The Great Hall fell into a simmering quiet, the students’ curiosity from the Headmaster’s speech overruled by their hunger. Each plate was adorned with a generous cut of lamb resting on a bed of roast potatoes and root vegetables. Students passed around gold-lined saucières, a chuckle escaping Avery as he watched with wide eyes Edgar condemning his food to a deluge of thick, aromatic gravy. The food was delicious—cooked to perfection—and yet Osric couldn’t help but miss the warm, wholesome feeling he got from eating Brynwodean food. He reminisced about the frantic way his mother used to dart from one pot to another, blessing the food with Elowen’s enrichment spells as she joked about Tiernan’s habitual forgetfulness or whatever trouble Osric had found himself in that week. Still, the food in front of him was hardly worth complaining about, and the company of his new roommates soon lifted his spirits.

“What did you say your father’s profession was, again?” Avery asked Edgar in between mouthfuls.

“He’s an expert in the creation and maintenance of metal tools and equipment,” Edgar replied, prompting a puzzled look from Avery.

“Forgive me, by that do you mean ‘he’s a blacksmith’?” Avery asked.

“Not just any old blacksmith, one of the very best! He gets orders from all over the country,” Edgar said, “What about yours? I suppose he’s a barrister or a surgeon or something is he?”

“Not exactly. He’s a Member of Parliament,” Avery said, a sheepish look on his face.

“A Member of Parliament? Blimey! No wonder you got an invitation to this place,” Edgar retorted, before adding: “Not to say you don’t deserve to be here of course…”

Avery looked somewhat crestfallen, his shoulders slumping as he stared down at his empty plate. “In fact, I fear you may be right. I’m told I was born with a powerful lightning spell, but all I’ve managed so far is accidentally giving our poor dog Byron a mild electric shock!”

Osric could have laughed if he hadn’t felt much the same. His own magical abilities had manifested only a few months earlier—much later than most—when he had fallen from a tree Eira had warned him not to climb. His wrists outstretched in a desperate attempt to cushion the blow, he had cast his first, and thus far only, shield spell. It had shattered immediately, absorbing just enough of the impact to save him from any serious damage. His mother’s horror turned to delight as she saw that he had inherited her defensive magic, her anger at his disobedience quelled immediately. When the Ravenhurst recruiters had passed through Brynwode, it was she who had volunteered him for examination despite his protestations. He had been unable to reproduce the spell (his suggestion of purposefully falling from another tree wisely rejected) but the recruiter had explained that her own magic allowed her to detect its existence within him.

Two bangs of a gavel echoed once more through the Great Hall. Headmaster Holloway stood up and walked around the teachers’ table so that he was between it and the students. Loud and authoritative, he nonetheless filled the silent hall with a markedly warmer cadence than he had before the meal.

“First-years, your moment has arrived. As you should already know, here at Ravenhurst we worship the Empire’s gods: Nautanios, God of the Sea and Wind; Locurith, God of Speed and Strength; and Vafram, God of Fire and Illusion. These mighty sentinels safeguard the path of our righteous Empire and the powerful mages who drive its relentless progress. It is your fate to become one such mage.” He looked around the Great Hall, savouring the rapt attention which his emphatic words had commanded. Whispers rippled across the room. “With time, you will come to love and respect each of these venerable protectors as if they were your own family. However, as is the gods’ way, only one can lend you their power. You have chosen to come here. Now you must choose to stay.”

A deep sense of unease took hold of Osric. His thoughts raced. He wasn’t sure he wanted to worship any of them, let alone which one! He looked around, a sea of uniforms obscuring the exit.

“Potentia per sacrificium. Power through sacrifice. Our motto speaks to the nature of this relationship, between god and man, which enshrines the British Empire’s place in the world order. Your god demands only one thing: devotion. You will worship them, and them alone, for the remainder of your life. Accept this sacrifice, and power second only to the gods themselves will be yours. Refuse, and your time at Ravenhurst Academy will be cut tragically short.”

His words sliced through the otherwise silent hall, hitting Osric like a knife in the gut. This is what my mother tried to warn me about. I have to abandon Elowen, he thought, his breathing quickening as panic set in.

What choice do I have?

He turned to Edgar and Avery, their faces as stony and unmoving as his, and tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. The Headmaster’s speech continued, his words blurring together in Osric’s mind.

Breathe. There must be a way out of this.

“When your name is called, you will approach and stand before the gods.” Holloway indicated the stained-glass windows behind him depicting three colossal figures towering over an assortment of worshipping—or perhaps cowering—people. “Your abilities will be examined, and you may discuss with us which god may best serve you. In the absence of our gods, you will make your pact with me. Be warned: this pact is sealed with a powerful oath spell. Once you swear upon it, it must not be broken, or you will suffer a most terrible fate.” The weight of the Headmaster’s words sinking in, Osric thought once more of his mother’s. It’s important that you try and fit in there. They had known this was coming—yet they had sent him here anyway.

He inhaled deeply, pushing against the fear which had begun to constrict his ribs. The first student had been called, and a girl from Osric’s table got up and hesitantly walked towards the Headmaster. The Great Hall’s occupants watched on in silence, condemning her to her fate. Osric noticed for the first time the recruiter, Mrs Waverly, whom he had met some months prior. Standing next to the Headmaster, she wore a modest black dress, her sleeves puffing at the shoulders, and her hair was tied up neatly in a bun. Her previously friendly demeanour was replaced with that of solemn professionalism as she knelt down and grasped the girl’s shoulders. Osric strained to hear but couldn’t make out the words spoken between the three of them. “What are they saying?” he whispered to Avery and Edgar.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“No idea,” Edgar responded, his neck craned towards the front of the hall. Silence fell. A brief flash of crimson light shot across the Great Hall.

