognition of Sol's character][Sincerity: High (despite pride-wrapped delivery)][Political Calculation: Also high (Marcus is still Marcus)][Outcome: Tentative alliance, potential friendship, definitely fewer assassination attempts]
Sol looked at the package Marcus had left—actual food from the royal kitchens, not infirmary bland soup. A small gesture, but genuine.
Then he looked at the flowers Mira had brought, the book Lyra had been reading while waiting for him to wake, the chair Kieran had pulled close to the window.
Friends. Actual friends. And now, impossibly, Marcus as something like an ally.
His low profile was destroyed. His carefully maintained anonymity shattered. Everyone knew he was extraordinary now.
But looking at the evidence of people who cared scattered around his infirmary room, Sol found he didn't entirely mind.
[Later That Night]
Godfrey snuck in after visiting hours, walking through the locked door as casually as always.
"Marcus offered you truce," Godfrey said immediately, sitting on the edge of Sol's bed. His red eyes gleamed with knowledge. "I can see it in your soul-thread. It changed color—was hostile-red, now it's cautious-yellow. That's progress!"
"You can see that through the soul-bond?" Sol asked.
"I can see everything through divine connections," Godfrey said cheerfully. "Your threads to other people show me their relationship status. It's very useful! Though sometimes I see things people want private, so I try not to look too closely."
"That's... invasive."
"I know! Mother says I need to learn boundaries. But it's hard when divine sight shows me everything automatically." He swung his legs, unconcerned. "Are you and Marcus actually brothers now?"
"The peculiar kind," Sol confirmed. "Who insult each other but don't try to kill each other."
"That's good! I like Marcus more when he's not being mean to you. His soul is less red and spiky, more gold and stable. Redemption looks good on him."
"He's not redeemed," Sol said. "Just... redirected."
"Same thing, sometimes." Godfrey pulled his knees up. "Sol? Are you okay? Really okay? You nearly died saving us. Your mana pathways are still healing—I can see the damage through our bond."
"I'm recovering," Sol said honestly. "It'll take time, but I'll be fine."
"You scared me," Godfrey admitted quietly. "When you collapsed, when all that borrowed power faded and you just... stopped. I thought I'd lost my soul-brother. My best friend." His eyes shimmered—actual tears threatening. "Don't do that again. Don't nearly die for us."
"I can't promise that," Sol said gently. "If you're in danger again, I'll do whatever's necessary to save you."
"Then I'll have to make sure we're never in that much danger again," Godfrey said firmly. "My divine sight should have warned me. Should have seen how powerful Meridith was. But I was too excited about adventure to look properly." He wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry. This was my fault."
"It was Marcus's challenge, Lyra's dare, and your enthusiasm," Sol said. "Plenty of blame to share. But we all survived, and we're all better for it. You learned to check danger before rushing in. Marcus learned I'm not his enemy. I learned I can actually do contract work in this body. Meridith was saved from madness. Not the worst outcome."
"You always find the positive," Godfrey observed. "Even when you nearly die."
"Eight hundred and forty-seven years of practice."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, their soul-bond pulsing with warmth between them.
"Eleven days until the Thirteen arrive," Godfrey said suddenly. "I can feel them getting closer. Your soul-threads are getting brighter, pulling tighter. They're searching hard now."
"I know," Sol said. [MP: 41.2/126.4] "Once I'm recovered, I'll have enough mana to send a signal. Guide them directly here instead of making them search blind."
"What will happen when they arrive?" Godfrey asked. "Will you leave? Go back to your old life?"
"I don't know," Sol admitted. "That's the question, isn't it? Do I stay Sol, four-year-old Academy student with friends and a soul-brother? Or do I become Solomon again, ancient Contractor with power and responsibility?"
"Can't you be both?"
"Maybe. I'm going to try."
Godfrey smiled. "Good. Because I don't want to lose my soul-brother. Even if he's also an ancient legendary mage who everyone's slightly terrified of."
"Only slightly terrified?"
"Okay, very terrified. But I'm not!" Godfrey hugged him quickly. "Get better fast. We have more adventures waiting. Safer ones. With less nearly dying."
"I'll see what I can arrange."
Godfrey left the same way he'd entered—walking through the wall as if it were mist, leaving faint golden footprints that faded seconds later.
Sol lay back, alone for the first time in what felt like days. The infirmary was quiet, the healing wards humming softly with ambient magic. Night had fallen fully now, and the Academy was settling into sleep.
Finally. Privacy.
Sol focused inward, feeling for the contract he'd forged in desperation. It was there—a thread of binding connecting his soul to Meridith's, marked with his mana signature and sealed with borrowed divine power. His first contract in this new life.
He'd made thousands of contracts in his previous existence. Knew every nuance, every clause, every method of activation and communication. But this one was different—forged in emergency, powered by desperation, sealed while his body was barely holding together.
He needed to understand what he'd actually created.
Sol reached out through the contract thread and pulled.
[Contract Activation: Summons][Target: Meridith][Permission: Granted by binding terms][Cost: 2 MP]
The air beside his bed shimmered, twisted, and Meridith materialized.
She appeared exactly as she had in the forest—silver hair, violet eyes, pale skin—but her tattered clothing had been replaced with something simpler. Prison garb, Sol realized. The Royal Mages must have her in custody still, evaluating her, deciding her fate.
Meridith looked around the infirmary, then down at Sol in his bed. Her expression went through several rapid changes: surprise, confusion, recognition, and finally something between outrage and disbelief.
"You—" she started, her voice sharp. Then she sc
[Status Update][Sol: Recovering, accepted Marcus's truce, reputation transformed][Marcus: Growth achieved, truce offered, genuine respect earned][Godfrey: Worried about Sol, soul-bond deepened][Lyra & Kieran: Supportive friends][Meridith: Contracted, rehabilitation continuing][Academy Status: Everyone knows Sol is extraordinary now][Days Until Thirteen: 11][Note: The quiet child has become the miracle child, and even former enemies are becoming allies]