The massive tree cast a shadow over them all, allowing only the moonlight to illuminate the darkness.

Derrick, who was on tenterhooks, looked around himself and observed the boys.

They were sorted into three rows based on their age in the middle of the glade, waiting for the long-due contest.

He and the youngest of the boys stood at the right end of the first row, facing the wizards, who soundlessly studied them as they all boded their time and blankly stared at their restless feet.

He grew fidgety the longer they had to wait. What for, no one knew, and Derrick was no exception.

His heart thumped. His stomach twisted and turned, growled, and wailed as if he hadn’t eaten in days, and cold sweat trickled down both sides of his eyebrows.

He felt helpless, more so than when his dad traded his sister for stone-hard bread. With no friends or family present, he waited for what the future had in store – all alone.

His siblings called him a loner for a reason, after all. But coming from a large family, he had never felt as lonely as he felt at this very moment.

Three older sisters waited for him at home, hopeful that he would win the contest and make them proud, even though he was the youngest of them.

Not to mention their bedridden dad, who wished for him to become a great wizard just as much as his sisters and join Mahgrad at the royal castle of Belzcakir in the south of the Céinai mountain pass and former Jewarta.

Despite his young age, he had supported his family ever since his dad lost his legs three years ago.

Not a day went by when the greedy merchants didn’t offer him lavish goods in return for his sisters. Just the thought of the merchants made him see red.

But he needed to make a living, so he kept quiet and hid his rage, vowing to make them pay for their sins one day and show them how great of a mage he would become!

This was his last chance to save his sisters from the merchants, who paid him less and less each day, pressuring him to sell his sisters.

But he would never abandon his sisters and leave them to suffer the same fate as their oldest sister, who now breathed under the command of her wicked husband.

As his anger mounted, he clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists.

His mind wandered back to the difficult times his family faced, and he couldn’t help but compare their struggles to those who never had to worry about making ends meet.

The guild was his last chance to help his family escape poverty, and at the same time, aid him in achieving his dreams.

This was why he turned a blind eye to the merchants’ evil deeds. He had to.

It was only by feigning ignorance that he could save himself and his poor sisters. Mahgrad was his only chance, and he’d do anything to join the Order of Mages.

The sorcerers and their human disciples, who were later known as wizards, founded the guild thousands of years ago.

Those who sought to advance in sorcery and help both kingdoms in Yiraál’s north and south gathered there. That was, as must be clear by now, before the wizards turned on their masters and forced them into exile.

Magic, unlike sorcery, was more powerful, as it was not controlled by spells but by the will of the mind. The sorcerers were, sooner or later, destined to face a great calamity.

It was never about why it would happen, but when it would happen. With power came untold perils and risks, and when the sorcerers failed to recognise this, their human apprentices stabbed them in the back.

Archmage Malakai, who was also the king’s royal adviser and a former apprentice of the sorcerers, ruled Mahgrad along with three other masters or mages as they were also called; in fact, most commoners in his village just called them wizards.

Malakai had been searching for a disciple for years with little success. The members of the aristocracy sent their sons to the guild every year, hoping to catch the great wizard’s attention. But they failed every time.

No one could sway Malakai with their otherworldly skills, so a wizardry competition was held throughout the vast land of Yiraál.

The once-in-a-lifetime contest was announced only months ago and gave the hardworking people of Gartâr a chance to compete against the members of the aristocracy.

He, who showed bravery and patience inside the tree, earned an invitation to join the guild and train with the best – the crème de la crème.

But nobody, including Derrick, had any idea how they were going to win the contest, which made him more nervous than he dared to admit.

He was worried about facing prominent disciples who were just as eager to win as he was, or maybe it was just the uncertainty ahead that overwhelmed him and made his palms sweaty.

In any case, they had to get out of the tree without help.

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And there was this another thing…

A rumour circulated that the winner would become the archmage’s apprentice. He didn’t know if this was true and whether or not someone made this up to mess with the aspiring wizards, but something told him there was a hint of truth to the rumour.

He observed the others for the umpteenth time, determined to do whatever it took to beat them. Because, whereas he worked every hour of the day to feed his family, the sons of the nobility entrusted their wealthy parents to bribe the masters.

Such things were common where the rich ruled and the poor served. There was nothing he could do to change it – not unless he became part of the nobility and showed all of Yiraál the power of the feeble.

Wealth and glamorous titles didn’t entice him, though. He wasn’t fooled by these materialistic things. He was drawn to the miracles of magic; every new spell he learnt taught him a lesson only known by those who had studied and mastered it.

This was why his bedridden dad encouraged him to enter the competition, even though he was the sole breadwinner. He was a wizard by nature and a skilled one at that.

But if all of Yiraál united against him, none of this mattered – who he was or who he would be in the future held no weight. Even a birdbrain knew that. Missing this chance would brand him forever as a poor boy with unattainable dreams.

He didn’t want to dream big until the contest was over and the truth was revealed. Only if he could prove to himself that he deserved to join Mahgrad would he truly believe in his skills and those sleepless nights spent out in the cold to become the best wizard Yiraál had ever seen!

