I did two things on my fifteenth birthday. I stole some coins from my father's chamber and then ran away from my home to become a wizard.

Stealing the coin was the less dramatic of the two. My father keeps a big pouch hidden in a wall compartment behind my mother's painting.

Everyone thinks of him as an intelligent man. But I don't understand why. Owning four warehouses in the capital only passes him as a sensible merchant. That's not enough in my mind to qualify as intelligent. Who hides coins behind a painting! That's the first place a thief with a brain will search for. At least he is using my mother's picture. He loved her a lot. And I did too.

My mother passed away when I was seven. She was making dinner one second, and next, she was lying on the ground. The healer told us that a devil had taken her life. He was living under her skin, making her sick. Even a wizard would have had failed to save her. I don't really know how I feel about it.

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Anyhow, I grab the pouch and hang my mother's painting back on the wall. I still miss her sometimes. She used to tell me all sorts of stories about the feats of magic accomplished by the great wizards of old. She knew a few spells as well and taught me one of those.

I can grow a few blades of grass, though, with some effort. It's not as easy as it sounds, but very handy to make someone trip. If I learn from an institution of magic, I will be able to cast spells like this all day long without even breaking a sweat. Or at least that's what my father used to say. Until I turned ten and was rejected admission by both schools in the capital. Both deemed that I didn't have enough magic in my bones to achieve much.

That was enough for him and thus started my time in hell. I had never liked swordsmanship. But he still hired Ricardo, a swordmaster, to guard his wares and act as my tutor. I have never had a day since then without blisters on my hands. I honestly tried to kill him with all my heart and soul during our practice duels. Though, I hated his moustache more than anything else. That thing bounced with every step he took and irritated the hell out of me, only if I could tear it off his face with my bare hands. Oh, just thinking about it plasters a big smile on my skull.

Some might consider me a swordsman now, but I always wanted to be a wizard. Magic is the only thing that makes me feel close to my mother. And I so dearly wish that she was here. She never would have allowed my father to force me into swords.

How can he give up on me? I will prove him wrong. If I can learn one spell, then I can definitely learn more.