Ben was so full, he felt like he would burst. This was a first for him. He had never eaten so much food in a single sitting before, as he did now. His platter and mug, magically animated, refused to stay empty and continually served him more food and drink. Roasted chicken, veggie stew, pie, and jellies; apple juice, milk, and honey; hot chocolate and a mild wine—he ate and drank course after course without complaint. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he had been due to the ordeals of the past day.

Satisfied, he moved a hand to his belly and sighed. Sweeney clapped his hands, and the chinaware hovered away into the kitchen. He sat at the head of the table, flanked by Wilhelm on his right and Sybil on his left. Ben sat next to Wilhelm, the furthest from him.

“You can’t call it a proper meal without some conversation, wouldn’t you agree?” Sweeney asked his guests. He turned to the fireplace that decorated the limestone wall beside them and intoned a lowspell. “Allay the night with gleaming bright.”

The fireplace immediately roared to life, casting a warm light across the dining room. A single file of teacups then hovered out of the kitchen and alighted next to their platters. Hot steam wafted from their contents, accompanied by a pleasant, earthy aroma.

“Yarrow tea. My personal favorite and great for digestion! Ha!” Ambrose added with a feral wink. He focused his attention solely on Wilhelm. His demeanor changed. Became more serious. “So, Lightfoot. This is the candidate you were telling me about?”

Wilhelm nodded. “He might be. He’s a curious one, though. I doubt he’ll agree to any proposal we throw his way without hearing the whole story.” He rested a hand on the crest rail of Ben’s chair. “I owe him as much, and I’m a man of my word.”

“Hm. I trust your judgment, Lightfoot. You’re one of the most active agents of the Society. I think you’ve earned the right to tell whomever you see fit about us.”

Wilhelm bowed at Sweeney and then protruded his smoking pipe. He took a small wad of herb out of a pouch, packed it, and lit it by simply pointing his finger at it. A sweet smell filled the room.

The room went into an expectant silence, everyone attentive to Wilhelm’s upcoming words. He took another drag of his pipe, pondering quietly, and then took a sip of yarrow tea.

“Well?” Ben prompted. It was here. Finally. He couldn’t mask his impatience any longer.

Wilhelm analyzed him for a long moment and said, “When I first chanced upon you in Dunport-Salem, you had defended Sybil from her assailants a few mere hours after crossing into the World That Is Not, even though you knew next to nothing about her situation,” Puff. He kept the smoke in his lungs for a moment, then cascaded it out of his mouth. “That was brave, foolish, or both. You could’ve easily died that night had I not intervened. You earned my respect, and it’s not something easily earned. It just so happens that we’ve been looking for someone with your qualifications, too.”

“And what would those be?” Ben asked, emboldened by Wilhelm’s words.

He shot an intense stare at Ben, which somewhat unsettled him. “Someone Sybil’s age. Someone who hasn’t attended the academy. Someone with the ability to be her bodyguard where we adults can’t go.”

Ben turned to Sybil. Her eyes looked downward; guilt was apparent on her face. She couldn’t meet their gaze as they spoke about her, as if her set of circumstances were her fault. “Why are you even being followed to begin with?”

As Sybil lifted her gaze and met Ben’s, a furious frown decorated her face. “Because of my blood, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Wilhelm explained her words further. “Indeed, because she is a Blake. More precisely, because she’s the descendant of Darius Blake, the fabled sorcerer who founded the Circle and our Society both. Let me tell you the story of why things are the way they are.” As he was about to start, his attention shifted to their host. “Or rather, I’ll cede the word to Sweeney. He’s been a member of the Society longer than I have, and his knowledge of history far surpasses mine.”

Sweeney let out a shrill laugh and gulped the remainder of his yarrow tea in a single go. He stood up and began pacing the room dramatically as he got into character. The light flickering from the fireplace elongated his shadow and contorted it into inhuman shapes. “About damned time you let your elder speak. Ahem.” He coughed a couple of times to make his voice deeper and began recounting the tale.

