Gray walked into the room, his heart hammering hard in his chest, and his prison-issue boots sank into the plush carpet as he forced one leg in front of another.

The crowd was blurred.

‘Gray Griffin,’ someone said.

‘Yes?’ said Gray, shoving his trembling hands into his pockets to hide them.

‘Stand at the front of the room, Griffin, by the trestle.’

A temporary trestle table was set up off to the side, with a bunch of stones, wands, and orbs similar to those used in the stat test. Gray eyed the trestle table nervously.

He desperately didn’t want to embarrass himself, not here, not in front of these people, and more than that, he didn’t want to show himself as any kind of sorcerer-level danger when it came to magic.

The king sat at the head of the table, a row of dark windows behind him. His arms were folded and his angular face was settled into cold contempt.

Beside him was the Grand High Master Mage. He leant his elbows on the table, fatigue dragging his shoulders, and an angry red flush in his cheeks. His gold robes were splayed over his chair, and his bright eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

‘You know how to use a cyngyrd?’ said the Grand High Master, his voice vibrating with raw power.

‘Thank you, Cyril,’ said the king, shifting his cold gaze onto the Grand High Master - Cyril - as a lion might eye off a gazelle. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

‘You will not, sir,’ said Cyril. ‘This is my meeting.’

‘Your selection of apprentices and journeymen has been lacking,’ said the king. ‘And this one is not yours. He does not attend the guild.’

‘Precisely,’ said Cyril. ‘None of us know anything of his level of education or skill.’ He dropped his powerful gaze onto Gray. ‘Do you know how to use a cyngyrd?’

Gray hesitated, his pulse beating in his ears. He edged forward. ‘Pardon?’

‘Cyngyrd,’ said Cyril. ‘You know how to use one?’

Gray hesitated again. He hated to ask for clarification a second time. At this point he was guessing the answer was no, he didn’t know how to use a cyn-thingy, but before he could open his mouth, someone else spoke.

‘Cyngyrd,’ said a woman in a military dress uniform that Gray didn’t recognise. She sat to Cyril’s right. She leant back in her chair, her undereyes dark with fatigue.

‘Wand, Griffin,’ said a voice from the back of the group. 'They mean a wand.' The voice was blunt and laced with exhaustion.

Gray didn’t react, but it was a close thing, as he clapped his eyes on the speaker.

Jessica Pruitt.

Jessica was at the back of the group. Her black hair was pulled back into its usual sleek bun, and despite the exhaustion in her voice, her posture was steely. Her uniform was perfect, buttoned up and pressed.

‘I told you,’ Jessica muttered, leaning forward to address the table at large, ‘Killian said he’s completely civilian-raised.’

’So,’ said Cyril, ‘you can’t use a cyngyrd?’

‘No,’ mumbled Gray. ’Sorry.’

‘Pick up the enchanted panyte then, Griffin,’ said Cyril.

Gray turned blindly towards the trestle, examining the different stones and orbs there. ’The - what, sir?’

‘Panyte,’ said Cyril.

Silence stretched. It beat in Gray’s ears.

He felt himself flush. ‘I don’t know what that is, sir.'

‘He hasn’t been trained,’ Jessica said impatiently.

‘My point exactly,’ said Cyril.

’So we can’t even test him,’ someone said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Jessica.

‘It does,’ said Cyril. ‘We’re not sending in a lemming who can’t even use a cyngyrd to defend themselves, into the eye of a death curse location. I’m not having that on my conscience.’

Gray swayed. His breath left him.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

They were talking about Krydon.

Death curse?

‘How luxurious for you,’ said Baldwin, ‘to indulge such a thing as a conscience. What will your conscience say when an entire town within my kingdom is destroyed, not only by a vampiric sorcerer, but also by the death curse that’s marked several key players of my military?’

‘Baldwin,’ said Cyril.

‘And what will your conscience say,’ said the king, ‘when news of this reaches our neighbours and enemies, placing the kingdom into further danger of attack when they know we are so weakened?’

Cyril pursed his lips, fixing his bright gaze onto the ceiling again.

‘We need to get into that town,’ said the king. ‘We need master mages to be able to get into Krydon to work against the death curse. Before it seriously damages anyone in my army, and before it spreads. I can not do that while the vampiric sorcerer is there.’

‘And I suppose the burgfestean jar’s last known location being in Krydon has nothing to do with this?’ said Cyril.

The king answered with a silence so dangerous that Gray’s skin crawled.

The king’s magic was emanating from him, large and whisper-close to spilling out like a tsunami.

Cyril sat, still as stone, the aged skin on his face still flushed an angry red.

‘You would do well,’ said the king, his voice like a shard of ice, ‘to take care when you speak.’

‘Why would you think I have not measured every word?’ said Cyril. ‘I do take care.’

