In the temple, they had gathered; looking down on them was an angel with its sword out, ready to smite evil wherever it may see it. It was there to witness and listen to the mandate written by the Herald, with the right given by the King.

Terent Oldurian stood before them as the representative of the Kingdom. He unsealed the letter handed to him and cleared his throat. “On this day, let it be known that the village of Jersten shall enter a trial period of two to three years, after which, if all goes well, it will be given the title, laws, and responsibilities of a town.”

“A constant presence of the Priesthood and the Kingdom will be appointed; these officials and priests alike will see through this process and stay after the fact.

“But, for this trial period to be successful, an issue with lack of population will first be addressed: starting next year, new settlers will be sent here, and those who already live here must accept them, help them, and provide for them if such is necessary.”

“All such actions will be rewarded handsomely with land.” Teren read the mandate loudly and clearly, his voice echoing through the temple hall grandly.

Kanrel was pleased. All that he had hoped for had become a reality. He had privately spoken with Terent about the prospects of the village and its future; he had shown great interest in the possibilities of mining, agriculture, and quarries that could be set up around the area.

The untapped natural resources around were plenty, and this was for the good of the village and for the good of the kingdom.

Terent envisioned that the village could, in their lifetime, become an important commercial hub in the future when the Kingdom could sooner or later harness the northern parts of its territory much more efficiently.

The possibilities of making Jersten the central hub for all the trade, resources, and riches that come from the north to the south. But it was yet to be seen if this would ever happen or if his grand visions for the future could ever become a reality. Life was, after all, uncertain, and so was the fickle nature of the Kingdom and its economy. It was difficult to predict how things would go, for one could only guess, and only ever so accurately at that.

With all of this, new plans had to be decided upon. Turning a village into a town is a question of population, and population is a question of the possibility of work and a bright future so that the area would attract people to move there. The Kingdom would, in its own way, push people to move there, but the effectiveness of it all was to be seen.

Soon after, the officials and priests, along with their guards, left the village behind. It was the middle of autumn, and constant rains had returned with the ever-so-familiar darkness that would refuse to leave until the beginning of spring.

Kanrel gave up on investigating the forests for the rest of the year, even though he did want to make another breakthrough to find something relevant. It just seemed so unlikely to find anything in such a large area. To find a needle in a stack of hay.

Accepting that it would be so, he returned to reading through the notes that he had found. Maybe he could have sent them with the priests, but he was not sure if they could be entirely trusted with such a task, for they might want to read through them just to find out what they were about.

In the letter he had sent with them, he had asked for assistance with the transportation of the notes to the capital or any place the Herald would wish to have them. But for another priest to arrive here, it could only be possible after winter.

So he would wait, and he would continue through the end of his second year at the village the same way he had gone through the previous one.

Magic could only be described as “wonderful” by those who felt “wonder”, an emotion like any other. One filled with surprise and curiosity, for is magic not rare and its effects quite often unexpected for the untrained eye?

It was a late winter evening when a knock could be heard at his door—a sound of three quick knocks echoing through the door, past the kitchen, and through to his bedroom. Kanrel finished the sentence he was writing and put down his pen. He quickly walked to the front door and opened it.

The light from inside pierced through the darkness of the outside and laid itself on the snow that covered the grounds around the temple. A figure stood before him now, a small frame with a rather familiar face.

A girl with whom Kanrel had made a deal almost two years ago, a girl who often came to study at the temple under Kanrel’s tutelage like many of the other children in the village, a girl with a name he knew, by now, all too well: Roslyn Hergen.

A girl who had grown a lot since they first met, she must’ve been thirteen or fourteen by now. Her stature was much taller than back then, and it was quite possible that she would not gain that much more height in the future.

Thick robes covered her, and even still, she seemed to be slightly cold, as if she had spent hours outside beforehand.

They just stared at each other for a moment. The girl with her deep blue eyes had something in them—a feeling, an emotion—that Kanrel could not quite put his finger on.

“Do come in,” he encouraged her, and he stepped out of her way. After a moment of hesitation, Roslyn stepped inside the already familiar interior of Kanrel’s kitchen. With her, the snow came inside. Kanrel quickly made it melt away and closed the door after Roslyn had entered.

Without much word at first, she looked around the room, as if looking for something. Kanrel in turn observed her, trying to figure out what that feeling was—that something that made her come here during a winter evening, at a time so dark and cold.

She stopped and turned toward Kanrel, staring straight into his eyes. With utter confidence, she voiced what she came here for: “I want to become a priest; I want to learn magic.”

A silence followed her words as Kanrel blinked his eyes, not out of wonder but out of confusion.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Sure, and that you can do if you can enter the academy.” Kanrel said, more or less thinking out loud what he soon realized, “And I suppose you want my help with that.”

A firm nod was given as an answer, and the girl brazenly took a seat, as if her wish were to be followed. Because it would be. They both knew that it would be.

He still stood there for a while, at the entrance to his own home, staring at the girl who now sat at his table, on his chair, asking for a favor he could not deny. He let out a long sigh and sat across from her. “Out of all the things in the world—the many possibilities that there are—you wish to enter the Academy of the Heavenly? You wish to become a priest?”

“Is there a world in which I could talk you out of this, or would you much rather save my sermons for another soul and another time? Are you set on this specific demand?”

“Father Kanrel, there is nothing I want more... Do you know how wonderful it is? How beautiful? Just so... magical!” Roslyn exclaimed; she could barely hide her excitement. The stars in her eyes shone so brightly at the idea of magic and at the memories she had of magic. The many times she had secretly and not-so-secretly observed how Kanrel performed magic. For her, there was nothing more wonderful than magic.

