Lexaurrin Village; the year of disgrace 1352

The elven sorcerer reclined into the embrace of an old wooden chair, reaching for his hip flask. His indigo-blue mantle draped over the armrest, whispering secrets to the curious eyes of twelve children. Fifteen years had passed since his return to Lexaurrin, the home he abandoned in pursuit of his childhood reverie—a dream now dissipated like mist at dawn.

Embarking on his journey, he harboured the idea of becoming the Honourable Magus. Yet, after years of rigorous study at The Capitolium, The University of Mages, the sages deemed his talents inadequate. They dismissed him with the rank of a mere tutor. Now, his future held the monotonous task of search out for new talents and, at best, instructing young elves to read and write.

Jordan bore the heavy mantle of failure, the bitter taste of regret staining his every thought. He was plagued by shame and the haunting memories of squandered resources, lost time, and the dormant potential that could have woven a grand tapestry of possibilities. The villagers offered him a warm welcome, yet Gunter, with his silly pointed hat, remained aloof as a mysterious sphinx with a smile like the oldest enchantment of wood. That Gunter, a witch man and his long-time rival. A foreboding premonition gnawed at Jordan; he was convinced that Gunter held a truth that, once revealed, would lay bare his own inadequacies to the entire village.

“Master Jordan!” The shrill voice of a little elven girl snapped him out of his thoughts of the past.

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“Tell us the story about the Great Mage Gwyddion, please!”

The sorcerer took a slug of juniper spirits from his silver flask.

“Pleaseee!” her younger brother echoed.

Jordan bowed his head, his ash-blond hair veiling his face, and sighed.

“All right, you have convinced me,” he said, a bitter smile curling his lips.

Taking a deep breath, he began, “In the days of yore, the Mighty Mother Nature bestowed the gift of life upon a being destined to become not only one of the greatest heroes, yet also the most infamous villains of this world.” His voice was tinged with mock seriousness. “He was born from a mighty oak and given the name—”

The oldest boy in the group uttered a disapproving sound, abruptly cutting off Jordan’s words. A big-eyed, pigtailed little girl next to the boy pouted.

“That’s boring!” she whined. “Tell us how he started the First Great War! You know, the part where he raped that virgin!”

“Or how he bravely fought in the Battle of the Trees!” another elven child chimed in, bouncing with excitement.

“Or how the Lady of the Water Hole ensnared him!” shouted the ginger-haired boy.

The children turned towards him in unison.

“That happened to a different sorcerer!” declared the pigtailed girl, her brother now heatedly joining in.

“You’re a dunce!” he yelled at the mistaken boy.

“Sneezewort!” answered the ginger elf with a flowery curse word.

“That’s enough!” Jordan shouted at them. “A ghrian, blàth sinn,” he intonated a spell in Elven language, raising his hand in an elegant gesture.

The invisible wave of hot air filled the schoolroom, silencing the squabbling children.

Jordan narrowed his eyes and briefly flicked his gaze over them as he continued, “Boring or not, every story has a beginning.”