“It all started and ended with the fury of a single man—a man named Samhael, known to many as the One-Eyed Lion. Without a doubt, he’s the single greatest sorcerer there has been since the time of Agatos the First. As to his missing eye, some say he met Wandering Odin during his travels and exchanged it for power; others say he convened with witches and made an offering of it to their dark liege-lords. Whatever happened to it, once lost, he could now peer into the harsher realities of the world: war, plague, poverty and famine continued to sprout no matter how much he championed for the people with his heroic feats of magic. And so, slowly but surely, contempt for mortals burrowed its way into his heart.”

He brought his hands together, and the shadow they cast upon the wall expanded and took on the form of a lion. “So Samhael came to a conclusion, which became a conviction. The land needed healing. Mortals were the cause of the sickness. They needed to be decimated, and those that remained should serve sorcerers. Thus began the bloody war known as the Leonine Crusade. Before that, it was said that wherever Samhael walked, flowers would grow. Once his fiery crusade began, there were only ashes left behind. Sorcerers from every corner of the world joined together against the threat he posed, but he was on a whole other level. No one could go toe-to-toe against him.”

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Wilhelm pointed a finger at Sybil. “No one, until a mysterious, unpretentious man appeared out of nowhere. A man named Darius Blake.”

“The Legendary Hero,” Sweeney continued with a nod. “And Sybil’s ancestor. He walked straight into Zmeju’s Keep where Samhael resided, and challenged him to single combat. They climbed to the top of the highest tower in the fort, and for three days and three nights, they dueled without respite. Aye, Darius Blake could go to-to-toe against Samhael, but he could not outright defeat him. Thus, he came to a compromise: he poured all the magic he could muster, along with part of his life force, into a last resort spell. With it, he rended Samhael’s soul from his flesh.”

Sweeney returned to his chair and slumped onto it, suddenly tired. He continued with the narration, his voice weaker. “Samhael was never one to yield. Oh, how he fought the effects of the spell! But in the end, the One-Eyed Lion succumbed to its potency. Such was the resultant shockwave that it rendered the World That Was into the World That Is and the World That Is Not that we know today. The Rive came into existence, a closed curtain. Sorcerer leaders gathered for a year and a day to discuss and establish the Treaties of Dool, which created the Circle and the other bastions. Peace followed, but Darius Blake knew it would not endure. He used the remainder of his shortened life to guarantee we would be prepared for when Samhael did make his return.”

“A threefold plan,” Wilhelm said, reclining his chair on its back feet. “He gave his tome to a god to keep, hid his sword in a forgotten forest, and created a secret order that would watch over his lineage. He then retired into the World That Is, formed a family, and led the rest of his life as an ordinary mortal.”

“And here we are, maintaining our sacred oath almost six hundred years later. The Grigori Society is at your service.” Sweeney said.

Orangier entered the dining room and bowed. “Barely maintaining our sacred oath, more like.”

“What do you mean?” Ben asked.

This time around, Sybil spoke without mincing her words. “What they mean is that we were found by the hooded ones fourteen years ago. Me and my parents and my little brother that is.” tears welled in her eyes, but she continued to speak in a controlled manner. “They burned our house, killed everyone except me. Would’ve gotten me, too, but the Grigori Society finally showed up, for what they’re worth. That’s how I originally crossed into the World That Is Not.”

A heavy silence fell on the room. Ben stared at the adults before him, and he could sense the impotence of their failure from their expressions alone. However, they still had more answers to give him. “Who are these hooded ones?”

“Our mortal enemies,” Sweeney replied. “The Solomonari. Just as Darius Blake instructed us to protect the whereabouts of his tome, sword, and mortal descendants, the subordinates of the One-Eyed Lion made their own preparations. For over half a millennium, we have kept our secrets from them. Our shadow war is mostly a subtle one, and although both sides have incurred losses across the centuries, the proverbial scale hasn’t tipped in anyone’s favor. Until fourteen years ago, as Lady Blake already said. We managed to spirit her away to another hideout in the World That Is, but they’ve pinpointed her location yet again.”

