High Tide, Driftmark
"Well then, I can do no more than wish you luck in your endeavors, my sister," Laenor nodded, wondering if he would be surprised this time too. He couldn't see why not. His older sister might act immature more often than not, but she was a persistent woman—and willpower combined with intent were the two strongest pillars of magic. So, Laena might just be able to do it.
Laenor came out of his thoughts and saw three pairs of eyes—all different shades of purple—gazing at him with expectation.
"Very well," he began, "I admit I may not have made much progress this moon compared to the previous ones, as I've been rather busy advising many Velaryons who needed… small help."
He righteously ignored the scoff and muttered, "Small, he says," from his mother.
"But in between helping them," Laenor continued, "I did manage to improve my control over storms—both natural and conjured. Though I needed to go to Storm's End to further refine my grip on naturally occurring ones. As for water, I remain unchallenged. I'm pleased to say that marine life—all of it—can no longer resist my control and refuse my commands. They will obey every command I give them."
"Every, you say?" his father interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
"Aye, every. Though I'd admit Krakens are… very reluctant. Still, they will have no choice. My trident only strengthens my authority. With it in my hands, I could even summon them all to the surface and compel them to do my bidding—whatever lies within their power."
That surprised them—clearly. Wielding magic, a power that demands imagination, had already begun to broaden their walls of reason they had built around them. Laenor could see it in their eyes: each one now imagining the ways his power could be used—for destruction, for glory, for ambition.
"Now, as for magic," Laenor said, "I haven't devoted much time to it this moon. But I did manage to brew a few magical potions. For now, they can do little more than heal minor bruises. That field doesn't operate on imagination or willpower—it demands experimentation. Also, it'll take several moons before Veltharys and Embaryx can make the new plants magical enough to be truly effective. So expect slow progress in that particular domain." With that, Laenor finished his report.
He did not mention one of his more ambitious projects: creating sea creatures as powerful as dragons in the sky, to be bound to his blood and House Velaryon.
The reason for withholding it was simple—it would take time, and even Laenor couldn't predict how much. To raise hope in his House and then fail to meet it—even briefly—didn't sit well with him. He had come to realize that, unlike before, he cared about more than just the three people sitting before him. That little circle of love and loyalty had grown.
Laenor believed this was the clearest sign he had truly assimilated into this world.
At first, when he'd arrived—when he'd spent seven long years buried in experiments and research of magic—he did so to escape the impossible fact of his own existence. He had read about this world back in his life in a book written by a man, but back then, he never ever imagined he would live it. Though he remembered little of his former identity, the feeling of being misplaced haunted him. The people around him were strangers in a story, not family to love or protect. And that distance had numbed the guilt—the grief—of the atrocities he committed when he first started on Bloodstone. Not that many in this world would call them atrocities. Sacrifices of life here were not unusual; wars and blood rituals claimed more souls than illness and age ever could in this world, so unlike the world where he came from.
Even so, Laenor had stopped himself—and his family—from delving into that art. Aye, he stopped the, not forbidden them, why? Because he feared doing that often would strip them of their humanity before death ever could. The blood arts were powerful—undeniably so. And while Laenor had become someone capable of destroying empires and leveling cities on a whim, he knew there would always be one of him… and many enemies.
Some would come in shadows, and their aim would be his House, his blood. So if one day the Velaryons turned to blood magic for survival—he would not object.
Anyway, where was he? Ah, yes—the creation of a magical animal tied to his Velaryon blood.
Laenor jerked his head, pulled from his internal monologue by the scoff that came from his mother.
"Are we to ignore that you're rendezvous at Storm's End? Into the domain of a being you claim is a god? One we neither pray to nor know much about, I might add," she said, her voice sharp with disapproval.
"Worry not, Mother. I feel no threat there, only a warm and proud embrace of father when I go there, and I believe that place to be God's domain. Not to mention, he's so weakened now that he can barely do anything. I could feel his waning strength as he tried to reach out to me," Laenor replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Though I wonder… is he the Storm God? Or the father of Elenei, whom Durrandon descended from?"
Inside, he was reliving the memory of his first encounter with the divine in this world. It had been a great surprise—and Laenor might've looked like a gaping fish, overwhelmed and nervous as he felt their presence.
"Still, you should avoid them. They are gods, Laenor," his father warned with concern. "Powerful. We may wield magic, yes—but what can mere mortals compare to their power?"
Laenor smirked. "Indeed… what are mere mortals to the divine?" he said mysteriously, as if privy to a truth his family couldn't grasp. The idea of telling them about his semi-divine nature had crossed his mind more than once. Not that he had acted on it. No, the time would come when they stumbled onto that truth themselves—without him saying a word.
Then there was the matter of being deceived, or tricked.
Laenor had long wondered what his limits were. When he first arrived in this world, he knew—somehow—that he wouldn't be able to grow too powerful. That had been a rule etched into his mind, as if placed there by something… or someone. But that rule no longer held sway. He had long since surpassed it—achieving far more than he should've.
Something had changed.
He could feel it. The world's magic was no longer so much chaotic; it was shifting—settling into a state of anticipation. As if waiting.
Waiting for something.
And every instinct Laenor had—instincts he trusted fully—screamed that something was coming. Something that would explain why the limiters placed on him had been removed. Some event. He didn't know what, or how, or where. But it was approaching.
And every night, Laenor wondered.
He often amused himself with the thought that life might've been simple back on Earth. But here? Here he leapt from one mystery to another. One task completed only to birth another.
Not that he disliked it. But if he had to do this for so long, it would become a problem. A big one at that.
Perhaps one day he would tire of it—become annoyed, worn down, bitter even.
But that was a problem for future him.
For now, he dove into these mysteries with the excitement of a child discovering new toys. And while some of them were unwanted, Laenor would not cry. He was persistent. And he would uncover every thread of the unknown… until he could do no more.
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