The word had escaped him with surprising force, belying the storm of indecision still raging within. What have I done? Forgive me, Elowen.

“Very well,” said the Headmaster. He reached his palm out in front of him and an angry crimson flame burst forth from his skin. “Place your hand on the flame.”.

Osric hesitated, a voice inside him urging him to flee, to leave this place and never return. He pushed it aside. He was Osric Finch, the boy who had dared to explore the forests of Brynwode long after dark. Who would wade through the river, snatching from the currents fish half his own weight and who sparred with his friends using spears they had carved themselves. He had never backed down from a challenge before, and he wasn’t about to start now—even without Elowen watching over him. He placed his own palm above Holloway’s, the flame flickering as it bit at his flesh.

“Do you pledge yourself to the worship of Nautanios, God of the Sea and Wind, for the remainder of your life, to the exclusion of all others?” the Headmaster asked.

“I do,” Osric replied. Slowly the flame grew, lashing at his palm with tendrils of red-hot pain. He winced but held his hand steady. The heat gnawed at his skin, sending pangs of agony coursing through his arm. Just when he thought he couldn’t bear it any longer, the flame burst, dissipating its anger across the Great Hall.

“Nautanios!” the Headmaster’s voice bellowed, its intensity even more impressive up close. The hall erupted into applause, Osric allowing himself the same relieved smile he had watched so many of his peers wear as he walked back to his seat. He collapsed into it, matching Edgar’s grin as Avery stood up to leave. A strange feeling of satisfaction came over him. It may not have been a choice he had wanted to make, but at least it was his choice.

“So, why’d you go for Nautanios?” Edgar asked, his eyes wide.

“They suggested either Nautanios or Vafram, and I thought my parents would rather me putting out fires than starting them,” Osric lied. “What about you?”

“Probably wise,” Edgar said, laughing. “They told me Vafram was the right choice for me. My feramancy is a copy spell, so I s’pose it makes sense to go with the god of illusion. Fire might come in handy too, what with my dad’s smithy.”

“A copy spell? How does that work?” Osric asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I haven’t exactly been able to do much with it yet, but I can duplicate objects—so far only small ones mind you—though the copy disappears after a few seconds,” Edgar replied, pinching his thumb and index so that they were a stone’s width apart.

Another red flash scattered around the room and a shout of “Locurith!” followed Avery back to his seat.

“Can’t say I appreciated being scorched!” Avery said, rubbing his reddened palm with his other hand.

“What did they say?” Osric asked, beating Edgar to the punch.

“She was still convinced I have a lightning spell. The Headmaster suggested I didn’t need another elemental magic, so Locurith it was. I didn’t much fancy telling him I can hardly make the hairs stand up on the back of my hand, let alone throw around lightning bolts, so I just went along with it!” Avery said, his sheepish look returning.

“Wait, that means that between us we’ve got every spell covered. Who wants to bet on who’ll get given one first?” Edgar said, eyes darting between Osric and Avery.

“How do I know that when you pay up, the money won’t just disappear a few seconds later?” Osric joked, answering Avery’s confused look with an explanation of Edgar’s feramancy.

“Ha ha, very good! Now, what’ll it be?” Edgar replied.

Osric pondered it for a moment. He had almost no money to his name and no particular desire to take Edgar’s. What he did have was questions—about Ravenhurst, about the royal gods, and about the Headmaster’s dramatic prohibition of the Collegium of Arcane Wisdom—not to mention the mysteriously long list of places that were deemed ‘OUT OF BOUNDS’ on his map. He may not have had much of a choice in coming here, nor in swearing the Headmaster’s oath, but he wasn’t going to sit idly by and let the school dictate his every move.

How best to strike back? Whatever he chose, he would need some help…

“I’ve got an idea,” Osric said, leaning in and gesturing for the others to do the same. “Forget the money,” he continued, now lowering his voice to not much more than a whisper, “how about, whoever gets a new spell first can choose a dare, something Mrs Hawthorne wouldn’t approve of, that the three of us have to do?” His emerald eyes gleamed with rebellion. Avery shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I am not sure about this… My father said I ought to make a good first impression. I wouldn’t want this to get back to him,” he said, still gently holding his burned palm.