This was the feeling he could not recognize at first—a feeling he could barely relate to—one that he had seldom felt before, and now he could never feel it again. Her words, her face, her emotions—all of it once more reminded him of what he had lost. What he had not felt for so long. What he had never felt—for the idea of magic nor for the manifestation of magic—nor for witnessing other priests performing it during his studies.

“Very well. If this is what you really want, then who am I to deny you? I cannot go back on a promise I made, and I cannot ruin a fantasy you have of magic; therefore, I will support you.”

“But do understand that this will be difficult and something you will need to get permission for; you do have parents after all. I can plead for you; in your stead, I can do my best that your parents might give you permission, but it will be mostly your job to get their blessing for this desire of yours.”

“Magic, I cannot teach you; I can only teach you basic information that you will need to know to be able to even think of enlisting at the Academy of the Heavenly. Studying will become your life; it will consume all of your time."

"Magic is a thing a priest can practice, one that a priest has to study... but only as a tool used to achieve the true goals of a priest—the mission of a priest; the job of a priest.”

Roslyn stared at Kanrel, who sat across her; she had never seen him so animated—never use so many words; never had he much talked about such things as the goals of a priest. A wide grin found its way on the face of a girl who had seemed so innocent barely a moment ago.

“Father Kanrel… What if I told you that I already had the permission of my parents?”

“What?”

“You see… They said that they would only allow me to go if you would deem me ‘priest enough’.”

Kanrel muttered a few curse words under his breath. He had not expected such a thing, but soon he found other words that should not be addressed to children. “Well now… I suppose you’ll have to prove yourself to me then.”

It was Kanrel’s turn to find a smile to arrive on his face. “You ought to become ‘priest enough’ so that you can proudly say so to your parents."

A grin can be so fickle; it can go as easily as it comes. “Can’t you just get me to the academy?”

Kanrel’s emotionless smile widened. "Sure, I can, but you have to think of my position as a priest; it would not be right of me to use my connections to get you into an academy that has fierce competition for the limited slots it can offer.”

It was Roslyn’s turn to curse under her breath; surely a child can learn many words from the adults around them. “Fine. If you want me to study, then study I shall."

Studying, there was nothing Kanrel knew more about; there were once so many thrilling hours spent lost on the pages of history, trying to figure out and understand why that which has happened, happened.

All this is accompanied by constant writing, often just copying the text that he just read, and sometimes coming to conclusions about said text. Writing happened either way, and there was no running away from it. Your wrist would, at the end of the day, remind you of the fact—the torturous hours spent creating symbols on a piece of paper in a way that anyone could read them.

Writing was the first thing he wanted Roslyn to learn. Not just any writing, but writing in an aesthetic way—in a way that would suit any priest. The pace had to be quick; there was no reason to spend multiple hours on just a few pages when one should be able to write that much in just a few minutes. Almost as quickly as reading fairly slowly.

Kanrel advised Roslyn to return the next morrow while he himself spent a few hours of the already late evening preparing for this great event. He brought out hundreds of pages of paper and set them on the kitchen table. Then he went ahead and placed the Book of the Herald next to these papers; before going to bed, he read through the last few pages of it, trying to figure out when it had last been updated.

Surely it had been a decade. Thankfully, he had a personal version that was more or less up-to-date, unless there had been many new passages during the couple of years he had spent here.

He sat down and baptized his pen in ink; a familiar feeling went through him. He had done so many times—written so many words, spent so much time producing text that could be read by anyone capable of reading.

This was a blessing of sorts to be able to share thoughts, some of which might be profound and some perhaps less so. But that didn’t matter, for he was allowed to do what he had always wanted to do.

There was just no emotion attached to it all. He felt no glory or success for what he had achieved. He had become a full-fledged priest; he was about to write words on the holiest of books that there were. And it would not be a simple doodle or the musings of a love-sick poet. But the very words of the Herald—the one who heard the whispers of the Angels, the one who shared them with her flock and the people—the many believers that lived on this earth.

He wrote down the words as they had been on the great tome at the cathedral:

“Locked; imprisoned those you know as the other. Waiting for the lock to open; waiting for their ascension; to breach the surface; to usurp those above.

Punished for betrayal; conquered and then enslaved by the shadows; those within, around, and above.

Bloodshed; famine; death. An ending from and for below.”

Such unsettling words—words that he had pondered about so much. Their meaning remains unknown; their prophetic nature is perhaps just a figment of the imagination of those far more foolish than the Angels.

Such words, which he would allow Roslyn to read through over and over again—she would read, then she would copy. Until her penmanship was perfect—nearing the artistic style of a calligraphist.

Cold ran through his spine, like the cold hands of a winter morning, reminding him of the uncertainty that the words gave him.

He finished writing and put down his pen, leaving the words to dry on the paper. He got up and left it all behind. The temple called for him; tonight he had to see an Angel; tonight he needed the comfort of judgment.

He stood before the painting, feeling naked and blind to a truth he ought to know, as the Angel observed him with no regard, his never-changing expression showcasing perhaps a slight of mockery, a toothy smile that was not there, yet he could feel it. He could sense it.

With not much thought, he sat on his knees, perhaps just to feel smaller than he was—just to feel lesser than those that were above him. The words... they echo in the head of a fool, repeating themselves with no regard for the sanity of their beholder.

The night was long, and the morning gave no relief.