The air smelled like old parchment and incense, a mix that was strangely comforting. Distant spellcasting echoed through the valley, more like musical notes than incantations. Light filtered through the trees, casting shifting, kaleidoscopic patterns on the ground. It was the kind of place you'd expect to find unicorns frolicking or wizards having picnics.

I stood at the edge of the secluded valley and just… absorbed. My life had been a series of chaotic jumps from one job to the next, but this—this was something out of a storybook. It almost didn’t seem real, which was funny considering I’d just stepped through a portal.

Taking a deep breath, I started down the winding path toward the castle. The buildings were a mix of medieval and otherworldly, with towers that defied gravity and windows that shimmered like liquid crystal. Ancient stone walls lined the pathways, covered in moss and creeping vines. I reached out and ran my fingers along one of the walls, half expecting to feel a jolt of magical energy. It was just cold stone, but it carried a weight of history that sent shivers up my arm.

This was where I was supposed to learn. Where I was supposed to fit in. The thought was as exciting as it was terrifying.

As I rounded a corner, a massive wooden archway came into view, adorned with runes that glowed faintly in the twilight. Beyond it, a courtyard bustled with activity. Students in various states of magical flair hurried about, most wearing robes, some wielding wands, others casually levitating books and scrolls.

One guy lounged against a fountain, a Wyrmling perched on his shoulder like a parrot. It yawned a tiny, fiery yawn, then settled in as he scratched its chin. He took me in with a single glance, then went back to his book.

“Mr. King,” a serene voice called. I turned to see a tall woman gliding toward me. Gliding, not walking—each step seemed to float on air. Her long silver hair shimmered in the sunlight, and her deep violet eyes looked as if they held entire galaxies.

“I am Ophelia Moonshadow,” she said, extending a hand. I took it, unsure whether to kiss it or just shake it. I opted for a gentle shake, fearing I might burst into flames from the contact. She radiated a kind of warm, magical intensity.

“I am the Headmistress of this fine establishment. Welcome to Bothwell School of Witchcraft. We are pleased to have you.”

“Thanks,” I said, probably too casually. “It’s an amazing place, but I have to ask… why me and why all this secrecy?”

Ophelia studied me, not with the scrutiny of a teacher sizing up a student, but more like an artist contemplating a block of marble, wondering what could be carved from it. “Bothwell has remained hidden for centuries. Our secrecy is paramount, as you can imagine. Magic and the mundane world have always had a... complicated relationship.”

Her voice was calm, each word dripping with a measured, deliberate grace that made me want to sit up straighter. This was a woman who commanded not just respect, but attention.

“As for you, it was your courage saving that boy. Combined with a longing for something else, you get where you are now. Now, you must understand the challenges you face,” she continued. “Balancing your new duties here with the life you’ve left behind will not be easy.”

I swallowed hard. The life I’d left behind. They really did expect me to give it all up.

“But know this, Tyler,” she said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You have the potential to bridge two worlds. That is a rare gift.”

Potential. Gift. Words that should make me feel better, but instead loaded my chest with even more weight. This was real. They believed in me. I just wasn’t sure I did.

“Now,” Ophelia said, “Harper Flynt will see to your orientation. She’s waiting in the Hall of Fetches.”

I nodded, mutely, taking in her last lingering gaze. It was almost...maternal. Or maybe I was just desperate for reassurance.

“Oh, and Tyler,” she added as I turned to go. “Wisenforth hand picked you for a reason.”

***

The Hall of Fetches looked like a cross between a museum and a mad scientist's laboratory. Arcane symbols were etched into the stone walls, glowing softly in a spectrum of colors. Shelves laden with ancient artifacts and glass vials stretched to the ceiling. It all screamed "high maintenance," like the magic equivalent of a gourmet kitchen.

"Fetch King," a brisk voice said as I entered. Harper Flynt stood at the front of the room, hands clasped. Unlike the rest of the witches I'd seen, she wore jeans and a t-shirt, her dark hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. The casual look would’ve disarmed me if not for her eyes—emerald green and piercing, like she could see straight into my thoughts.

"We're running late, so I'll make this quick," she said. "Sit."

I sat.

"Being a Fetch is not just another job, Tyler. It’s a vocation. A calling. We are the bridge between the magical and the mundane, the oil that makes the enchanted machine run smoothly. Do you understand?"

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"Yeah, like intern magicians," I said, trying for a bit of levity. Her eyes narrowed.

"We are not magicians. We are servants. Until you grasp that distinction, you’ll struggle."

Ouch. "Got it," I said, less cocky.

She launched into the history of the Fetches, talking about ancient covens and legendary witches. My mind started to wander, but I snapped back to attention when she mentioned the initiation rites.

"The ceremony binds you to the coven, infusing you with just enough magical essence to perform your duties. It is not a gift; it is a burden. One that you must carry with humility and care."

I leaned forward, more interested than I wanted to admit. This wasn't like any of the countless orientations I'd sat through for different jobs. There was a gravity to it, a sense that every word she spoke had life-or-death implications.

