“This is Peter’s room right here,” said Mrs Tret, as they climbed a flight of steps and stopped outside the first door in another long, grey corridor. “Peter, someone’s here to speak to you.”

Mrs Tret opened the door and Victor entered on his own. It was a small bedroom with nothing except a tiny desk cluttered with fairy-tale stories, a wardrobe and a short wooden bedstead. A young boy was sitting comfortably on top of the white blankets and reading a book.

Victor smiled for Peter’s appearance reminded him of himself when he was younger. Peter was tall for thirteen years old but extremely skinny. He had untidy light brown hair, deep blue eyes and had his mud stained white shirt untucked.

Peter closed his book and drew his eyes to Victor standing there with his hand outstretched.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Peter,” Victor said, his eyes gleaming with happiness.

“Hello,” said Peter who rose up.

Victor smiled and drew up the hard-wooden chair beside Peter. “My name, my actual name is Victor Octavious Grim Argus Samuel Terrace, but everyone just calls me Victor; it’s much shorter.”

Unlike every other Londoner, Peter didn’t seem at all surprised by Victor’s uncommon and strange appearance.

“You don’t seem shocked to see me dressed the way I am,” said Victor.

“I’m not shocked,” said Peter. “You look like the people in my dreams.”

“And what are these you’re having?” said Victor, after a moment's hesitation. “Are they good dreams?”

“Strange dreams,” Peter replied. “Dreams the other boys tease me about.”

“And what’s happening in these dreams?” Victor asked, his eyes fixed on Peter.

“I see people do impossible things,” said Peter eagerly.

“Things like this,” said Victor, who drew his staff and waved it at Peter’s torn black shoe.

Peter gasped as the shoe began to float in mid-air as if suspended by a thin piece of string. He looked astounded back at Victor as he felt a thousand questions pop into his head like exploding fireworks. Was this some sort of trick? Was this man a street performer? Was he in fact dreaming? Before he could think of something to say, Victor said, “What if I could turn your dreams into reality? What would you say to that?”

“I’d like that very much,” said Peter, who was now unable to keep himself still. His eyes were fixed on Victor’s every movement.

“Good, well I’m here to return something of yours,” said Victor, handing Peter the blue box.

What happened next was well beyond the capabilities of a London street performer. Peter instantly felt the temperature in his bedroom plummet. Suddenly, his teeth were chattering, and he could see his breath rising in a mist before him.

“What’s happening?” yelled Peter in panic.

“I’m not sure,” said Victor, who lit a flame with his staff and held it close to Peter. “Open the box.”

Peter quickly removed the lid and let the light beam onto his face. A sinister whisper started to ring in his ears, but he had no idea what it was saying or who was saying it. He reached towards the light and could feel the sensation of his heart palpitating but could do nothing to stop his hand. His unblinking eyes were fixed on the blue light in front of him. A sudden blood curdling heat pierced his skin and spread throughout his body. His chest was burning with rage and his head felt like it was engulfed in flames. Then, he felt the smooth surface of an Orb graze his fingers and all the noise and pain vanished at once.

“What just happened to me?” said Peter, red faced and panting.

“I don’t know,” said Victor who was looking rather worried. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” said Peter, who held the Orb between them. “What is this?”

Victor leaned forward and gazed intently at the Orb in Peter’s hands.

“I have been searching a for you, and here you are,” said Victor patiently. “This Orb, owned by the most powerful people my world has ever seen means something Peter. It means you’re going to be a very, very important person one day.”

A heavy silence fell in the room. Peter could hear his own heart beating as she sat very still on the edge of his seat.

“Where are you from?” Peter asked quietly.

Victor smiled and said “Not here. My world is not a place not found on any of your maps.”

Peter eyes were now flickering back and forth between Victor and the Orb in his hands. Nothing happening in his room could be explained.

“Why do you think the other orphans bully you Peter?” Victor asked, taking notice of a few bruises on Peter’s knees.

Peter carefully returned the Orb inside the blue box and said, “I don’t know. They treat me like I’m nothing.”

“Well you might be the most valuable person I’ve ever met in my life,” Victor said as he rose and took a quick look out of Peter’s bedroom window.

It was a dull view of a busy London street overpopulated with workers on their commutes back home.

“Maybe they tease you because they know you’re different?” Victor began. “How badly do you dislike this Orphanage?”

Peter cast a sideways look at Victor and said, “It’s my least favourite place in the world.”

