Tucked away in his remote mountain retreat, Master Wizard Coble prepared to shape the next generation of magic. His apprentice wasn’t a typical pupil, but a common-born orphan named Anneliese. Despite lacking the rare magical gene—an immediate disqualification in the eyes of other wizards—Anneliese possessed a sharp mind and tireless curiosity. If their work succeeded, she would become the first commoner ever inducted into the halls of wizardry. Or so Coble hoped.

Bunkered behind a toppled desk, Anneliese deciphered the tiny script in Coble’s red leather journal. The clattering chaos of the cluttered cottage surrounded her as she called out ingredients for his latest alchemical venture. Shadow, Coble’s overly energetic wolf pup, darted and pounced around her—ducking, diving, and wedging his head between her arm and thigh with relentless playfulness.

“Shadow, quit it!” she snapped, giving him a firm nudge.

Across the room, Coble—bald and top-heavy with a straggly white beard—squinted at the scattered mess of unmarked potions, dried leaves, and animal parts, his face frozen in blank indecision.

“Say that again, young one.”

Anneliese groaned quietly to herself, "Why do I even bother?" She scooped up the wriggling pup and gently set him outside the open window, then repeated more firmly, “Fallon Thorn.”

The words hung in the air with no apparent effect on Coble, who stood squinting at two nearly identical jars of dried botanicals. His eyes darted back and forth between them before he gave a resigned shrug.

“This’ll do,” he muttered, grabbing the nearest jar. Without a second thought, he tipped its entire contents into the bubbling cauldron.

“Falin Thorn,” he repeated, giving the empty jar a quick sniff.

The grayish mixture in the cauldron hissed and sputtered, its surface slowly shifting to a deep, threatening red.

“Coble!” Anneliese shrieked.

“Ah, buggery,” Coble cursed as the mixture surged over the cauldron’s edges. Sparks and embers shot up the chimney like fireworks, showering the thatched roof with glowing cinders.

“You can’t even follow your own instructions!” Anneliese yelled, nails digging into the back of her scalp. “My father called you the greatest wizard he ever met, and yet—”

“Your father…” Coble sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Interesting fellow. Probably said that about every wizard he met.” He gave a sheepish shrug. “Still, I may have… er… miscalculated this time.”

“Miscalculated? You’re about to burn the whole place down!”

Before he could reply, Shadow’s frantic barking broke through the rising tension. The wolf pup darted from window to window, yipping at the sparks raining down from the roof. Coble’s eyes widened as he finally took in the full extent of the disaster.

“Ah, buggery,” he muttered again, snatching the red journal from Anneliese’s arms as he dragged her outside.

The cold mountain air hit them like a slap as they stumbled out of the smoke-filled cottage, coughing and wiping at their stinging eyes. Anneliese fell to her knees on the damp ground. What had started as defiance crumbled into soft, tearless murmurs of “why, why, why.”

Grumbling under his breath, Coble knelt beside her. “I know he promised you more than this old dog can give,” he said quietly. “But trust me, it’s not the destination—it’s the process.”

“Or lack thereof,” she said bitterly.

“Yeah, though it’s… still a process.” He scratched his head awkwardly. Then, as he took another look at the blazing roof, he sighed. "I know this looks bad—and yes, it’s undoubtedly my fault,” he admitted, wiping his brow. "But remember: a true wizard doesn’t fear failure, even if that failure risks burning the house down. Now, fetch some water before that literally happens.”

Gritting her teeth, Anneliese grabbed the wooden bucket and headed down the hill toward the creek. Two water bodies intersected below the retreat: one was a deadly rapid that carved through rocky outcrops, roaring and treacherous. The other was a calmer feeder stream trickling from the aptly named Rainy Cave, which never ceased flowing, even in the driest of seasons.

“Alright, time for some real magic,” Coble declared as Anneliese returned, dragging a half-filled bucket to his side. He reached into a pouch at his waist and pinched out a handful of white, glistening sand. Rubbing the enchanted catalyst between his thick, calloused hands, he took a deep breath. His feet rooted to the ground as his entire body tensed with the effort of conjuration.

From the bottom of his lungs, he exhaled with a sharp, high-pitched whistle. Swirling currents of mist began to form between his palms, churning with raw, untamed magic.  Each breath compressed the growing sphere tighter, and with every whistle, the sphere pulsed larger—more unstable with every repetition.

“Stand back,” he warned. His eyes remained locked on the chaotic orb as he carefully positioned it over the bucket. The water within slowly evaporated, rising in vaporous spirals that condensed into clouds inside the sphere. The vapor thickened, twisting like an inverted whirlpool, until the bucket had been drained dry.

