The city bustled with noise as the common folk trampled to and fro, going about their business with the most regard for themselves. Each was so caught up within the trials and tribulations of their mundane life that they could hardly notice the extraordinary skulking around beneath their noses. The few that did take notice regarded him like a roach skittering over their feet. Roland took notice of this contempt, of course, but by now it had become par for the course. With few exceptions, the best he could hope for from the higher castes was to be ignored.

He made his way to the market, doing all he could to not be an inconvenience to the people who nearly tread on him with every step. If they chose to greet him with their boots, that was their business. Roland was on a mission all his own, his nose guiding him to the pleasant scent of freshly baked bread.

“Good morning, Sir,” the boy called, running up to the baker’s stand.

“Good morning, young man,” the baker responded, smiling kindly. “Are you lost?”

“No, I am quite sure of where I am, Sir,” Roland asserted. “Father asked me to buy our bread for today.”

“I see, trusting you with his wallet now is he?” the baker said, picking up a loaf and wrapping it up in some parchment.

“Only a few deira,” Roland said, pulling two coins from the bundle tied around his waist and offering them to the baker. The baker accepted, handing over the freshly baked loaf, and offered a small tartlet to Roland.

“I do not have the deira…” Roland mumbled awkwardly.

“It is a gift,” the baker said. “You are growing so fast, and a growing child needs plenty of food.” Roland accepted the tart and the loaf put the latter under his arm.

“Thank you, Sir,” he said, bowing his head down slightly.

“Give my regards to your father,” the baker said, waving. Roland returned the wave before disappearing back into the crowd.

He clutched the loaf as tightly as he could without crushing it, deftly dodging the barrage of legs that threatened to flatten him. The throngs of people were even more stifling than usual. The din of the crowd mixed with the jeers of merchants hawking their wares was near deafening. Roland took a small detour to the notice board at the edge of the square, hoping to find some room to breathe and enjoy his gift.

The crowd spat him out close to the board, on which his eyes were drawn to the largest notice. Emblazoned in scarlet and gold, depicting the mightiest warriors wielding spell and sword, frozen in an instant of eternal combat. The King’s Tournament. Roland longed to see the event. Alas, Father could barely make the deira they needed to keep their bellies full and their hearth lit. They couldn’t afford to see the local tournament, let alone the spectacular event in the capital.

Roland enjoyed the savoury treat as he studied the notice, his mind travelling to a distant realm where he too could partake in such an event. Where he could prove himself. His daydream, much like the tartlet, was short-lived. He braved the ocean of bodies once again, sailing through until he reached less crowded streets. As his distance from the market square grew, so did his awareness. Buildings became more spread apart, impressive facades replaced with haphazard walls. Cobbled streets became gravel paths overgrown with weeds, and the ever-present watchful gaze of the city guard was choked out by the ravenous glares of those lurking just beyond sight. The stench of desperation pierced through the air.

Roland demanded his senses devour it all, unwilling to be caught unaware. A frantic scream some distance away sent a chill down his spine. His legs were moving long before his ears could remind them of his Father’s commands to stay away from danger. Even when they got the message, they willfully ignored it. The road crunched beneath his feet as he dashed forward, skidding slightly around a corner. There, down the street, he spotted the source of the scream. Two large men laughed raucously as flashes of yellow light shot from their hands, impacting a small figure curled up no the ground.

“Hey, stop that!” Roland ordered, moving quickly to place himself between the men and their victim.

“Oi, Arty, did this runt just tell us what to do?” the larger of the two men asked.

“I believe he did Nix,” Arty responded, cracking his knuckles. “Should we show him why that won’t fly?”

“Let’s give the runt the benefit of the doubt,” Nix said. He kneeled down, his mouth twisted into a horrid grin. Several blackened teeth were spread just far enough apart to let a breath that scorched Roland’s nostrils pass through. “Listen here, boy, Arty and I are the strongest fighters in town. You’d ought to know better than to get in our way.”

“I know who you are,” Roland said, placing his loaf on the ground behind him. “If you were really the strongest, you would be fighting in the King’s Tournament. Father told me you were bullies, but he never told me you were cowards.”

The phrase had barely left Roland’s mouth when the back of Nix’s hand crashed into him, sending him sprawling across the coarse earth. Before he could get his bearings a glowing yellow rod manifested from Arty’s hand and pressed into Roland’s chest, pinning him to the ground. He grabbed the rod with both hands and pushed back with all his might, but it refused to budge.

“You got some nerve, runt,” Arty snarled. Nix nodded his head in agreement. “Perhaps we ought to teach you some respect. Arty, burn the boy.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“No, wait!” their victim shouted, clutching at his abdomen. “He’s just a child!”

“It don’t matter to me,” Arty said, his eyes shining with sadistic glee. A small pearl of flame formed in his hand, quickly growing to envelop his whole palm. He quickly thrust his arm forward, a small jet of flame casting shadows the sun could not combat. The victim’s eyes grew wide as Roland put his arms before his face, hoping to provide even the smallest amount of defence.

Nix and Arty both heartily laughed as the flames poured, bathing the boy in their heat. Seconds passed, and their laughing subsided. They weren’t greeted with the satisfying screams of agony and fear they were so accustomed to. They dissipated their spells, worried that they might have pushed things too far.