“Then I offer you something,” said Victor, who was no longer smiling, but watching Peter intently. “The chance to live in another life in a world that nobody here knows exists. If you want to, I will take you there.”

Peter’s legs were trembling. His face was transfixed and there was a wild happiness upon it.

“I get to leave the Orphanage?” asked Peter as he started collecting his clothes.

“Yes, but this isn’t like you’re being adopted,” said Victor, sitting back down. “If you come with me, you leave this world and enter mine. It is your choice Peter, because it’s your life. Mrs Tret has already agreed to let you leave.”

Peter’s expression hardened for the short period before he said, “Mrs Tret wants me gone, doesn’t she?”

“No, that is not the case,” Victor insisted.

“Nobody likes me here,” Peter whispered as he bowed his head and started to sniffle.

Victor gently placed his hand on Peter’s shoulders, looked into his watery eyes and said, “Well I’m like you Peter. I’m different, and because of that, nobody liked me for many, many years.”

Peter forced himself to stop crying and asked “Why me? Why do you want me and not one of the others? I’m not the best orphan, I know I’m not. All the other boys are a lot stronger and faster.”

“Because this Orb, your Orb is from my world,” Victor began, handing Peter the blue box. “You’re the only one that can use it and you’re the best chance we’ve got.”

Peter drew Victor a curious look at these words.

“London is no longer safe,” Victor went on, “and you serve no purpose being in danger while this war continues. I’m asking you to leave this place, but truthfully, I, and many others, need you and the Orb to join me on my return. I ask you to shake my hand if you accept.”

Victor got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Peter said, “When do we leave?”

Victor smiled, broke the handshake and was at the door. He snapped his fingers and Peter watched all his belongings and the blue box float neatly into a brown leather suitcase that popped out from under his bed.

Victor picked up the heavy suitcase and said, “C’mon Peter, we’ve got a train to catch.”

Peter followed Victor down the shiny, marble steps of the orphanage. He suddenly stopped in his tracks when he heard his bedroom door close shut.

“Victor,” he chirped.

Victor checked his stopwatch and turned to face Peter whose eyes were now shut.

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“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m trying to wake up,” said Peter who was now pinching himself.

“Peter, this is not a dream,” said Victor.

Peter’s eyes fell directly onto Victor when he opened them again.

“What is going on here?” he said, stumbling forwards. “This is just not normal!”

Victor took Peter by the arm and led him downstairs.

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain when we’re settled on the Caledonian Sleeper,” he said, waving at Mrs Tret on the way out. “Thank you for your cooperation Mrs Tret. It was lovely meeting you, but you should be back to your normal, horrible self any moment now.”

“Thank you for your kind words Victor,” replied Mrs Tret, holding two boys by the scruff of their necks. “Peter, enjoy yourself in Scotland. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

Peter forced a smile and followed Victor out the door onto Vigo Street. Soon after, the pair were walking down Regent Street with Cotswald Orphanage completely out of site.

“Will you miss Mrs Tret?” asked Victor, pointing out the busy tube station up ahead.

“Definitely not,” replied Peter, squeezing past two well-dressed navy soldiers. “Mrs Tret is really strict. Many of the orphans think she really hates children.”

“Did you have any friends at Cotswald?”

“None,” replied Peter, who didn’t want to say anymore on the subject. “So what train are we getting then?”

“We’ve got tickets for the Caldeonian Sleeper at Euston,” said Victor, turning around to face Peter. “Did you ever hear of it?”

Peter shook his head and said, “I’ve never even taken the tube before.”

Victor smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I’m no expert either.”

Although Victor seemed to know where he was going, he was not used to travelling in an ordinary way. When they reached the ticket barrier at Piccadilly Circus, Peter expected Victor to approach a booth and purchase two standard rail tickets, but he did no such thing. Instead, Victor approached a tube worker and casually waved his hand in front of his face. The tube worker proceeded to nod his head frantically in agreement with everything Victor was telling him. The next thing Peter knew, he was stepping onto a northern line underground train to Euston at no cost.

“You’re not normal, are you?” asked Peter when their train stopped at Tottenham Court Road.

“No, I’m not,” said Victor, who doubled checked that Peter’s suitcase was properly locked. “But neither are you.”

Peter gave these words good thought until they reached Euston Train Station at around half past eight.

London was a busier city than Peter thought as he held tight onto Victor’s while they battled through the crowd of travellers.

“The nine o’clock train to Manchester will be departing from platform three,” announced a man standing on a wooden step under the platform boards. He was holding a rather large microphone.

