"Henrik," Marcus said, watching three blue-robed figures arrange themselves in his field of vision like very unhappy punctuation marks, "I think we might have what academics call a significant methodology problem."
The lead mage stepped through the demolished doorway with casual authority. Someone who considered property damage a reasonable conversation starter.
When he spoke, the forge fire seemed to dim in respectful terror.
"Henrik the Smith." Each word carried the weight of official disapproval. "Explain the unregistered magical discharge detected from this location."
Marcus glanced at the still-glowing sword, then at Henrik's face, which had achieved the fascinating color of old parchment left too close to a candle.
Then at the three mages, who were studying him with focused intensity. People trying to decide whether he represented a fascinating research opportunity or a convenient scapegoat.
Well. This was what his graduate advisor would have called "a significant experimental complication."
"Would you believe I sneezed?" Marcus offered, because sometimes academic honesty was the worst possible policy.
The lead mage's left eyebrow performed a microscopic movement that somehow managed to convey volumes about his opinion of Marcus's credibility.
This was clearly not a man who appreciated creative explanations for supernatural phenomena.
"You. Child. Step forward."
Marcus had faced down tenure committees, dissertation defenses, and corporate executives who viewed human extinction as acceptable overhead costs. But this guy triggered every survival instinct he'd developed across two lifetimes.
Being near him felt like touching a live electrical cable—all potential energy and poorly controlled power waiting for an excuse to discharge.
"I'm actually quite comfortable right here, thanks."
"It was not a request."
Henrik stepped between them with protective instinct that was either very brave or catastrophically stupid.
"Master Aldrich, please. The boy doesn't understand the—"
"Silence."
The word landed with the authority of a gavel ending a trial.
"Unregistered magical manifestation is a capital offense. The perpetrator will be identified and processed accordingly."
Processed. Like paperwork. Like meat for the grinder.
Marcus decided he really didn't want to discover which interpretation was more accurate.
His mind shifted into the same desperate analytical overdrive that had saved him when powerful people decided he knew too much for their comfort. Time to deploy the academic's most powerful weapon: aggressively confident bullshit backed by just enough real knowledge to sound convincing.
"You're absolutely correct," he said, stepping around Henrik before the blacksmith could make things worse through misguided heroism. "There's definitely illegal magical activity happening here."
Henrik made a strangled noise that suggested Marcus had just lit himself on fire while juggling explosives.
Master Aldrich looked mildly surprised, which probably wasn't an expression his face wore often.
"However," Marcus continued, "you're examining the wrong causal mechanism."
He walked over to the anvil and picked up the glowing sword, because nothing said "I'm definitely not hiding anything" like casually handling the evidence.
The moment his fingers touched the blade, the light doubled in intensity and the entire workshop began humming like a tuning fork struck by a very enthusiastic giant.
"This forge sits directly over a convergent ley line intersection," he announced with the kind of confident authority that had once convinced investors to fund research into materials that existed in seventeen dimensions simultaneously.
"Henrik has been unknowingly working above a major thaumic confluence for approximately twenty-three years."
Pure improvisation, but he'd perfected the professor voice during his previous career, and it had never failed him when dealing with people who didn't want to admit they didn't understand what he was talking about.
Master Aldrich's frown deepened.
"Ley line convergences don't spontaneously enchant ferrous metals."
"They do when the metal in question is bog iron with elevated phosphorus content processed through traditional forging techniques."
Marcus was hitting his stride now, spinning theory from thin air and sheer academic audacity.
"The crystalline matrix acts as a natural thaumic conductor. Decades of exposure to ambient magical fields create what metallurgists call 'sympathetic resonance cascades.'"
The sword pulsed brighter, as if it approved of his creative interpretation of metallurgical theory.
"Applied kinetic force and thermal energy trigger the accumulated discharge. Basic principles of practical thaumaturgy."
He really hoped thaumaturgy was a real field of study in this world and not something he'd accidentally invented thirty seconds ago.
Master Aldrich exchanged glances with his companions—a conversation conducted entirely in raised eyebrows and meaningful looks.
"You demonstrate unusual theoretical sophistication for a village child."