“Come on, think about it; what’s the worst they could do? We just pledged our lives away, so it’s not like they’re going to expel us.” Osric said.

“Count me in,” Edgar said, “I like your way of thinking, Osric Finch. Won’t let you off lightly when I win, though.” The two boys grinned at each other before turning and looking pleadingly at Avery.

“Fine, I will join you both on this foolhardy endeavour,” Avery said, pausing for the recent bout of applause to die down. “But only because you will need someone level-headed to rein you two in.”

The three boys shook their unburnt hands, their second pact of the day thankfully less painful than the first. They sat back in their chairs, their conversation turning back towards the ceremony, their feramancies, and the new spells that awaited them. The time passed more slowly now, their adrenaline fading, and Osric’s thoughts drifted back to the moments before his decision.

‘Twin feramancies.’

‘It doesn’t seem to have manifested yet.’

‘It seems…old.’

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He nearly asked Avery and Edgar what they thought but something stopped him. He was finally feeling some semblance of belonging—some shared brotherhood—now that he had made his pledge. A few months ago, he had been the oldest child left in Brynwode yet to discover their feramancy. Now he had two, and the thought of being the odd one out again weighed heavily on his mind. Besides, he could do without the attention he might get if it got out. He still had the idol of Elowen buried in his bag and, though he generally didn’t mind the threat of punishment, something about the manner in which Holloway had said ‘a most terrible fate’ sent shivers down his spine.

Eventually, the ceremony drew to a close. The students were ushered out of the Great Hall, schedules and maps in hand as they navigated their way to their first classes of the afternoon. A few wrong turns later, the trio finally arrived, splitting up as they took some of the last available spaces. Rows of desks filled the rear half of the classroom, the other mostly empty save for a large chalkboard and a well-dressed, portly man. He scowled at the late arrivals, though allowed them to take their seats unchallenged. Picking up a piece of chalk, he wrote ‘Introduction to Divine Communication’ in large, elaborate cursive on the chalkboard. Osric struggled to read what he had written; his previous school teachers had preferred a more economical style.

“Welcome to your first class of the year. My name is Professor Deighton: that’s D-E-I-G-H-T-O-N,” he said, writing the letters out painstakingly slowly as he spelled them, “and this is your Introduction to Divine Communication course.” He turned to face the class, eyes flicking between them in confusion.

“Is there any particular reason why none of you are taking notes?” He stood in silence for a moment while the children tried to figure out whether his question was rhetorical or not. “Exercise books and quills in your desks, make haste!” A flurry of activity broke out as the class opened their desks and took out their equipment.

Osric eyed the girl to the right of him, a tall, mousy-haired girl with reading glasses, her back upright in posture he imagined must have been taught. She seemed to know how to use a quill, spelling her name—Eleanor Forsyth—with a practised ease. He tried to copy her method, but his own name emerged jagged and splotchy. Professor Deighton waited just long enough for the clamour to die down, then continued.

“This course is brief, but is absolutely essential to your development here at Ravenhurst. Of course, you have all just taken the first step towards a mutually fulfilling partnership with our gods. Now,” he scanned the room once more, “how does one talk to a god?” Another confused silence filled the room before one boy poked his hand up from the back of the class.

“Yes?” Professor Deighton asked.

“...politely?” the boy replied, a few restrained laughs breaking out around the room. Professor Deighton sighed.

“Oh dear, Master…”

“Pritchard, sir,” the boy replied, his face reddening.

“Master Pritchard. I was asking not for the manner in which one talks to a god but the mechanism. Anyone?” He nodded towards a girl in the front row, her hand lazily floating above her head.