At once the crowd split in two and half of the travellers began to stream through the opening that led to platforms three and four. Victor however had his eyes on the other end of the station.

“There, platform one,” he said, pointing to a sign that said Inverness. “C’mon Peter, we haven’t got long.”

Peter felt a great lead of excitement rush through his body when his eyes fell onto the Caledonian Sleeper at platform one. The train had well over ten carriages. Each was extremely long, dark blue but painted with thick, white stripes to resemble the Scottish flag. A sign overhead said Inverness via Glasgow, nine o’clock. Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of chattering groups of people walking towards railway workers that stood beside each carriage.

“We’re in coach E,” said Victor, who looked over his shoulder to make sure Peter was still with him.

As they walked down the platform, Peter could see the first few carriages contained a restaurant of some sorts. Instead of cabins for passengers to sleep in, white-clothed tables and leather armchairs were scattered around the first few carriages. There must have been a kitchen because the lovely scent of roast chicken in gravy filled the air.

Eventually they reached coach E where there was a worker holding a clipboard with a long list of passenger names.

“Can I get your name please and cabin numbers?” he asked rather depressingly.

Once again to Peter’s astonishment, Victor waved his hand in front of the worker who lit up instantly. He formed a large smile and greeted Victor with a hug.

“Please to have you on board again Mr. Terrace,” said the worker. “Will it be coach E for you today?”

“Not today I’m afraid,” said Victor. “I’ve brought special cargo with me and will be needing an upgrade.”

“Not a problem. I’ll just downgrade the couple on their way now,” said the worker, waving happily at an elderly who had just walked onto the platform.

Peter frowned at Victor who led him onto the only first-class coach where they each had their own private cabin. On one side was an iron bedstead and on the other was a tiny desk where a lamp rested. It wasn’t much room at all, but Peter wasn’t used to anything different.

Victor lifted Peter’s suitcase up to the storage compartment and unpacked the blue box.

“Let’s have dinner,” he suggested, opening their cabin door.

Peter followed Victor down the narrow corridors of the carriages to the front of the sleeper train. Peter smiled at passengers settling into their shared carriages. Their accents were difficult to understand and not from the London area.

“Are we going to Scotland?” Peter asked as they passed a rather grim looking toilet. “Is that we’re you’re from?”

“Not exactly,” said Victor, who led Peter into the front carriage.

They were now walking along a very wide, red carpeted carriage lined with rows of cushioned seats that faced each other. Each was separated by a round wooden table topped with silverware and clean, white plates. Many seats were already occupied, but in the corner by the kitchen was a cosy table for two.

A waitress wearing a white apron approached Victor and asked, “Will you be dining with us today?”

“Certainly,” said Victor, casting a sideways look at Peter. “We’ll take that table in the corner and order the roast chicken. I’ll also have a glass of your finest whisky.”

As Victor removed his busy cloak, Peter took a seat and he heard the conductor standing on the platform blow his whistle. Then the carriage gave a forward jerk and started moving out of Euston Train Station. By the time their main courses arrived, the Caledonian Sleeper was out of London and speeding past the English countryside.

“So,” Victor began, cutting into his chicken. “What is it you’d like to know?”

Peter forced himself to stop eating and asked, “Where are you from?”

Victor learned comfortably back in his armchair and said, “I am from a world called Astrasia.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that in geography,” said Peter.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to,” said Victor. “Astrasia is not like Earth. It has its own history, its own places, its own people.”

“People like you?” said Peter, eyeing Victor’s cloak.

“I am sorcerer,” said Victor quietly, enjoying a gulp of whisky. “But not everyone in Astrasia can do what I can do. Just like here on Earth, each person is different.”

“And this,” said Peter, picking up the blue box beside him. “What is it?”

“Inside that box Peter is the Orb of Astrasia and it is the most powerful magical item in existence,” said Victor, who suddenly stood up and directed his staff at their fellow passengers.

“Exitus,” he said, and one by one, the passengers rose from their tables, left the restaurants to return to their cabins. Peter and Victor were suddenly the only two people having dinner.

“Wouldn’t want anyone listening to our conversation, would we?” said Victor, sitting back down.

Peter gave Victor a bewildered stare before asking, “Why did you give me the Orb?”