“Locurith!” shouted Holloway, his words bouncing around the hall before a raucous applause erupted from the older years. The girl meekly returned to her seat, a wry smile emerging from her reddened face. The next name was called.

“Quick, ask her what happened!” Edgar said to a girl further down the table.

“I can’t see what difference it will make. Surely you will find out soon enough,” Avery said, his voice steadier than it had any right to be.

“How come you’re so calm about this? Planning on making a run for it?” Osric asked, only half in jest.

“Quite the opposite. Given my father’s position, my family have been worshipping the royal gods all my life. The only question is which I shall choose,” Avery replied.

“What are they like? Are they really ‘venerable protectors’?” Osric questioned, his tone too steeped in fear to come across as mocking.

“It is not as if we have them round for dinner!” chuckled Avery, “but as far as I can tell, yes, they are. My father knows a little of their ways from his work in government—and he speaks very highly of them.” As Osric made for another question, a second flash of red drew his gaze.

“Vafram!” chanted the Headmaster, his booming voice louder than ever. Another round of applause. Another relieved smile.

“Cor, this is going to take forever…” Edgar complained, his attempts at eavesdropping still unsuccessful.

“Locurith!”

“Nautanios!”

“Vafram!”

The calls came quicker now, only a couple of minutes separating each one. Osric asked question after question, but Avery knew little of the gods themselves, especially of their magic, which his parents had no use for in their privileged lives. He looked up at the lofty stained-glass figures ahead, the occasional flash of red and burst of applause the only interruption to his whirring thoughts. I can’t leave now. My parents wanted me here for a reason. They must have talked to Elowen about this. She’ll understand.

Another flash. Another chant. Another round of applause.

He forced himself to exude confidence he wasn’t sure he had. “I can do this,” he said to himself, his voice quiet but firm.

“Nautanios!” A boy three seats from Edgar got up and walked coolly towards the front.

“It’ll be us soon!” Edgar exclaimed, a mixture of nervousness and excitement in his voice.

“Locurith!”

“Nautanios!”

The girl opposite Edgar left her seat, a playful “Wish me luck!” directed at the seats around her.

“I’m just going to go for whatever they suggest. I’m sure they’ll know better than me anyhow,” Edgar said, as if worried he wouldn’t take his own advice.

A flash of red. It was Edgar’s turn.

“See you on the other side,” he said to Osric and Avery, a look of cold despair etched across his face. He moved stiffly, as if pulled by some unseen force. Osric tried his best, but the ensuing conversation was as distant as any of the others he had failed to intercept. The moment seemed to last forever, the fragile silence longer than most of those that came before. Eventually, another flash of crimson painted the slate walls.

“Vafram!” came the chant, and Edgar hobbled back, burying himself in his chair and letting out an exasperated sigh.

My turn, Osric thought, his heart thumping in his chest as he pushed himself out of his seat. The weight of a thousand eyes bore down on him as he stood. He urged his legs onwards. Everyone else has managed it. You can too. The Great Hall seemed suddenly larger, the echo of his footsteps almost lost in the room’s expanse. At last, he reached the Headmaster, Mrs Waverly customarily grasping his shoulders as she looked for magic in him once more.

“Ah yes, I remember,” she said, a slight upturn of her lips, “He possesses a shield spell—common enough in form but this one is exquisitely powerful.”

“Very good,” Holloway said, mulling the words over. “Vafram, then? Or Nautanios? Both possess ranged offensive spells which work well with defensive spells of this nature.” He stared down at Osric expectantly.

A choice. Fire and illusion, or Sea and Wind?

“Well, I don’t—” Osric began.

“Wait—there’s something else,” Mrs Waverly gasped, her visage twisted in surprise. “I’m sure of it. I didn’t see it before, but there’s a second spell hidden behind the first! Unlike the shield spell, it doesn’t seem to have manifested yet.”

“Fascinating! Twin feramancies… rare indeed, and getting rarer, but not entirely unheard of. What’s the second spell?” the Headmaster asked, his eyes lighting up as if he was the new owner of a prize horse.

“I…I must confess I don’t know,” replied Mrs Waverly, her head hung in shame. “It’s clear as day now that I have spotted it, but alas I do not recognise it. I’ve never seen it before, and I’ve seen almost every known spell in the kingdom. It feels…old.” Holloway’s brow furrowed, his expression equal parts excitement and annoyance.

“An unknown spell…how frustrating. I don’t suppose you have any idea what it is, boy?” Osric shook his head. “Well, we’ll have to go with what we know. What’s it to be?” the Headmaster asked.

Osric had been too caught up in Mrs Waverly’s revelations to have made his choice. ‘Twin feramancies’? A second spell? Perhaps it was his father’s? No, she would have recognised it. A murmur broke out amongst the tables, the tension of the wait too much for some to bear.

Sea and wind, or fire and illusion?

Hunting for a sign, he searched his mind. He settled on the crude whittled idol still hiding away upstairs.

Elowen, what would you have me do?

Images of Brynwode stirred up within him. He saw the rolling, patchwork fields his father worked on. Lush, dense forests cradling worn, thatched houses. What sort of magic would he bring back there?

A decision swam up from the depths of his thoughts. Osric looked up at the Headmaster, his resolve strengthening.

Not fire. Anything but fire.

“Nautanios,” he said.