“A communion spell, often enhanced by an aether-conduit such as amethyst,” the girl replied, tucking her long, blonde hair behind her ear. Professor Deighton’s eyebrows rose, and Osric thought he saw the flicker of a smile beneath his immaculately styled beard.

“Indeed,” Deighton responded, “as Miss…”

“Isabella Tremayne, sir.”

“...as Miss Tremayne correctly noted, the gods are most frequently interacted with via a communion spell cast upon an aether-conduit. A common feramancy, although I shall leave the details of this particular spell to your spellcasting courses. However, I will note the use of this…” he trailed off, rummaging around in his pockets for a few seconds before theatrically flourishing a translucent grey rock about the size of his thumb.

“Cairngorm quartz, found in the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland. Noted for its exceptional aether conduction, a sufficiently large piece—when enchanted by a sufficiently powerful spellcaster—can transmit speech to gods located hundreds of miles away.”

Hundreds of miles away, Osric thought, an idea half-forming before being chased away by a throb of pain where the oath spell had marked him.

“Indeed,” the Professor continued, still marvelling at the smoky quartz, “this unique mineral, in various shapes and sizes, can be found in a number of places on the grounds, most notably in the Sanctum of Whispers at the top of the Gilded Tower. That is where our next lesson will be, during which we will attempt to establish contact with our gods. Ultimately, it is also where you will be gifted your first deimancy spell.”

Upon hearing this, Edgar turned around in his chair, caught Osric’s attention, pointed at his chest and mouthed ‘me first’. Osric shook his head and smiled in return.

“What troubles you, Master…” Deighton said, staring at Edgar in faux concern. Edgar swivelled round, a startled look on his face.

“Master-uh, I mean, Edgar Blythe, sir,” he replied.

“Master Blythe, whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing sir. Sorry sir,” Edgar said.

“Very well,” the Professor continued, his tone barely masking his frustration, “As Master Pritchard astutely alluded to earlier, it is imperative to treat your god with the utmost respect. Allow me to establish three foundational tenets…”

At last, three quarters of an hour later, the lesson concluded. Osric peered down at his exercise book, a jumble of half-smudged scribbles strewn across the pages. The mousy-haired girl to Osric’s right leaned over, admiring his work.

“I dare say that's the most impressive penmanship I have ever seen,” quipped Eleanor Forsyth with a sly smile.

“Well, we didn’t all have quills put in our hands from the age of six, you know,” Osric fired back.

“Five, actually, and don’t think I didn’t notice you looking for inspiration. You ought to be more appreciative of my arduous hours of writing tuition.” She placed her reading glasses atop her head and took Osric’s quill. “I jest! No need to look so sour. Here.” Relenting, Osric allowed her to demonstrate the proper grip before trying it himself, adapting quickly after a correction or two.

“Thanks, uh…” Osric started, unsure how he should address her.

“Eleanor, but you can call me ‘Nellie’,” she smiled, adding “all my friends do.”

“Thanks…Nellie,” Osric said, surprised by the sudden familiarity.

Avery and Edgar joined them, Eleanor introducing herself to them both in similar terms before joking about Edgar’s earlier reprimand.

“He’s got the eyes of a hawk!” Edgar lamented, “I was turned around for all of three seconds.” As the four of them left the class, Professor Deighton reminding them of the location of next week’s lesson, Osric opened his map.

“Looking for the Gilded Tower, are we?” Edgar asked. “Thinking of getting a running start?”

“Hardly. I’m trying to figure out where we’re going,” Osric replied, ‘Introduction to Spellcasting’, wasn’t it next?”

“My word, you two must be keen to have a conversation with your gods—we need only wait a week,” Nellie said, her brow creasing as she caught a glance between the two of them. They walked on a little in silence, before Nellie abruptly stopped, the boys turning to look at her.

“There’s something going on, isn’t there?”

The three boys stayed quiet, Osric burying himself deeper in his map.

“There is! Not even a day in and you lot are keeping secrets…” She caught up to them, the boys avoiding her gaze.

“I will find out what it is, you know,” she said, “I always do.”