He lifted his gaze off the ground with these thoughts and noticed someone staring at him out of the corner of his eyes. His cheeks flushed, and a burning heat spread across his neck and face just as he met one of the masters’ eyes and returned his gaze to his feet in a heartbeat.

The master’s golden-brown hair draped down to his elbows and looked as soft as the finest velvet. With his hands tucked behind his back, the wizard was garbed in a brown cape that had a rope twisted around his waist. The mage gave the impression of a hermit rather than a master from Mahgrad.

Derrick recognised the mage’s green eyes but couldn’t place them. He was certain he had seen the wizard before – at least he thought so. The only questions were where, how, and when. All he ever did was carry goods and read books, after all.

Then it dawned on him who the wizard was, and his eyes became wide with surprise. Bewildered, he turned as red as a tomato upon realising that he had forgotten about the great scholar whose writings he had devoured every night.

All the aspiring wizards turned to face him, glaring with hostile looks, perhaps wondering how he, of all, caught the attention of the wise mage.

According to rumours, Malakai chose Arigir as his successor among all the wizards in the guild. But the wizard turned down the offer, which others would gladly accept, stating he didn’t need power or recognition. Thus, the mages of Mahgrad gave him the title of Wise Scholar.

Everyone knew Arigir. Most knew him by his numerous titles or the innumerable books under his name. He was a well-known figure among the commoners too, if not for his stunning looks, then for his timeless wisdom and quests to teach the villagers magic and sorcery.

Should the guild ever find out, they would castigate him for breaking the laws prohibiting commoners from practising magic.

Another wizard stepped forward, a small figure who also braided his hands behind his back. It looks like he copied Arigir, Derrick thought.

The tiny mage cleared his throat and pushed his shoulders back, which caused his stomach to grow even bigger and rounder than it already was. He gave the boys a stern look, trying to appear more authoritative than he was because of his small size and lineless round face.

Derrick carefully studied him, from his round belly to his bald head, at great pains to recall who the mage was or could be from his vast knowledge of Mahgrad and its handful of masters.

That was when he knew who the chubby mage was. Forquin was a corpulent lord who raised apprentices together with Arigir and one other master, who was not present at the glade. The stump master was wiser than Arigir but remained largely unknown.

He lacked the skills to lead Mahgrad, but the fountain of knowledge had blessed him. Forquin spent most of his time with Mahgrad’s apprentices and had a reputation for being, well, unknown.

The other master, the one absent, was none other than Gavon himself, who was better known for his close friendships with the members of the aristocracy than for his powerful spells.

Gavon was also known for his dark complexion and exotic appearance, which made him a true heartthrob among the maidens.

This, however, didn’t make Gavon any less of a wizard. Being from the middle class, he faced more obstacles than the other two to become a master in Mahgrad.

“Alright then, we’ll begin with you,” Forquin said after clearing his throat, nodding towards the back row, where several boys exchanged a nervous glance.

“You’ll jump in one at a time. When I count down from three, you must jump.”

They all became fidgety at once and shed buckets of sweat under the moonlight. Well, who wouldn’t?

Derrick, for one, stared at his feet for the umpteenth time and dared not peek over his shoulder and watch the older ones jump into the tree. Standing in the front row as one of the youngest provided some solace, though.

The boys in the back froze up, for obvious reasons, and the wizard yelled at them to get cracking. But the guards ended up carrying them away. Derrick gulped hard. Nothing in life lasted, and he knew his turn was coming.

A shadow grew larger above his head at that moment, and he jerked involuntarily when a branch fell right beside him out of nowhere, shaking him out of his bleak thoughts.

He glanced at the gruesome wooden arm out of the corner of his eye, grimacing as the boys’ screams echoed throughout the glade one at a time in a never-ending nightmare.

Forquin gestured in his direction right then, in a matter of mere seconds, which, honestly, felt much less than that, and his heart skipped a beat. Flustered and scared out of his wits, he couldn’t move an inch.

Time stood still, and so did he.

Then he glimpsed at the approaching guards and snapped back to reality.

With stumbling legs, he took the lead towards the grunting tree, which stooped over him and nagged at him to hurry, revealing the dark cavity where the aspiring wizards pleaded for their lives.

The screams scared him more than he let on and made his heart race faster than ever before. Regrets and doubts flooded his mind, along with thousands of questions.

He backed away, only to bump into a twelve-year-old boy waiting for his turn. The boy’s misty eyes showed fear, urging him to hurry and get things over with.

Derrick shut his eyes and drew a deep breath, wriggling his toes and fingers to gather his thoughts and summon courage before leaping forward and charging headlong into the depths of the mysterious hollow.

Spine-tingling screams drowned out his heartbeat from all directions. Then silence, utter silence.

When he finally opened his eyes, all he saw was ink-black darkness and an endless descent into nothingness.

Everyone vanished.

There was a moment where he believed darkness trapped him; not falling anymore. He looked behind him and into the depths as the mouth of the tree narrowed.

He saw the same twelve-year-old boy, as white as a ghost, stare right back at him. The poor soul mouthed for help as a pair of snakes slung around his throat and choked him out of breath.

But the wizardry contest had begun. There was no such thing as mercy – not anymore.