Coble cupped his hands tighter, releasing a final whistle that sent a crackling bolt of lightning through the sphere’s core. With a grunt, he hurled the sphere high into the air above the blazing cottage. A deafening clap reverberated across the mountainside as the sphere detonated, releasing a torrential downpour far beyond what the bucket had contained. Water crashed down in a violent surge, extinguishing the flames and tearing through what little remained of the roof.

Anneliese barely had time to react before the floodwaters swept her off her feet. The torrent surged into the swollen creek, pulling her along as she tumbled helplessly through the current. Waves slammed her into submerged roots and debris, bruising her scrawny frame as she struggled to keep her head above water. She gasped for breath, her arms flailing as she tried to grab hold of anything solid, but the current dragged her further downstream.

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Spray and foam stung her eyes as she sputtered for breath. The current pulled her closer to the jagged mouth of the adjoining rapids. Just when she thought she would be swallowed by the churning waters, her hand struck something hard and cold—chainmail.

A figure anchored between a boulder and a sturdy tree root extended his arm, letting his chainmail sleeve play dragline through the flood. The armored man caught Anneliese at the last moment and, with a firm yank, tore her from the rushing current. On to the muddy bank he hauled her, where she collapsed in a gasping, coughing heap.

Shadow scrambled after her, whining and shaking himself dry. Gideon, exiled prince of Mansour, rode out the remaining surge, his feet braced against the tree root. The rushing water tugged at his armor, but he maintained his balance. With the worst of the flood passed, he gritted his teeth and unsheathed a dagger, cutting loose the soaked leather bindings of his waterlogged gear.

“A hand, you lazy sods,” Gideon growled, his voice uneven as he shook free the last of the bindings.

Not far behind, Coble staggered into view, hobbling across a wooden footbridge with short, stumpy legs that strained with each step. His joints cracked and popped audibly as he stumbled forward, panting heavily for breath.

Anneliese shot Coble an exasperated glare but stayed at his side, her shoulders tense with caution. Though her master’s reckless antics frustrated her to no end, it wasn’t him that held her wary attention. She kept her distance from Gideon but turned an even sharper eye toward Sir Bradfrey—one of Her Majesty’s favored squires-turned-newly anointed knight.

Bradfrey was a tall, mop-haired youth barely past adolescence, a product of silver-spoon nepotism. He bore neither scars of battle nor the voice of authority. Despite his lack of experience, there was a sincere need to prove himself, evident in the way he fussed dutifully over the half-drowned Anneliese.

“Well, bugger me to the underworld,” Coble said, breaking the tension. “Imagine seeing you here, Bradfrey.”

The young knight straightened awkwardly, his armor creaking as he offered a polite nod. "Apologies for the impromptu visit, but… are you doing alchemy again?”

“Amongst other things,” Coble replied, waving a hand vaguely at the scene behind him. The burnt and flooded cottage groaned as the remnants of the roof collapsed further, only for fresh flames to flare atop the still-burning cauldron.

Flicking his head toward the figure crawling through the muddy creek bed, Coble asked, “Who’s your friend?”

“Prince Gideon,” Bradfrey answered plainly.

“By God, I will bury you both!” Gideon bellowed. He punctuated each word with a growl as he narrated his struggles through a vivid spectrum of obscenities and insults. His dagger bit deep into the root-ridden soil as he dragged his half-naked, mud-slicked body toward dryer ground, chainmail hanging from him like a drowned weight.

“Oh, buggery! Here, let me help you,” said Coble.

“Aye, don’t you dare come near me, you useless dimble,” Gideon barked in response.

“Well, aren’t you foul-mouthed,” Coble muttered. “I’d suggest tightening that lip of yours before the wrong person reinforces them manners. Bare-knuckled and all.”

“Don’t bother,” Bradfrey interjected with a smirk. “At this rate, he won’t live long enough to need it.”

Coble glanced between the two. “What’s the trouble?”

“Try being second in line to the Mansourian throne after the king dies,” Bradfrey explained.

“Ah, yes. Nothing says ‘royal dynasty’ quite like knifing the next of kin,” Coble replied. “Suppose there’s a hefty price on his head?”

Bradfrey nodded grimly. “We’ve dodged two hunting parties so far. Haven’t dared enter any towns—not when half the kingdom’s looking to claim that reward. We’re heading to Vasier to seek protection from his sister, Venessa.”

