He should probably have tried this sooner. In the back of his head, he can hear Bryde's voice scolding him wearily: "You wanted a world where you could dream anywhere, and now that you have it, what have you done with it?"

"I know," Ronan mutters to himself as he leafs through a book in the library. "There are not two of me."

A nearby scholar, formerly engrossed in reading, turns a glare at him. Ronan returns it until he wins the staring contest, then drifts to another book.

Books. Fucking books. Learning magic, of all things, from fucking books. These were trees once. If they were still trees, they'd probably be a lot more useful in teaching him than they are in this corpse form, scrawled knowledge imparted in a way that makes Ronan feel like a corpse, too. This feels about as natural as Wikipedia. Does this really work for everyone else?

A quick glance around tells him yes. To his left, one mage conjures rainbow bubbles out of thin air. To his right, another lights a candle with a snap of his fingers. The scholar who ocularly scolded him now appears to be rearranging inked words.

"Fuck," sighs Ronan, shoulders sagging.