Dangerous territory. Marcus needed an explanation that accounted for his knowledge without painting a target on his back the size of a tenure application.
"I read extensively," he said, which was true if you counted his previous life's academic journals. "My father maintains a substantial library. Pre-guild theoretical texts, mostly—abstract frameworks rather than practical applications."
Also completely true, since he'd invented both the father and the library in the same breath.
Master Aldrich's expression shifted from suspicion to something considerably more concerning: professional interest.
Ancient magical theory that only this peculiar child could interpret? That represented serious career advancement potential.
"You will accompany us for comprehensive examination."
Guild-speak for 'resist and we'll be examining your corpse instead.'
"Someone should probably remain here to monitor the resonance buildup," Marcus said, pulling from half-remembered physics lectures and hoping for the best.
"You wouldn't want the accumulated thaumic energy to discharge in an uncontrolled manner."
"What would such a discharge cause?" one of the other mages asked, and Marcus could practically hear the nervous calculation in his voice.
Marcus had absolutely no idea, but electrical analogies had never steered him wrong.
"Best case scenario? Every metallic object within fifty yards becomes temporarily magnetized. Worst case…"
He paused for dramatic effect, because timing was everything in academic presentations.
"Explosive thaumic cascade. Similar to lightning, but originating from ground-level convergence points."
Henrik went pale enough to qualify as translucent. The mages looked appropriately concerned.
Amazing how confidently delivered nonsense could sound like established scientific fact when you used enough polysyllabic terminology.
"How do we prevent this?" Master Aldrich demanded.
"Gradual thermal reduction while continuously monitoring energy flux levels," Marcus replied, making it up as he went along.
"I'll need to collaborate with Henrik over several days to safely dissipate the accumulated field without triggering cascade failure."
Several days to figure out why touching metal made it glow like a Christmas decoration. Several days to plan his next move before these people decided his theoretical knowledge was worth more than his continued existence.
Master Aldrich weighed his options with the calculating expression of someone who'd built a career on knowing which risks were worth taking.
Finally: "Very well. You will remain under direct supervision while the situation is contained. But understand this clearly, boy—you and your father's theoretical collection will undergo thorough guild examination."
"Naturally," Marcus said. "Though I should mention, some of the manuscripts are quite fragile. Centuries old, you understand. They require very careful handling."
Especially the ones that didn't exist until I mentioned them thirty seconds ago.
The mages departed with promises to return tomorrow with monitoring equipment and uncomfortable questions.
Henrik waited until their footsteps faded completely, then collapsed against his workbench like someone had cut all his supporting cables.
"Boy," he said with the weary tone of someone who'd just watched his peaceful life explode into fragments, "I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing, but you just made enemies of people who consider creative execution methods a professional hobby."
Marcus set down the sword, which had finally stopped glowing like a prop from a fantasy movie.
"Maybe. But we're both still breathing, which beats the available alternatives."
"For now. When they figure out you've been spinning tales like a traveling minstrel…"
"Then we'd better make sure they don't."
Marcus looked around the forge—at the tools, the scattered iron, the piece of bog iron that had somehow responded to his touch like it recognized him.
Whatever was happening to him, it was real. It was powerful. And it was going to get them both killed if he couldn't figure out how to control it.
But for the first time since waking up in a twelve-year-old's body, he felt genuinely excited. Here was a puzzle that actually mattered—one where solving it incorrectly meant more than a failed grant application or disappointed colleagues.
He'd built an entire career on turning impossible problems into breakthrough discoveries. This was just another impossible problem with slightly higher stakes.
"Henrik," he said, "what do you actually know about guild enforcement capabilities?"
"Enough to know we're properly fucked."
Marcus grinned with the same reckless expression that had preceded every major discovery of his academic life.
"Perfect. That means they'll underestimate us."
The piece of iron gave one final, defiant pulse of light, then went dark.
Somewhere in the distance, church bells began ringing the evening hour, and Marcus could swear he heard them counting down to something that was either going to be the greatest experiment of his career or the shortest revolution in history.
Either way, it was going to be fascinating.
And dangerous.
Very, very dangerous.