Make a left at the third hall—mind the suit of armor in the corner. Then, as soon as one can, go down the stairs. Another left and another right. Ignore the mysterious stairs—they don’t go anywhere. Continue straight and make one last right, then straight again until you go down another set of stairs. You’re in the lobby now, Umber. Almost there. Take the grand hall to the left, and then...

“Aha!” Ben exclaimed in triumph as he entered the confines of the dining room at Ochrefriars 404. It was quite the ordeal. For all Ben cared, the manor might as well have been a maze. He had the creeping suspicion that the building was somehow bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, and that was already considerably large.

The early morning light filtered into a prism of colors through the stained-glass windows. He walked over to his usual chair and settled into it. As soon as he did, loaded platters and brimming jugs hovered their way out of the kitchen and onto the table. Ben shot a furtive look at the kitchen. He still hadn’t figured out who was behind all the cooking.

He was not about to see a horse gift in the mouth, though. Ben immediately dug into his plate: overeasy eggs, sausages, bacon, and buttered toast. A large pitcher full of freshly squeezed orange juice and a smaller one with hot coffee. Glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, Ben noted that it was five forty in the morning. He only had twenty minutes before their first lesson commenced.

Ben ate his breakfast quickly, driven by hunger. Amused by the comparison, he let out a single laugh and then choked on his food. He took a big gulp of water to assist in swallowing his food and composed himself. Thankfully, he realized he hadn’t skipped a meal ever since he crossed into the World That Is Not. An upside among many downsides. Might as well make the best of it. He continued to eat with redoubled enterprise.

“Are you done stuffing your face?” Sybil asked.

As he chewed a mouthful of eggs and bacon, Ben turned around and noticed her peeking halfway through the doorframe. He could listen to her tapping a foot impatiently behind the wall. “Mmm mnnit!”

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him with feigned contempt. “Ugh! Don’t talk with your mouth full, you oaf.”

Ben swallowed the last mouthful of food and darted up from his chair. “Yeah, yeah,” he said as he walked across the dining room sluggishly, his hand on his belly. His eyes beamed with excitement, and he picked up the pace. “It’s training time.”

⦶⦶⦶

As Ben and Sybil stepped into the manor’s courtyard, they were greeted by the sight of Wilhelm, Sweeney, and Orangier already assembled in its center, each with a distinct air about them. Wilhelm stood tall, his pipe puffing away, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. Sweeney leaned against a pillar, arms folded, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Orangier, ever the stoic figure, observed them with expectation.

“Ah, right on time,” Wilhelm remarked, his tone tinged with amusement. “Punctuality is a virtue, after all.”

Sybil flashed a grin, exchanging a knowing look at Ben before she replied. “We aim to please, Lightfoot. I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.”

Wilhelm chuckled. “If that’s the case, I suggest we get started right away.” He took a step forward and put his hands behind his back, pipe and all. “Raise your hand if you’ve cast a spell before.”

Ben and Sybil shared a confused look. Wilhelm already knew the answer to that question. They turned around and still obliged him, both of them raising their hands.

Wilhelm nodded. “Good. Now, a trickier one. Raise your hand if you know what school the spells in your grimoire belong to.”

Spell school. Ben raked his brain and remembered what the Lupari taught him back in Machen about it. They had said that Void Push was a highspell. Gravity magic. Shifting the wyrdknife’s form was a relicspell. I never heard about grimoires before, though.

Sybil voiced his question for him. “What do you mean by grimoire?”

Wilhelm smiled knowingly. “A sorcerer will manifest their powers by a certain age, as sure as the sun will set and rise—regardless of which side of the Rive one was born on. This first manifestation of magic is usually a glimpse into a sorcerer’s future affinities and aptitudes. As one leans into a specific type of sorcery, a number of doors open, at the cost of others closing; the average sorcerer learns about a dozen spells during their lifetime. Each spell learned means a dozen forever out of one’s reach. This repertoire of spells that one acquires and hones is known as a grimoire.”

“My grimoire consists of two spells: a highspell and a relicspell.” Ben said shortly after the explanation. He wanted to make sure he had understood correctly.

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Wilhelm clapped. “Good job, Ben! We’ve got highspells, which deal with mastery over the manifold aspects of reality, and we’ve also got relicspells, which are essentially object-based sorcery. What else is there?”

“There’s lowspells and armspells, too.” Sybil chimed in.

“One saves us from manual labor; the other saves us from our enemies,” Wilhelm observed with a nod. “Finally, we have cursespells and wildspells. The former deals in the arts forbidden, and the latter in the arts primordial. These six, together, are the primary schools of sorcery. Other, more unique types exist, but they aren’t formally considered spell schools because of their limited nature.”

Sweeney took a step forward in order to join the conversation. “Now that the theory has been so succinctly laid down, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. Lightfoot here will teach highspells to Lady Blake, and Orangier will instruct Mr. Umber on the painful virtues of armspells.”

Ben and Sybil were quick to complain about their allotted curricula.