Sybil’s eyes widened. “Aunt Snapdragon! Is she safe?”

“She is fine, currently on her way to the Great Swamp to inform her sisters about the Solomonari’s brazen actions,” Wilhelm told her. She let out a sigh of relief.

Wilhelm turned to Ben. “Snapdragon is a witch who is on our side—a green witch, that is. She served as Sybil’s guardian all this time. It was she who raised the alarm that they had been discovered. I personally took on the escort mission, and we were crossing the Blackwoods when we were attacked, and Sybil was teleported to Dunport-Salem. You know the rest.”

Ben pondered over all the information he’d received. It was like pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place, revealing a picture that had constantly made an effort to elude him. He looked at Sybil with a new understanding, realizing the weight of her burden and the subtle sadness that enveloped her like a shadow.

“So, what happens now?” Ben asked, suddenly worried about Sybil’s fate. “What am I a candidate for?”

Wilhelm met his gaze with a solemn expression. “Remember when I told you about the Circle registering every crossing? Fourteen years ago, we pulled some strings with the Council of Three and registered Sybil as Sir Ambrose Sweeney’s estranged niece. Amber Sweeney. It has worked so far to conceal her identity. However, she’s now at the age where she is expected to undertake the Triagonal Trials and assist Mag Mell Academy. So are you, in fact.”

Ben raised an eyebrow, baffled. “I am?”

Wilhelm nodded at the crumpled letter tucked in Ben’s pocket. “What do you have in there? Oughta take a peep.”

His hand instinctively reached to his pocket, and he pulled out the letter he had received via rat-mail earlier that day. Ben had forgotten about it. He looked it over—an unfamiliar wax seal clasped the parchment close.

“Go ahead, open it.” Wilhelm urged.

Ben unfolded the letter and began to read its contents. They read as follows:

To the recently crossed,

We bid you welcome and congratulations!

It is with great anticipation that we extend an invitation to you from Mag Mell Academy of Sorcery, the sole institution of its kind within the Circle. In recognition of your recent crossing into the World That Is Not, we hereby entreat you to present yourself to our island premises during the upcoming Autumnal Equinox, when you will be expected to participate in the Triagonal Trials.

The Trials are a series of tests designed to measure your magical potential as a future sorcerer and representative of the Circle. They will assess not only your sorcerous talent but also your character, determination, and adaptability.

Upon successful completion of the Trials, you will be further instructed about your enrollment in Mag Mell Academy of Sorcery and the responsibilities that come along with it.

We eagerly await your presence and look forward to witnessing your magic unfold.

Warm Regards,

Archdeacon Cornelius Lockwood

Mag Mell Academy

As Ben read the letter, both exhilaration and apprehension coursed through him. He folded the letter and looked at Wilhelm. Someone with the ability to be her bodyguard where we adults can’t go, he said. The implication dawned on him, and he felt the weight of their expectations resting on his shoulders.

Wilhelm spoke before Ben could say anything. “We have someone else in mind if you decide to say no. He’s more of the bookish type, though. Not a warrior like you.”

Ben scoffed at the fake flattery. “I’m a warrior now, huh?”

But Wilhelm remained serious. “Regale us with the tale of your journey here, if you please.”

He was confused at first, but Ben understood where Wilhelm came from as he began to recount the events that led him there. First came his fight against Miss Wormwood and the pair of Solomonari. Then came Miss Toadwart, the wargs, and the barghest. He’d also picked a thing or two from his time with the Lupari. By the time he was done, Orangier and Sweeney regarded him with approval.

Wilhelm then agreed with his previous point. “Yes, you are no warrior—but you have the makings of one. We’ll take care of the rest if you’re willing to hop aboard. It will not be easy, and it might prove to be dangerous; however, we have roughly half a year before the Autumnal Equinox, in which we can shape you into a decent bodyguard.”

“How?” Ben asked.

Orangier stepped in and shot him a vicious smile as he cracked his knuckles. “By learning armspells. You can’t call yourself a warrior without learning how to fight.”