Ye Olde Roadhouse could be described as cozy in the same way a kleptomaniacal crow’s nest was. Bird baths of every shape littered an overgrown garden. Add-ons jutted out of the main building’s thatched roof with no sense of prior planning. Almost like a dragon had tried to collect smaller cottages to add to the bigger one. The only dragons were the tacky lawn ornaments that Mace spotted as she wound up the path. The metal that made up these dragons were anything but precious. Old twister nails, buckets repurposed into snouts, and pitchforks for claws. Somebody alert the local crafts fair, Mace thought, I’ve found their entire inventory.

She could hear music coming from the inn’s common room. Bad taste in decoration and lively, Mace was feeling home already. She pushed open the door into someone’s soft back. Apparently a crowd had formed a ring around some dancers. She nudged through the crowd to get a better look. The dancers were young women, with sunkissed skin and ribbons that twirled in their dark hair. Their ice melting smiles washed over the crowd. Mace could get very used to this place.

All but one of the girls finished their dance, continuing to clap the rhythm with the crowd. The lone girl had her back to Mace, using her hand to twist something in rhythm with her hips. The something glittered in the light. Were those scales? Was that a snake in her hand? Mace’s heart dropped and her body froze.

The girl finally turned. She had that same deep brown skin, that same wavy black hair, that same smile that Mace found sickeningly infectious. She had changed her middle finger into a small garden snake, which she used as a ribbon to curl around her body as she danced.

“Tria Durana?” Mace shouted.

The music stopped. The snake hissed before the girl connected to it could react.

She spun around and stared wide eyed at Mace.

“Perovay?!” she gasped. Her shock died in an instant, and anger set in. “Did you follow me?!” she asked.

The crowd’s collective head whipped towards Mace.

“Follow you? I wouldn’t follow you into heaven! I am on official wizards’ business!”

“So am I,” she declared. “From my master,”

“Why would they send two wizards to…wait master? You’re not even finished with school Durana!”

“Neither are you,” she scoffed. “And he’s both my master and guardian,”

Mace’s jaw clenched. Of course the perfect Tria Durana was adopted by a wizard.

Tria Durana had come to Aethowix Academy as the orphan prodigy with a grand destiny. She had charmed both staff and students with how effortlessly she picked up magic. She had been made the star of the ninepins team in her first.

But the worst thing about her, Mace thought, was that she was just so pleasant and friendly. Not to Mace of course, Mace had burned that bridge a long time ago, but everyone else loved her. Mace had struggled all her life for magic, for recognition, even for friends. And here it was being handed to Tria like candy.

Tria looked down at Mace’s arm. “Broken wrist all better? Did your tutor heal it?”

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“Master,” growled Mace. Turpenwile had in fact sped up the healing process, but she wasn’t about to give Tria ammunition.

Tria sighed. “Well if only we all could afford a private master to clean up our messes.”

It was true, or at least partly. Mace’s family did come from wealth, but more accurately her uncle’s wealth.

“Oh wait, you’re not in uncle’s good graces anymore,” said Tria.

That one stung most. Mace’s uncle, the illustrious Dr. Hickory, wizard of the 24th level and esteemed headmaster of Aethowix Academy, had been the one to kick her out. She was hauled into the office six months ago and the memory still ached.

Deep down, Mace knew what she was saying was true. Tria had come from nothing and worked for everything. Mace had everything and achieved nothing. These complicated feelings boiled down her good arm and collected in her fist. She was going to express her emotions right into Tria’s face.

“Hold it girlies!” a stern feminine voice parted from the crowd. “Now we won’t be having any more of this.”

She was a tall, tanned woman, with hair that could rival Mace’s for volume. Her tone of voice said ‘this could go peacefully-‘ and the spoon in her hand finished ‘-but I could go either way’.

“She started it!” they both said at once. When you were confronted with the wall of motherhood that was Thistle Nightwarren, your subconscious automatically scrambled out childish responses.

“I don’t care who started it, I’m ending it,” she stated. If mothers had a grimoire, full of all the arcane spells of raising children, this would be one its most powerful. Right in front of the curse of ‘you know better than this’ and right behind the incantation of ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’.

Thistle turned to the crowd and stared at them. She was shorter than many in the crowd, but still managed to glare down at them disapprovingly. The crowd mumbled something about the oven being on and shuffled out of the roadhouse.

“So,” said Thistle. “Who wants to explain to me exactly what the problem is?”

“I-,” started Thistle.

“Mrs. Nightwarren,” interrupted Tria. “My name is Tria Durana, wizard of the 2nd level.”

So she made it her second year. Most wizard schools generally ran from level to 1-4, though some degrees took 8. The rest of the levels up to the current cap of 29 were awarded through demonstration of mastery.

“I was sent here by my master to collect Master Cornsilk’s belongings and bury his remains,” she said calmly.

“What?!” said Mace a little less calmly. “That’s what my master, Master Turpenwile, sent me to do!”

“So you’re Mace!” Thistle explained. “Master Turpenwile speaks very fondly of you.”

“Why would they send us both? Shouldn’t they have coordinated or something?” asked Tria.

Mace knew that ‘wizard’ and ‘coordinated’ were antonyms, in more ways than one.

“Well I don’t know why your master sent you, but I was sent to settle the matter of Master Cornsilk’s last will and testament,” Mace declared.

“Cornsilk had a will? Huh, he never talked about it,” said Thistle.

“Well all his magical junk has to go somewhere,” said Mace.

“Yeah to me,” said Tria quietly.

“Wait, backup.” Mace turned to Thistle. “How do you know Master Cornsilk?”

“I had tea with him nearly every week,” said Thistle cheerily,

The coin dropped in Mace and Thistle’s brains. They whipped around to Tria.

“Backup again, what did you just say?” asked Mace.

Tria looked a bit bashful. “Well I shouldn’t say me, but my it’s all going to my master and therefore eventually me. There is no matter of will to settle because there is no will.”

Mace and Thistle paused to process.

“What?!” they said together.