Before the smoke could clear, it was bandied away by a small figure tearing through it, planting a fist directly into Nix’s nose. Arty felt his legs give way as his knees were kicked from behind. Faster than they could realise, both were on the ground. Roland towered over them. Most of his clothing was scorched or completely burned away, but he was unharmed.

“How?!” Nix cried out, his rapidly swollen nose heavily impacting his speech. Roland looked at his arms, just as shocked as the would-be assailants.

“Why, you!” Arty said, raising his fiery palms again.

“That’s enough!” A new voice ordered. It wasn’t loud, but it was assertive, and instantly commanded obedience. Slight rhythmic metallic clanging approached, and soon the familiar sight of a city guard’s armour came into Roland’s view. “Both of you, get going before I have you tried for attempted murder.” Nix and Arty quickly scampered to their feet and walked away, grumbling insults and threats under their breath. The guard moved to the first victim of the duo’s attack, helping him to his feet. “Are you hurt?”

“I’ll be alright,” the man said, still holding onto his abdomen. “Nothing the church can’t fix.”

“Good,” the guard said. She turned her attention to Roland. “As for you, what were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“I…,” Roland said, standing. He checked all over his body but despite the state of his clothes, his skin was unscathed. “I’m not burned.”

“And you are fortunate not to be!” the guard asserted, jabbing her finger into Roland’s chest.

“No, I… my clothes,” Roland stammered. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, coming away without a speck of ash or soot. “My- my hair, I… I should be burned, but…” He turned around in a daze, studying the ground where he had just lain. Pristine weeds formed his former silhouette, outlined by scorched earth. A few embers remained.

“You should not involve yourself in the business of others,” the guard continued, slightly annoyed at Roland’s lack of focus. The annoyance turned to alarm when the boy leaned down and picked up a smouldering ember from the ground. She quickly stepped forward and slapped it out of his hand. “What are you doing! You’ll hurt… yourself.”

“I am not burned,” Roland reiterated. His palm was the same as before the attack, albeit slightly dirtier.

“You aren’t,” the guard said. She took a step back and studied the boy more analytically. “Has the church given you your grades yet?”

“Only one,” Roland said, letting his head drop a little. “The priest only observed my kiln. After that, they said it was not worth their time to grade me.”

“That might have been their mistake,” the guard said. She knelt down to be closer to Roland’s eye level and lifted his chin. “May I escort you home? I think I might have something to discuss with your parents.”

“Father does not like it when I talk to strangers,” Roland said, glancing at his loaf that still lay on the ground.

“My name is Riva,” the guard said. She picked up the loaf and handed it to Roland. “Your father is wise in his distrust, but I do not intend to do either of you harm. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Roland,” Roland said, reflexively extending his hand. Riva smiled and accepted his handshake.

“I can not be sure, but I think the church made a mistake with you, Roland,” she said. “I think you might be exceptional, and if you and your Father will allow it, I would like to see for myself if you are.” Roland’s mind immediately returned to that faraway dream he so often visited.

“I think Father would make an exception,” he said, the temptation far too strong for him to resist. He spun around and began leading Riva to his home on the farthest rims of the town. The outskirts, where he and his father were forced to for the simple sin of Roland existing. The two walked in silence, the boy lost in a dream, and the woman focused on keeping him safe. The sun continued its precession across the sky, the shadows growing ever so slightly shorter with each passing moment. Just as they began growing again, Roland stopped in front of a hovel that Riva would only very generously call a home.

“Father!” Roland called into the hut.

“Ah, I was getting worried!” A joyful voice from inside called out. A man with a sturdy build and an even sturdier moustache crossed from the darkened interior into the light of day. His eyes beamed with kindness, though the sight of his son in scorched and singed clothing, escorted by a member of the city guard no less, dimmed them slightly. “Oh, my boy! What happened!”

“It was nothing, Father,” Roland said, fighting off his father’s attempts at physical investigation.

“I am sorry to intrude,” Riva said, trying to interject. “My name is Riva, I witnessed what happened to your son.”

“Oh, thank you for helping him,” Roland’s father said, grabbing her hand and shaking it vigorously. “My name is Gerald. I am sorry for any inconvenience Roland has caused you.”

“Not at all,” Riva said, struggling to keep up with Gerald’s energetic disposition. “In fact, he did not need my help at all. That is why I came here.” Riva suggested Roland head inside, and Gerald agreed. Roland frowned but did as he was told. Once he was out of earshot, Riva quickly recounted the day’s events from her point of view. Gerald’s expression became stern, but the twinkle somehow never left his eyes.

“What does this mean?” he asked when Riva finished her tale.

“I think Roland could be extraordinary,” Riva said. “I think he might have potential as a warrior. More than I could ever hope to match. If you would let me, I would like to train him in the art of combat.”

“The boy can not do magic,” Gerald said, rubbing his chin. “Surely, that is an insurmountable disadvantage.”

“With respect, you did not see what I saw,” Riva said. “Roland already has the heart of a warrior. With training, I think he will giant the strength of ten.”

“I am not against it,” Gerald said. “But it is not our choice to make. Roland should decide for himself if this is a path he wishes to pursue.” Riva nodded in agreement, and Roland was called back outside. The boy emerged from the darkened interior with a smile so wide it nearly wrapped around his head.

“I am sorry, Father, Riva, but I listened to you talking,” he said, poorly suppressed glee dripping from every word. “If my Father allows, I would be happy and grateful to accept training from you, Riva.”