Lord of Entertainment C30 Mother's love

The weight of the file in my hands felt like it could anchor a ship. Resisting the urge to tear it open right there in the street, I carefully slipped it into my inventory storage and hurried back to my apartment.

Once safely inside, I wasted no time. The file lay open before me, its contents spread across my desk like a roadmap to a life I was supposed to have lived.

The first things to catch my eye were the photographs. Family portraits, mostly - Arthur with his parents, I assumed. But there was more to it. Several women stood beside the man I took to be Arthur's father. Polygamy, it seemed, was not uncommon in the upper echelons of Saint Angeles society.

The Whitlocks exuded refinement in every image. Perfectly pressed suits, elegant gowns, and carefully cultivated expressions of superior indifference. Alongside Arthur were younger faces - brothers and sisters, perhaps? The next generation of Whitlock power and privilege.

Then came the school photos. Arthur surrounded by classmates, all in identical uniforms that practically screamed 'elite academy.' Even in these more casual shots, there was a careful distance in Arthur's stance, a subtle barrier between him and his peers.

I dove into the biography, eager to understand the man whose life I had inadvertently stepped into. The picture it painted was... interesting, to say the least. Arthur Whitlock was arrogant, that much was clear. But he was clever about it, never allowing his sense of superiority to become overt. Subtle, the file said. A master of the unspoken put-down and the backhanded compliment.

His social circle was exactly what you'd expect from the heir to a powerful family. He ran with the children of the elite - the Rockefellers, the Lupos, the Dragnas. The next generation of Saint Angeles' power players, all gathered in one exclusive clique.

"Birds of a feather," I chuckled to myself, shaking my head at the predictability of it all.

As I delved deeper into the file, more intriguing details emerged. Arthur Whitlock's tastes were as refined and particular as one might expect from a scion of high society. His favorite food? Rare beef, specially imported from East Watch - a delicacy that spoke volumes about the family's wealth and connections.

His drink of choice was Lonthon Classic, a wine I made a mental note to familiarize myself with. But it wasn't all posh tastes and refined manners. The file painted a picture of a young man with a rebellious streak, frequently butting heads with his father and siblings. Even his father's concubines weren't spared from his defiance. The only person he seemed to genuinely get along with was his mother.

But then, my eyes caught on a detail that made my heart skip a beat. Arthur Whitlock liked music. Not just any music, but "weird" music. The file described his tastes as unconventional, even avant-garde by the standards of Saint Angeles society.

I sat back, a disbelieving laugh escaping my lips. Was this sheer coincidence, or had my increased luck from the system played a role? This single detail could be the linchpin in maintaining my cover.

It all made sense now. My sudden rise to fame with my unconventional "grunge" style, the way I'd challenged the musical norms of this world - it all aligned perfectly with the real Arthur Whitlock's established interests. No wonder Alejandro had been so convinced of my identity. In trying to stand out and make my mark, I'd inadvertently mimicked the very behavior that had defined the real Arthur.

***

(Mariana R. Whitlock POV)

It's been weeks since my son's supposed death, but the reality of it still feels like a distant, unbelievable nightmare. My dear Arthur, my only son among a brood of daughters, the heir to the Whitlock Family legacy - gone in the blink of an eye. Or so they say.

I loved - no, love - my son dearly. The thought of him being torn from this world so suddenly, so violently, is almost too much to bear. But something doesn't sit right with me. Call it mother's intuition, call it denial, but I can't shake the feeling that there's more to this story.

I couldn't even bring myself to view his body, and when I learned that the car explosion had left him unrecognizable, I felt... relief. It's a terrible thing to admit, but it gave me hope.

They told me his body was unrecognizable, scorched beyond identification in the explosion that consumed his car.

I began to entertain a thought that others might call madness: what if the body in the car wasn't Arthur? What if my son is still out there, alive, for reasons I can't yet fathom?

I don't care what they call it - a grieving mother's delusion, wishful thinking - but I know in my heart that Arthur is still out there somewhere. I've ordered my people to search for him, to follow any lead, no matter how small or unlikely.

Weeks have passed without result, and I can see the pity in the eyes of those around me. My husband, my daughters, they all try to talk sense into me. "Accept reality," they say. "Let him go," they plead. But they don't understand. They can't feel what I feel.

I know they think I'm losing my mind. I see the worried glances, hear the whispered conversations. But I won't give up. I can't give up. Arthur is alive, I'm sure of it. And I will find him, no matter what it takes, no matter who I have to defy.

My son is out there, and I will bring him home.

I cling to hope like a lifeline, even as a part of me whispers that it's futile. In my quietest moments, when the weight of reality bears down on me, I know... I know that my son could not be more dead. The thought chills me to my core, threatens to shatter the fragile fortress of hope I've built around myself.

But I can't let go. I won't. And so, I continue to hope, to search, to pray.

At first, I turned to Lord Solarus, beseeching him to help me find my son. But as days turned to weeks with no answer, my desperation grew. I found myself reaching out to other gods, ones I had never before considered worthy of worship. Yet they too remained silent in the face of my pleas.

It was then, in the depths of my despair, that I turned to the old ways. Ancient books spoke of forgotten deities - the God of Weather, the God of Nature, the God of Earth. Gods of Season, Seas, Air, and Sky. I called out to each in turn, my voice hoarse with tears, my hands trembling as I performed long-forgotten rituals.

But it was not enough. In my madness, in my all-consuming need to find Arthur, I dared to do the unthinkable. I turned to the most powerful and most forbidden god of all - the God of the Stars.

The mere mention of this deity sends shivers down the spines of humans, elves, and dwarves alike in the old days. He is said to be the ancestor of demons, his very name a blasphemy. We are told never to speak of him, never to even think his title.

But in my desperation, I cast aside all caution. In the dead of night, with trembling lips and a racing heart, I whispered his name: "Arthaurus."

The moment the word left my lips, I felt a change in the air. A stillness, as if the world itself held its breath. Had I gone too far? Had I damned myself, and any chance of finding Arthur, with this ultimate transgression?

But then, miracle of miracles, it seemed to work. Just a day after my forbidden prayer, my trusted man Alejandro came to me with news. News of Arthur. My son. Alive.

As I listen to Alejandro's report, my heart pounding in my chest, I can't help but wonder - is this truly a miracle? Or have I set something in motion that I don't fully understand?

Whatever the cost, whatever dark forces I may have awakened, I know one thing for certain - I will see my son again. And may the gods, old and new, have mercy on anyone who stands in my way.