In the private solar of the Tretogor palace, the contrast between the royal brothers was sharpening with age. Radovid, now ten, sat on a bench polishing a steel dagger, his face already wearing the mask of cold suspicion he used for the world. Petyr, however, was surrounded by floating diagrams made of shimmering light—not mystical runes, but geometric proofs and molecular structures.
"The mages call it the Four Elements," Petyr said, waving a hand through a projection of a flame. "They teach that to cast a firebolt, you must 'plead with the spirits of the pyre.' It's inefficient. It's poetic drivel designed to keep the power mysterious and the practitioners elitist."
Radovid stopped polishing his blade, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at the glowing symbols with a familiar squint. "I always thought they sounded like loonies, Petyr. Muttering in elder speech, wearing robes that cost more than a battalion's armor. Are you saying they don't even know how their own tricks work?"
"Precisely," Petyr replied, his eyes gleaming with the fervor of a man who had rediscovered the Laws of Thermodynamics. "The 'cost' they pay—the exhaustion, the nosebleeds—is a penalty for their ignorance. They fight the universe rather than working with it."
Petyr held up a single finger. A tiny, pin-sized spark of white light appeared. It was silent, but the air around it distorted from the sheer intensity of the heat.
"A standard mage uses ten units of 'Chaos' to create a fire that burns at 800 degrees," Petyr explained. "They lose eight units to friction, light, and 'mystical interference.' I used half a unit. I didn't ask a spirit for fire, Radovid. I simply instructed the nitrogen and oxygen molecules in this specific cubic centimeter to vibrate at a higher frequency. The cost is the bare minimum required to overcome inertia."
Radovid leaned in, the light of the spark reflecting in his dark eyes. "So... they're just wasting it? All that power, and they use it like children throwing rocks?"
"They are hoarding a treasure they don't understand," Petyr said, closing his hand. The heat vanished instantly. "By demystifying it—by turning magic into a predictable, measurable science—we can make it stronger. And more importantly, we can make it useful for everyone, not just those born with the 'Gift'."
Radovid let out a sharp, cynical bark of laughter. "Duffers. The lot of them. They think they're gods because they can read a dusty scroll, and here you are, outperforming the Grand Council before you've even had your first beard."
He looked at his brother with a disturbing amount of pride. "If they ever find out you're making their 'divine art' as simple as accounting, Petyr, they'll want your head on a pike."
"Let them try," Petyr said calmly, picking up a quill to log his latest data. "You can't execute a law of nature."
******
The stone balcony of the Tretogor palace overlooked a city that was slowly changing under Petyr's quiet influence. Below, the first standardized street lamps—fueled by long-lasting alchemical luminescence rather than flickering oil—began to glow.
Radovid stood by the balustrade, his youthful face clouded. "The tutors speak of the Chapter with bated breath," he said, his voice laced with the suspicion that would one day become his trademark. "But the rumors from the streets are different. They say mages go mad. They say the power rots the mind, turning men into monsters who pull the strings of kings while their own wits fray like old hemp."
He turned to Petyr, his eyes searching his older brother's face. "Is it true? Does the 'Chaos' take a piece of you every time you reach for it?"
Petyr didn't look up from the notebook where he was calculating the Refractive Index of a localized illusion. "It is a matter of biological and psychological load, Radovid. Most mages treat magic like a wild beast they must wrestle. They fight the natural order. Every time they force the universe to do something illogical, the 'back-pressure' hits their nervous system."
He finally set down his quill, looking his twin in the eye. "When you turn away from nature, the cost increases exponentially. It isn't 'Chaos' that makes them unstable; it's the inefficiency. Their brains are literally overheating from the friction of their own ignorance. Unless one possesses a freakish constitution or a willpower that borders on sociopathy, the mind eventually breaks under the strain."
Radovid stepped closer, his jaw tight. "And you? You're doing things they can't even dream of."
"I don't fight the current, brother. I swim with it," Petyr said, a faint, reassuring smile touching his lips. "I use the Laws of Physics as a lever. By reducing the cost to the bare minimum, I ensure my 'load' is negligible. You needn't worry. I won't be joining the ranks of the half-mad hermits in Ban Ard."
He stood up, smoothing his royal doublet. "Besides, I have not forgotten who I am. I am a Prince of Redania first, and a practitioner of the sciences second. I will not pursue 'magic' at the expense of my royal duties. If I can use a grain of power to ensure our people never go hungry, that is a better use of my time than seeking 'ascension' in some dusty tower."
Radovid relaxed, his shoulders dropping. In his eyes, Petyr wasn't just a brother anymore; he was an anchor of sanity in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.
"Good," Radovid muttered, looking back out at the city. "Because if you went mad, I'd have to kill the rest of them just to even the score."
Petyr chuckled, though he noted the chilling sincerity in his brother's tone.