“Right this way!” Mrs Hawthorne commanded, turning on her heels and heading the way she came. Osric, almost struggling to keep up, wondered if she was impatient by nature or merely from a morning of greeting similarly stunned students. Come to think of it, he had little idea just how many children there were at Ravenhurst. The dozen or so turrets he’d counted on the ride in suggested at least a few hundred. He spotted a few groups of students here or there, chatting excitedly and looking decidedly more comfortable in their uniform than he felt in his. Ravenhurst taught pupils up to the age of 18, he had been told that much, and most of those they passed towered over his diminutive frame. Besides a couple of disinterested glances, they barely acknowledged his presence. Some even seemed to turn away as they approached, averting their eyes and focusing on each other. Whether out of some implicit disdain for newcomers or rather fear of the severe-looking woman marching in front of him, Osric couldn’t tell.
They soon reached the end of one of the corridors and started up a wide spiral staircase, Mrs Hawthorne cutting Osric a disapproving look as he stumbled on the stone steps and had to lean on the wall for support. The stairs stretched upwards seemingly ceaselessly, as if enchanted by the same magic responsible for Brynwode’s unnaturally tall apple trees. A faint buzz began to resonate around the helical steps, the sound urging the boy on as his shoulders began to burn from the weight of his bags. Finally, they reached an archway, the din of the hive growing suddenly as the pair stepped through. Across the room was a gargantuan window, somewhat less sinister from this side, and Osric took a moment to marvel at the view before scanning the rest of the room. Students – mostly Osric’s age by the look of things – packed the large, low-ceiling room, sprawling across the limited pieces of furniture which crowded around an unlit marble fireplace on one side. Unlike the other rooms Osric had thus far seen, this one appeared built for comfort, a thick red carpet contributing to the noticeable increase in temperature. Decorations and portraits lined the curved walls, and the almost-midday sunlight purged the shadows from the dark-grey stone.
The chatter had faded a little with the appearance of Mrs Hawthorne, but she addressed only Osric in saying:
“Your room is through there.”, gesturing towards one of several narrow wooden doors branching out from the room they were in. “You will share a dormitory with other 1st years – Blythe and Hill, I believe.” she added, peering down at her parchment. “You will find all the necessary scheduling information in a letter beside your bed. Punctuality is the foundation of a good education, so I expect you to arrive to lessons with ample time to spare. Be presentable at all times-” she cast a pointed look at his lopsided tie “and be ready to learn. Lunch will be served in the Great Hall at noon; the bell will ring 10 minutes prior. Off you go then, Master Finch.” she nodded towards the dormitory door, yet again leaving Osric without any opening to respond. And with that she was off, no doubt hurtling towards another unsuspecting newcomer.
Osric did as he was told, mumbling a few apologies as he gently pushed through the gaggle of animated 1st years. A plethora of accents swam through the air around him and Osric felt some comfort in the thought that he was hardly the only one here far from home. Escaping the throng and squeezing through the door to his dormitory, he broke out into a smile at the padded luxury of the room before him. Three four-poster beds divided the room into equal parts, the twists and patterns of their carved mahogany posts draped in flowing crimson curtains. Plump pillows rested on gold-threaded bedsheets, and a faint aroma of soap wafted through the air. Beside each bed stood a sturdy-looking chest of drawers, one of which sporting a sealed envelope on top addressed to Osric Finch. Placing his bags down and sitting on the accompanying bed, Osric immediately sunk into its warm, effortless embrace. The thrum from outside calling him back, Osric quickly opened and scanned the letter Mrs Hawthorne had told him about:
Dear Master Finch,
It is my sincerest pleasure to welcome you to the hallowed halls of Ravenhurst Academy. I hope you find your time here as challenging and fulfilling as did the many great mages that came before you.
Inside this envelope you will find a map of the grounds, complete with information on the locations of your various classes. Please note the locations marked out of bounds – students found in forbidden areas will face severe punishment.
Also disclosed is a schedule for all of your classes for this year. Be aware that, although 1st years have a largely predetermined schedule, there are some opportunities for specialisation as the year progresses.
Good luck to you, and I look forward to meeting you in due course.
Sincerely,
Headmaster Montague Holloway
Osric pulled out a folded map and drank in the details, his eyes inevitably drawn to the angrily drawn ‘OUT OF BOUNDS’ found in various places. The map was intricately detailed, fine lettering spelling out names of classrooms, towers and halls. His attention drifted to the third piece of parchment contained within the envelope. A rigorous schedule outlined his classes for the year. ‘Introduction to Spellcasting’, ‘History of Magic’ and ‘Introduction to Divine Communication’ filled out most of the first few weeks, while later in the term promised ‘Potions’, ‘Botany’ and ‘Defensive Spellcasting’ amongst others. ‘Defensive Spellcasting’? what exactly will we be defending against? Osric wondered. Breakfast was at 6am, with two further mealtimes at 12pm and 6pm. Classes started at 7am, usually ending at 5pm, and were each either one or two hours long. Mercifully, there were sometimes gaps instead of classes, although these were instead wishfully ascribed as ‘Self Study’.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
His gaze distracted, his attention was caught by the sudden increase in volume from the mob outside. Looking up from his schedule, he saw that two boys had entered, the noise from the common room forcing its way in through the ajar door.