"The Kinshop Amulet you're given is more than a symbol. The Familiar inside is a living creature, and it will rely on you as much as you rely on it. Your bond with the creature will reflect your bond with the House. Weak in one, weak in the other."

I glanced around the room, noting several plaques with names and small, various creatures mounted beside them. It clicked—they were like the Fetch equivalent of service awards, but a thousand times cooler.

"Why do you want to be a Fetch, Tyler?" Fiona asked, cutting through my daydreams.

"I don’t know what to do," I said, surprising myself with honesty. "I just want to understand what’s happening to me. To help people. This seemed to have gotten me here."

She regarded me for a moment, expression unreadable. "Understanding comes with time. As does helping. For now, survive the initiation. Then we’ll see."

Survive the initiation. Great.

"One last thing," she said as I stood to leave. "Magic complicates everything. Your relationships, your choices, your very existence. Are you prepared for that?"

Was I? Probably not. But saying no wasn’t an option.

"I'll figure it out," I said.

"Yes," she said, but it sounded more like a question. "You'll need to."

I walked out of the hall, my mind racing. Survive the initiation, create a strong bond with my Familiar, serve the House with humility. No big deal, right?

***

The moon hung fat and luminous over the castle high in the sky. The courtyard, so busy earlier, was now deserted and silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves. I made my way slowly, each step a question I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to.

When I arrived at the appointed place, a small circle near the eastern tower, a group of figures emerged from the corners. They wore hooded robes, their faces obscured by flickering candlelight. It was like stepping into a scene from a low-budget horror movie, except this was real. Too real.

"Are you prepared to take the oath?" A voice shot out.

Prepared? No. But ready? Maybe. "I am," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

A robed figure stepped forward and held out something small and glittering. An amulet, identical to the ones I'd seen in the Hall of Fetches. The creature inside looked like a tiny, iridescent dragon-ferret, its scales shifting colors with each movement. It had beady little eyes and a snout that gave it a permanently curious expression. It was adorable and terrifying all at once.

"With this amulet, you take on the responsibility of a Fetch," Fiona said. "The Wyrmling represents your bond with Bothwell. Strong and unbreakable, or fragile and fleeting. How it grows is up to you."

I took the amulet, and the Wyrmling shifted, almost as if it were getting comfortable in my hand. The thing felt cool and alive, like holding a breathing piece of jewelry. A wave of something—maybe anticipation, maybe dread—washed over me.

The ceremony began in earnest, with each robed figure taking turns to speak. Their words were in a language I didn't understand, but the rhythm and tone conveyed a clear meaning: duty, loyalty, service. The candles around me flared brighter, and I felt a tugging sensation, like invisible strings pulling at my skin. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn't pleasant either. More than anything, it felt...changing.

My thoughts drifted to all the times I'd started something new—a job, a relationship, a hobby. The initial excitement, the slow realization of what it entailed, the eventual settling in. This was different. This was forever.

The last figure spoke, and a surge of warmth rushed through me. It was as if the air itself had taken sides and was now in cahoots with my bloodstream. The tugging sensation intensified, then snapped, like a rubber band breaking. I staggered but didn’t fall.

"Rise, Fetch," a voice said.

I stood on shaky legs, the world tilting for a moment before righting itself. The robed figures lowered their hoods. I recognized Harper, Ophelia, Fiona and a few others who'd given me welcoming smiles earlier in the day. Now their expressions were somber, almost grim.

"Your first week will be the hardest," Ophelia said. "Remember, you are never alone. Your House supports you."

Support me. Not help me. The distinction wasn't lost.

The figures dispersed, leaving me alone with Fiona. She regarded me with those intense green eyes, softer now but still searching.

"You did well," she said. "Most falter."

"Thanks," I said, because what else could I say?

"The Wyrmling will take time to awaken. Until then, its presence will drain you. Be cautious."

I looked at the amulet in my hand. The Wyrmling was motionless, like a tiny dragon figurine. I could almost convince myself it wasn't real—almost.

"Cautious. Got it," I said.

My hand tightened around the amulet as I stared at the flickering flames.

The flames cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, playing tricks with my tired eyes. I remembered the first time I’d walked into Mom’s new bookstore, the scent of fresh print and the dust motes in the air making it feel like a magical realm. This place had a similar vibe, but layered with a thousand more years of history and an actual magical charge.

I looked at the amulet again, at the tiny creature destined to become my partner. A rush of something like pride filled me. This was real. I was a part of something bigger now, something that stretched beyond my small, chaotic life.

Could I do this? Could I really bridge two worlds, serve a House, and maybe even save a few more lives?

I had no clue. But for the first time since being yanked into this mess, I felt a spark of confidence. They believed in me. Maybe I could start believing in myself, too.

Clenching the amulet, I imagined the Wyrmling stirring, opening its eyes, recognizing me as its Fetch. A sense of belonging washed over me, along with the weight of new responsibilities.

I was ready. Or as ready as I could be.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and stepped forward into the world of magic.