“You mean the regent?” Coble asked, raising an eyebrow. “You know her eldest son finally succumbed to illness, leaving the crown to her underage daughter.”

“Ha, marvelous,” said Gideon. With his hairy, shirtless body and soaked, mud-streaked limbs, he looked more wet dog than dignified prince. He shook off the remaining water with a spray that earned a few grimaces. “Sounds like she’s moving up in the world.”

Gideon cleared his throat, adjusting to a tone that was both biting and theatrical. “I’m Prince Gideon, the Truth Seeker, son of King Havious and brother to Regent Venessa of whatever. Pleasantries aside, I’m here to indulge in all things pagan and taboo. Then, if God hasn’t abandoned me entirely, I’ll kiss my sister’s feet and beg for her protection—preferably before my brother’s assassins decide to get a little too enthusiastic.” He glanced toward Coble. “And you are—?”

“What’s a pagan?” interrupted Anneliese.

The question drew a cheerful chuckle from Coble. He crouched slightly and gestured toward the wooden cross tangled in the chest hair of Gideon’s muscled torso. “That’s what them cross-worshippers call us free-spirited folk. You know, anything to do with the old gods, superstition, or magic.”

Bradfrey straightened, his armor creaking. “This is the Grand Master Wizard of Pragian,” he announced with a formal flourish. “The best and brightest of the pagan wizardry’s. Servant to all righteous, elder to the honorable.”

“Coble will do just fine,” the wizard replied with a grin. “Enchanter by trade. Though these days, I’m more old man than wizard. Still,” he added, glancing curiously at Gideon, “I’d like to know how you got the title ‘Truth Seeker.’”

“Bit of a joke, really,” Gideon admitted with a shrug. “I’ve got this knack for only hearing the truth. Nothing else seems to get through.”

“So… you’re deaf?” Anneliese deadpanned.

Gideon chuckled, playfully ruffling her hair. “Quite perceptive. And what shall I call the wizard’s apprentice?”

“You may refer to me as ‘Your Majesty,’” Anneliese said with a mock air of grandeur.

“Is that so?” Gideon said, clearly amused. He humored her, tenderly covering her hand with his own and raising it. On his opposite finger, he displayed an elaborate crest ring. “This is a mark of royalty. Better you have it than me.” He slipped the oversized ring onto her thumb.

“Your Majesty?” Anneliese echoed in surprise.

“Your name, young one,” Coble prompted with a chuckle. “Best not to test a prince’s patience.”

“Fine.” Anneliese huffed, slipping the ring from her thumb and handing it back. “You may call me ‘the lady of the rainy cave.’ And I expect diamonds next time.”

“Master Wizard, surely she has a name,” Bradfrey said, frowning.

“There’s a reason I just call her ‘young one,’” Coble replied with a wink.

“Lady it is, then,” Gideon declared. He gently took her hand and mimed a ceremonial kiss over the imaginary ring before tugging at her soaked linen garment to straighten it. “Do me a favor, Lady of the Rainy Cave. Pursue whatever makes life worth living—and damn the rest.”

With that, he flung the royal insignia far into the rushing rapids.

“I intend to be the greatest wizard who ever lived,” Anneliese declared, eyes burning with ambition.

“Oh, so she’s the new apprentice,” Bradfrey remarked. “What’s her specialty?”

 Coble gave him a quick, pointed look that silently said, Pretend.

Bradfrey hesitated but cleared his throat. “Ah well, we heard the local wizardry was gathering in Pragian to anoint a new apprentice. Thought you might escort us there?”

Gideon chimed in with a grin, “And is it true what they say about pagan mead? I’ll be adding ‘blind drunk’ to my list of ailments before nightfall?”

“Not that we’re intending to interfere,” Bradfrey added quickly. “We just need shelter and protection until we can secure safe passage to Vasier.”

Coble sighed, scratching at his scruffy beard. “Any other day, I’d gladly help.”

“But you’re Pragian’s Grand Master Wizard,” Bradfrey pressed, frowning.

“When I need to be,” Coble replied with a shrug. “These days, the wizardry mostly squabble among themselves. But I suppose I’m still technically a subject of Regent Venessa, so I’m probably obliged to escort you. Just tell your Truth Seeker to cut the sap, would ya?”

With that, he delivered a hearty, bell-ringing slap to Bradfrey’s back, sending the young knight into a startled jitter.

The group took a final look at the smoldering wreck of Coble’s cottage. The roof sagged further, embers occasionally flaring before hissing into steam. With a collective sigh, they turned away and headed off toward their next adventure.