“I want to learn more highspells!” Ben moaned. He still wasn’t a hundred percent convinced of his proficiency with Void Push, and if using it more might result in learning another highspell, he was all ears.

“And I want to punch those masked dolts in the face!” Sybil exclaimed. He then turned to Ben. “How about we switch?”

Orangier approached them with a weary sigh. “There will be no switching. If someone makes an attempt on Lady Blake, things are likely to get close and personal. Armspells are the ideal way to safeguard her.”

“Also,” Wilhelm added. “Sybil is a Blake if things get complicated. She needs only to be taught control, lest she get us all killed with a misfired highspell. I’ve only seen her in action once, and I’d wager she’s got more potential than your ordinary sorcerer.”

They fell silent. The adults made a fair point. Ben stole a glance at Sybil. Now that he thought of it, he hadn’t seen her use any sorcery yet. Back in Dunport-Salem she had seemed scared of the hooded ones, but what if she had been scared of unleashing her powers with him so close to her?

Sweeney clasped his hands together loudly. “Well, I declare your training inaugurated! I will leave you four to it now—I have experiments to conduct. Toodaloo, gentlemen. Madam.” He strolled away into the manor.

“As for us, we can’t train within the premises. Can’t run the risk of you burning the place down.” Wilhelm told Sybil, crossing his arms. He shifted his weight and grinned slyly. “I know just the place, though. Follow me, my pupil!”

Sybil shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and left the courtyard as she trailed behind an excited Wilhelm. That left Ben and Orangier alone in the courtyard.

Ben carefully assessed the older man before him. There was a certain aura of grit to him; there was no doubt about that. He remembered how Orangier had effortlessly cast three armspells in a row a few days ago, obliterating the purple slime with a single blow. He wasn’t the infamous Lightfoot, but perhaps training under him wouldn’t be so bad.

Orangier surprised him with an unexpected appeal. “Before we begin, I just want to say that you don’t have to feel obligated to do any of this. If you wish to leave, and I encourage you to do so, please do so now.”

Taken aback by his words, Ben felt a surge of anger rise within him. He clenched his fists, ready to lash out, but then realized it wasn’t Orangier he was angry at; no, he was angry at the fact that he didn’t have any other options. The thought stung. In the end, he was only an orphan.

“Even if I left,” Ben began, controlling his outrage. “Solomonari or witches would have me dead within the day—and that’s being optimistic. I don’t have anyone or anywhere to go in the World That Is or the World That Is Not. This is all I have.”

Orangier nodded solemnly, his expression sympathetic. “I used to be a homeless orphan in the Undercity, many moons ago,” he confessed. “It was Sir Sweeney’s late father who picked me up from the streets and provided me with a second chance, to be part of his household. A home and an education. And lastly, in the Grigori Society, a lifelong purpose. There will be risks implied; we do not try to mask the truth from you. But if you do accept this path, well, there are worse fates than this.”

His gentle manners surprised Ben. Under that ferocious veneer lay a gentle soul. He mused over his advice and weighed his options. He sneered wryly. What options?

“Count me in, teacher. I choose this path.”

Orangier grunted in approval. “Then we prepare,” he declared. Without hesitation, he proceeded to remove his blazer and shirt, revealing a well-defined physique marked with multiple scars. He nodded at Ben to do the same.

“Oh, right!” He ran to the corner of the courtyard and removed his shirt. He folded it and carefully placed it on a pillar. He then returned, his skinny and pale frame a stark contrast to Orangier’s toned muscles.

“What do you know of armspells?” Orangier asked.

Ben gave the question some thought. “On varying occasions, I’ve seen people become faster than the eye can follow, their skin thick as iron and throwing objects over impossible distances.”

“Aye, Mr. Umber. Armspells all. Quicken for speed, Fortify for endurance, and Bolster for strength. This school of sorcery deals with enhancing the innate capabilities of our bodies. Of our weapons. It doesn’t lie without, like other schools, but within. That’s the reason shorter incantations are used for it: a mere word is needed, for there is no middleman.”

“I’ve never attempted to cast an armspell before.” Ben said.

Orangier looked at him with devilish delight. “By the end of the summer, you’ll be tired of casting them. Quicken, Fortify, and Bolster. This is the basic trinity of armspells, taught to every recruit in the Warlock Corps upon joining their ranks. Any sorcerer warrior worth their salt has complete mastery over these three. Learning them will be the sole purpose of your life over the next five months. Do I make myself clear?”

Curiosity flashed in Ben’s face. “How will I know if I’ve mastered them?”

Orangier scratched his chin, then his expression brightened with an idea. “If you manage to catch me in a game of tag with Quicken, cushion a punch of mine with Fortify, and also shove me an inch with Bolster, I’ll consider them mastered.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, mister,” Ben said excitedly. “When do we begin?”

“Right now.” Orangier replied. He flexed his knees and got into a fighting stance. A current of magic immediately swirled around him.

The tranquility of the courtyard was shattered by a distant explosion. Being at Ochrefriars 404, it was hard to tell whether it was Sweeney with his experiments or Sybil already going hard at her training. Ben smiled, realizing he could get used to life in a place such as this.