“Well, many years ago, long before I was born, there was an island very close Astrasia called Vesalius,” Victor began; his eyes locked onto Peter. “One day, a mysterious disease spread on the island turning the population into vile creatures of darkness. Only eight sorcerers survived and escaped to Astrasia. For many years, these sorcerers lived in harmony with the humans of my world, until one sorcerer decided that men were weak. He is known as Feuron the Betrayer and he wanted to save the people of Vesalius. When the seven sorcerers rejected Feuron’s idea, he fled to Vesalius, and years later, returned with an army of dark creatures and declared war on the people of Astrasia. Along with man, the seven sorcerers fought to protect my home, but they were quickly overwhelmed by Feuron’s vast numbers. As hope started to fade, six of the remaining seven sorcerers decided to sacrifice their abilities into one weapon. This Orb’s first owner is known as Euross the Powerful and he used it to push Feuron’s army to the north of Astrasia.”

A heavy silence filled the carriage. Peter could hear his own heart beating as he sat on the edge of his seat. This sounded like one of his fairy-tale stories.

“What happened next?” he asked.

“Before Feuron was killed, he swore that a descendant of his would finish what he started and conquer Astrasia. Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong, and many years later, a sorcerer called Zalthar used the Orb to cloud Astrasia with shadow. When I was about your age, there was a war that lasted a decade. It suddenly ended when for some unknown reason, the Orb no longer answered to Zalthar.”

Victor leaned across the table and his eyes glinted.

“Now Zalthar is likely dead, but this Orb can never again be in the hands of someone equally as evil and destructive.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Fear seemed to rattle him like a clawed hand and he was certain that this was all a horrible accident. “But, why do I have it?” he asked, catching a gentle whisper of wind find its way through a cracked window.

“Your father,” said Victor.

Peter leapt up at these words. “My father! You know about my father!”

“Sadly, I do not. Mrs Tret informed me that he was the one that dropped you off at Cotswald Orphanage,” said Victor, having another gulp of whisky. “He left the Orb with you, so I can only assume he is from Astrasia, which also makes you from Astrasia. Now, as to how your father had the Orb in his possession is widely beyond me.”

Peter’s eyes shifted from side to side and became glazed with a glassy layer of tears. Small tears flowed unchecked down his cheek and dripped from his chin. He was too sad to cry out or wail. He just stood there as still as a statue while the magnitude of his loss swept over him.

“I wish I’d known him,” said Peter, sitting back down.

Victor sighed and ran his hand through his hair, as if lost in thought.

“Peter,” said Victor calmly. “You were chosen and therefore you must use all your strength, wisdom and heart to bear the Orb and learn to control it.”

Peter opened the box and gazed at the Orb. The clear blue colour was very fair and pure. It had a certain beauty he failed to notice when he first looked upon it. He appreciated its smooth surface, its perfect roundness. It was an admirable thing and altogether precious. He weighed the Orb in his hand, hesitating and forcing himself to remember everything Victor had told him. Then, with an effort of will he made a movement to cast it away or offer it to Victor, but he found himself keeping hold of it.

“Well,” said Victor at last. “Do you wish to learn?”

“I do,” replied Peter. “If it gives me a good chance of finding one of my parents.”

“I’m certain it will. Now, there is one place for you, given your, shall we say, situation,” said Victor, his eyes beaming at Peter. “This is a place where all young sorcerers of Astrasia become true sorcerers. It is where they master the three main elements of ground, water and fire that define sorcery itself. This place I speak of is called the Ellesmere Academy of Shields, Swords and Scepters and even though you are not a sorcerer, you will be allowed to attend.”

A million questions rushed through Peter’s mind and he couldn’t think of which to ask first. However, the word scepter caught his attention.

“What’s a scepter?” he asked.

“It’s a common sorcerer’s tool. You’ve already seen mine.”

Victor showed Peter his staff that looked like an ordinary wooden stick attached to a shiny gemstone. Now they both knew it was much more than that.

“It binds with a sorcerer’s power and extracts it into the physical world,” explained Victor. “Any other questions?”

“Where are we going exactly?”

“We’re going to Helmsdale, a city full of markets in the heart of Astrasia. Our first-class carriage takes a special turn in the highlands of Scotland. When you wake up, our carriage will be docked at Helmsdale station.”

Victor followed these words with a loud yawn as he stretched his arms up over his shoulder.

“Right, off to bed,” said Victor, taking the blue box. “I’ll wake you in the morning.”

Peter finished the last of his chicken and headed back to their own, private carriage. He climbed into bed and thought about everything that was happening to him. All this could not be real; it just couldn’t. The last though that went through Peter’s mind before he drifted off was how he was going to protect himself from the Fulham bullies the following morning.