Marcus had been expecting consequences from the forge incident.
He just hadn't anticipated they'd arrive wearing ceremonial blue robes and speaking in formal tones usually reserved for funeral announcements.
He watched from his bedroom window as three figures approached the family estate, moving with measured precision. The morning sun caught their Guild insignias, casting long shadows across the courtyard.
Not good.
"Thomas," Marcus called to his hovering manservant, who'd been pretending to dust the same windowsill for the past ten minutes while obviously eavesdropping. "I believe we're about to receive visitors of the 'your entire life is about to change whether you want it to or not' variety."
Thomas's dust cloth froze mid-swipe.
"Should I inform your father, young master?"
"He already knows."
Marcus could see his father—Lord Aldric Thorne, a man who'd built his political career on knowing exactly when to look dignified and when to look concerned—emerging from the manor's main hall with purposeful stride.
The kind of stride that meant Important Conversations were imminent.
"The question is whether I should hide in the stables until they leave, or face whatever bureaucratic nightmare they're about to dump on our doorstep."
The lead envoy was a woman who looked intimidating by design. When she spoke, her voice carried across the courtyard with practiced authority.
"Lord Thorne. We represent the Royal Academy of Arcane Arts, acting under the authority of His Majesty's Council of Mages."
Marcus felt his stomach drop.
The Royal Academy wasn't just any school—it was where they sent the children of political significance and magical potential to be molded into useful tools of the state.
Being invited was supposedly an honor.
Being invited after demonstrating unregistered magical abilities was significantly more complicated.
"Lady Morgana," his father replied, executing a bow that managed to be both respectful and cautiously territorial. "To what do I owe this unexpected honor?"
"Your son has come to our attention."
The words hung in the air with uncomfortable weight.
Marcus decided this was probably not the optimal time to make jokes about how he'd been hoping to fly under the radar for at least another few weeks.
Down in the courtyard, Lady Morgana continued with relentless efficiency.
"Young Marcus has demonstrated exceptional theoretical comprehension and practical magical resonance. The Academy extends a formal invitation for immediate enrollment."
Immediate.
Not 'next semester' or 'when convenient.' The kind of immediate that suggested this was less invitation and more politely worded conscription.
"Thomas," Marcus muttered, "I'm beginning to suspect this conversation is going to involve significantly less choice than the word 'invitation' typically implies."
His father's political instincts were clearly performing similar calculations.
"The Academy honors our house with such consideration. Might I inquire about the specific circumstances that brought Marcus to your attention?"
Lady Morgana's smile was sharp and cold.
"Recent magical manifestations indicate extraordinary potential. Such talent requires proper guidance to prevent… unfortunate accidents."
Translation: 'We know he did something impossible at that forge, and we're going to figure out exactly what kind of weapon he might become.'
Marcus watched his father process this information with the careful expression of someone trying to determine whether he'd just been handed a wonderful opportunity or a disguised threat.
"The Academy's reputation for developing young minds is, of course, legendary," Lord Thorne said, deploying diplomatic non-commitment. "However, Marcus is still quite young. Perhaps in a year or two—"
"I'm afraid the circumstances require immediate action."
Lady Morgana's tone carried clear implication that 'immediate' meant 'today' and 'action' meant 'compliance.'
"Unguided magical development can prove… problematic for all concerned parties."
The threat was delivered with polite precision.
Send us your son voluntarily, or we'll find less pleasant ways to ensure his magical education proceeds under proper supervision.
His father's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly—a tell that Marcus recognized from years of family dinners where political pressures created tension that everyone pretended not to notice.
"Of course. The safety of magical development must take priority."
Lord Thorne's voice carried the resignation of someone who'd just realized his hand had been played by experts.
"When would the Academy require Marcus to begin his studies?"
"Transport will arrive tomorrow at dawn. The boy should bring only essential personal items—the Academy provides all necessary materials and instruction."
Tomorrow.
Not next week, not after careful consideration and family discussions. Tomorrow.
Marcus felt the familiar thrill that preceded every major life transition—equal parts excitement and terror, seasoned with the grim recognition that he was about to discover exactly how much control he'd actually had over his circumstances.
Down in the courtyard, Lady Morgana was continuing her presentation with practiced efficiency.
"Marcus will be placed in the Advanced Theoretical Track, with specialized focus on enchantment theory and practical alchemy. Few students qualify for such accelerated placement."
Enchantment and alchemy.
Marcus's mind immediately began cataloging the possibilities. His metallurgical knowledge was impressive, but it was still fundamentally limited by medieval technology and conventional forging techniques.
