Kiano lumbered in through the cracked steel gate and kicked a stone.

The smell of baked bread and musty soup pervaded the vicinity.

A swarm of homeless people sang in a corner, drinking their lives away and pleading with him to give them coins.

The fountain at the heart of the ancient village depicted a woman with birds; water gushed out of her stony mouth and drenched the kids to the bone.

People were preparing for the contest tomorrow – well, everyone but him.

Kalani said he couldn’t partake in the contest and enter Mahgrad. Not because he lacked the skills, but because he was a sorcerer.

Mahgrad was the Order of Mages in Belzcakir.

The mages fought the sorcerers for hundreds of years before the sorcerers were driven out of Jewarta and forced to take shelter in the mountain ridges.

Kalani said it was dangerous to roam about now, so she made him promise to never speak about joining the guild again.

And, truth be told, had it not been for this stench of ashes left whenever he used sorcery, he might just be lucky enough to fool the humans and join the Order of Mages!

But he couldn’t escape his roots, could he?

“Hey, Kiano, want some fresh bread for supper? I’ll give it cheap!”

Mr Gilbert, the crafty baker, waved at him to come closer: “What’d you say ‘bout two loaves for a bag of mushrooms, huh?”

“Mum said a bag was worth five pennies, sir.”

He pointed at the wooden tag, which read ‘One Penny for a Loaf.’

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The baker cracked a smile. “Of course it is! You’re not easy to fool, yeah? H- hey, listen what about—”

Kiano shrugged the baker off with a proud smile and moved along with the crowd of townspeople until he passed the merchants and found himself amidst the lavish barns and huts on either side of the snaking alley that went uphill.

The houses became larger as he neared the fork and turned to the left.

As he neared the woods, the croons of the homeless people faded.

The contest was taking place here with the rise of the sun.

He only wanted to take a peek, not go all the way to the grove. Kalani forbade him from watching the contest tomorrow since the great mages from Mahgrad were coming. He heaved a deep sigh.

It wasn’t like he would use sorcery though, he knew better than that! But his mum wouldn’t believe him.

They would go to the other side of the dense woods to gather wild mushrooms and whatnot instead.

The townspeople planned to wait all night and wish upon the stars for a miraculous feat.

Kalani figured she would make enough money to make ends meet for the coming two months.

A foreign odour caught his attention soon after pondering these thoughts.

Ashes.

He had cast no spells and none of the townspeople were sorcerers like him, either.

He knew this like the back of his hand. So where did the stench come from?

He glanced over his shoulder just as a hooded figure brushed against his arm and continued down the alley lit up by torches.

Backing away, he clutched the walled courtyard tightly, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

A dark-grey cape covered the unfamiliar man’s face.

But he was slouched forward like the elderly in his village, so Kiano figured that the man was as old as the mists of time.

The stranger walked sluggishly as if Yiraál’s entire weight rested on his shoulders.

A strange feeling crept over him. There was something unsettling about the stranger.

But his feet refused to obey, as if they had a mind of their own.

His heart pounded violently against his chest, and the stench of ashes made him grimace as the bitter taste stuck to his throat and wouldn’t fade away, however much he gulped.

All of this curiosity arrested him. He rushed to catch up with the old man and followed him into the darkness.

Soon enough, trees appeared on both sides of them – sparsely at first, then they formed a grove far away from everything and everyone and spanned a large area surrounded by thorny thickets and hollows, naked trees nearly as tall and mountainous as those in the Great Forest of Secrets.

Many thoughts raced through his mind at that moment, but no sound escaped him.

Without meaning to, the odour of smouldering ashes drew him closer to whatever awaited in the gloaming.