“Hi there! Avery Hill, pleasure to meet you.” started the taller of the two boys, his sharp features erupting into a smile which reached his hazel eyes. He had short, curly, light brown hair and a soft, almost melodic voice. Poking out from his jacket pocket was an envelope much the same as Osric’s.
“Pleasure to meet you too. I’m Osric Finch.” he replied, his new acquaintance’s well-mannered greeting putting him at ease.
“And I’m Edgar Blythe,” added the other boy, his voice a joyful rural lilt. “Enchanté.”, he followed, reaching out a hand and shaking that of his new roommate. “It means ‘good to meet you’ in French.” he explained, noticing the confused looks on his peers’ faces. His hair almost as dark as Osric’s, it was nevertheless straighter and neater than Osric’s was even on his best day. He carried an air of excitement, or perhaps nervousness, and his large blue eyes looked Osric up and down for a moment before he chuckled, remarking: “it seems you had the same issues as me with this infernal uniform! One of the other boys laughed at me when I told him I’d never worn a tie before.”. Osric chuckled with him, self-consciously fiddling with his collar in an attempt to avoid Edgar’s fate. As he opened his mouth to reply, a distant bell chimed out, its shrill sound permeating the slate walls and thick, carpeted floors.
“Shall we?” asked Avery, turning towards the door. The three boys walked into the common room, Osric copying Avery in tucking his letter into his jacket pocket. They followed the crowd down the tower’s steps and through a corridor, a few boys at the front examining their maps as they led the way. Soon they intersected a similarly sized group of girls, interactions between the two groups limited at first before gradually increasing as they neared the Great Hall. They turned a corner and met with a short, steep staircase leading up towards a tall stone archway. Vaulted ceilings greeted them alongside Mrs Hawthorne, whose sharp voice ordered them to take a seat in a fast and orderly manner.
Four immense tables spanned the Great Hall, each weighed down with layers of tablecloths, floral centrepieces and gold-lined plates piled high with food. A rich smell of roasted vegetables filled the air as the 1st years, followed in by others of various ages, eagerly took to their seats. A faint vapour emanated from the still piping-hot food while Mrs Hawthorne and a few other members of staff snapped at the students to wait until they were given permission to eat. An impressively high ceiling rested upon walls lined with portrait upon portrait, separated only by the narrow stained-glass windows through which bled the midday sun.
At the front of the hall, the floor lifted up a step and an even grander table lay perpendicular to the other four. Glistening marble statues replaced floral centrepieces, each figure looking more imposing and powerful than the last. Osric couldn’t help but stare, his thoughts wandering back to the whittled figure of Elowen which now hid tucked away inside his dormitory. He felt a flash of anger. Are these the ‘royal gods’ my mother spoke of? Will I soon be whittling their forms too? Osric doubted it; surely whatever they offered could not compete with the last 11 years of guardianship Elowen had given him. Yet his mother’s words resurfaced in his mind, her pained tone imploring him to give these gods a chance. Edgar and Avery had joined him where he sat, the three boys chatting about the food that lay untouched in front of them and the slow-moving throng of students yet to take their seats.
After what seemed like an eternity, the final seats were filled and Mrs Hawthorne and the other members of staff joined those already sat at the front table. A large man stood up from his seat, those around him immediately falling silent, and called out in a deep, booming voice:
“Welcome, all, to Ravenhurst Academy. Before we dine, let us take a moment to consider why we are here. Each of you has been identified as a magic user of exceptional potential. Those of you joining us for the first time may not know it yet, but you are each capable of powerful, world-altering magic. It is the great privilege of my life to help you realise this latent aptitude, to direct and hone your abilities for the prosperity of the British Empire and our gods. But I must offer to you a word of warning: even amongst our sacred halls lie dark and malicious forces. Weakness, temptation and misguided ambition risk perverting you from your destiny as a great mage. We can only lay out the path in front of you – it is you who must follow it.”. The man – who Osric could only assume was Headmaster Montague Holloway – looked around the room, settling on no student in particular but clearly enjoying the subdued silence his presence inspired. “In that vein, I wish to announce that, following the unpleasant events of last year, the society known as the Collegium for Arcane Wisdom has henceforth been banned. New societies-”, his voice raising yet further in an attempt to drown out the whispers and gasps that had broken out amongst the older years, “-must be granted permission to form by our Head of Discipline, Mrs Hawthorne, and any attempts to reconstitute the sacrilegious and malignant activities of the Collegium will be met with the strictest of punishments. Let that be the last said on the matter.”. With that the man lifted up a gavel, banged the table in front of him twice, and chanted ‘Potentia per sacrificium!’. The older years chanted the same in reply, though some appeared to still be discussing the Headmaster’s ominous words.
“What was that all about?” Edgar asked to no one in particular, his question hanging unanswered in the air. As the students around him began to eat, Osric felt a stab of anxiety, as if a shadow had suddenly loomed over him from behind. He glanced up towards the front of the Great Hall, and – though he quickly convinced himself otherwise – for a second, he could have sworn that the Headmaster was staring directly at him.