But enchantment—that was applied magical theory. Alchemy was systematic material transformation. Combined with his existing knowledge…
The academic in him was practically vibrating with excitement at the research possibilities.
The survival-focused part of his brain was noting that they'd specifically chosen the two fields that would give him exactly the tools he'd need to become genuinely dangerous.
Either the Academy's placement system was remarkably perceptive, or someone had done their homework about what kind of education would be most useful—and most controllable—for someone with his particular combination of knowledge and abilities.
"The Academy's Advanced Track maintains rigorous standards," Lady Morgana continued, addressing his father but clearly speaking for Marcus's benefit.
"Students learn to channel their abilities productively, contributing to the realm's magical development under proper guidance and oversight."
Oversight.
There was that word again, wrapped in educational terminology but carrying implications that made Marcus's survival instincts start pacing.
His father glanced up at Marcus's window—a brief look that conveyed volumes about political necessities, family obligations, and the kinds of choices that weren't really choices at all.
"Marcus will be honored to accept the Academy's invitation," Lord Thorne said with the tone of someone who'd just negotiated the terms of his son's voluntary imprisonment while trying to make it sound like a privilege.
Lady Morgana's smile widened, revealing teeth that were too perfect and too white.
"The Academy looks forward to nurturing such promising talent."
She turned toward Marcus's window with the precision of someone who'd known exactly where he was the entire time. When their eyes met, her expression shifted into something that was almost maternal—if mothers typically looked like they were calculating the most efficient ways to dissect their children's potential.
"Master Marcus," she called up, her voice carrying practiced authority. "We shall speak properly tomorrow. I trust you understand the significance of this opportunity."
Marcus leaned out the window, drawing on every ounce of diplomatic training he'd absorbed through years of faculty meetings and budget negotiations.
"Lady Morgana, I'm deeply honored by the Academy's consideration."
"See that you are prepared for departure at dawn. The Academy values punctuality above all other virtues."
The three envoys departed with the same ceremonial precision they'd arrived with, leaving behind them the kind of silence that suggested everyone involved was recalculating their plans for the immediate future.
Marcus watched them disappear down the estate's main road, then looked down at his father, who was still standing in the courtyard with the expression of someone who'd just negotiated a treaty with forces considerably more powerful than himself.
"Thomas," Marcus said quietly, "I believe we've just discovered what it feels like to be collected by people who view human potential as a natural resource to be properly managed."
Thomas had gone noticeably pale.
"Young master, perhaps this is an honor? The Academy's reputation—"
"The Academy's reputation," Marcus interrupted, his mind already spinning through the political calculations, "is exactly what makes this terrifying. They don't invite twelve-year-olds to accelerated magical education because they're feeling generous. They invite twelve-year-olds who've done something that made powerful people pay attention."
He stepped back from the window, his thoughts racing through possibilities and implications.
The Academy represented opportunity—access to magical theory, advanced materials, resources he couldn't even imagine. But it also represented control, oversight, and the kind of institutional pressure that turned promising students into useful tools of the state.
The question was whether he could learn what he needed before they figured out exactly how much of a threat he represented.
Or whether they already knew, and this invitation was just the most efficient way to keep him under observation while they decided what to do with him.
Either way, refusing wasn't an option. Lady Morgana had made that abundantly clear without ever explicitly stating it.
Marcus looked around his room—at the books he'd been collecting, the crude notes he'd been making about metallurgy and magical theory, the piece of iron ore that still hummed faintly when he touched it.
Tomorrow, all of this would be left behind in favor of whatever the Academy had planned for his education.
"Thomas," he said, settling into the planning mindset that had carried him through every major transition of his academic career, "I need you to arrange a meeting with Henrik. Tonight, after dinner. Tell him it's urgent."
"Of course, young master. Should I prepare anything else?"
Marcus smiled with the expression he'd perfected right before every risky experiment of his previous life—equal parts determination and reckless curiosity.
"Just make sure Henrik understands this might be the last conversation we have for quite some time. I have a feeling the Academy isn't going to approve of unsupervised visits to village blacksmiths."
As Thomas hurried away, Marcus returned to the window and looked out at the road where the Guild envoys had disappeared.
Somewhere beyond the horizon lay the Academy—opportunity and prison combined into a single institution, staffed by people who viewed magical talent the same way his previous world's corporations had viewed intellectual property.
The difference was that here, instead of simply stealing his research, they were planning to take him along with it.
"Well," he said to the empty room, "this should be interesting."
The piece of iron ore on his desk pulsed once, as if it agreed.
And for the first time since this whole adventure began, Marcus felt the familiar anticipation that came with knowing he was about to dive headfirst into something that would either make him incredibly powerful or get him killed.
Possibly both.