Very carefully, Gray took a step back. And towards the door.

Because he could feel the fury of the king rising close to throat-slitting levels, and his magic was coming up with it. Cyril’s magic was, in contrast, cold and controlled and pointed in a way that was no less alarming.

The hair was up on the back of Gray’s neck.

His flesh was covered in goosebumps.

The sensation of magic and wills was like suffocating smoke to him, and he drew in long and slow breaths of air, telling himself his lungs were working, that he was getting enough oxygen.

‘Calm down, Baldwin,’ said Cyril. ‘You’re scaring the boy.’

Gray glanced down at his hands, checking them for his worst nightmare - glowing skin, magic lighting him up - but there was no brightness.

‘Gray,’ said the king, ‘check your vest.’

Gray fumbled with the laces on his vest, but they were secure, they were tight and neat.

‘It's OK, sire,’ said Gray. ‘There’s no danger.’

There was an uncomfortable pause.

‘When - when you saw me at the summer festival,’ said Gray, his face flushed red, ‘I - was drugged. I thought I was about to ... I - there were circumstances. You’re safe, and I would tell you if I was close to feeling …’

‘Uncontrolled?’ supplied Cyril. He shot the king a pointed glance. ‘I should hope so.’

‘I will be there, Grand High Master,’ said Jessica, after another uncomfortable pause. ‘There’ll be no need for any apprentice to defend themselves. They will not be in any real danger. I’ll take care of them.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Cyril, ‘but the vampiric sorcerer - has it or has it not, already killed three people? One of them being your soldier?’

Gray stood stock-still, his stomach twisted into one giant knot.

‘He was Killian’s soldier,’ said Jessica. ‘And the fact it only managed to get one of them - while Killian was mage-less - is a credit to him.’

‘I’m not trying to discredit Killian Slate,’ said Cyril coolly. ‘I’m pointing out the danger.’

‘I’m aware of the danger,’ Jessica said.

‘This thing is crippling us in the north,’ said another. ‘We can’t continue to lose our mages to it while we need them most.’

‘This is a waste of time,’ said the king.

The room fell into an exhausted and heavy silence.

‘By all reports,’ said the king, ‘there’s already been two sorcerers attempting to collect Gray. Correct?’

‘Yes,’ said Jessica. ‘Maybe even it. It was definitely circling around. At the very least, it’s a strong possibility we’ll have Longwark fighting the vampiric sorcerer over this boy.’

They were talking about bait. For the vampiric sorcerer and Longwark to fight over a collection.

Codder had passed on what Gray had found, he’d talked to Killian, and Killian must’ve talked to Jessica.

The king settled back in his chair, folding his arms again. ‘We did not need this lacklustre show of apprentices showing they don’t have enough power to attract a collection. Not while, all along, I've been saying Gray’s the perfect candidate.’

‘If he does get collected,’ said Cyril, ‘if this does go wrong-’

‘You think,’ said the king, ‘for one second, I would risk handing over this boy to anyone, let alone a sorcerer? Especially now, in the current climate? I’ve told you, I will have several fail safes in place.’

Gray’s heartbeat drummed in his ears. He stepped forward. ‘I’ll do it.’

The room fell still.

‘Wait a moment, Griffin,’ said Cyril. ‘We’ve very clearly established that you haven’t been trained, you don’t even know the correct mage terminology for a cyngyrd.’

‘Then I’m perfect bait,’ said Gray. ‘They’ll think I’m an easy target. It’s better to have a sorcerer underestimating us, isn’t it?’

Cyril sat back slowly, his face a mask and his fingers steepled. ‘It’s not underestimating if it’s assessing a genuine weakness.’

At the back, a group of three master mages were murmuring softly to each other.

‘I,’ said Gray, ‘I want to do it. I’ll do it.’

‘You don’t know what you’re agreeing to,’ said Cyril.

‘He’s somewhat aware,’ said Jessica, ‘of the situation. I told you we don’t need to endanger any of the other apprentices. Griffin has already been marked.’

‘All the more reason to keep him safe until he can be trained.’

‘We do not have time for any extensive training, Cyril,’ said the king. ‘I need this dealt with immediately.’

Cyril resettled his bright-eyed gaze onto the ceiling. ‘Stat papers, Griffin?’

Gray wiped his trembling palms on his trousers. ‘I - don’t have them on me.’

‘His magic stat is 78,’ said the king. ‘Total score is 120.’

The woman in the dress uniform leant close to Cyril and whispered something in his ear. Then, she leant forward. 'Sire, did you say 78?'

'Yes,' said the king.

The room erupted in hissing whispers, it was a drone of blurred words that Gray couldn't make out.

Gray stepped forward again. ‘Please let me do this. I won’t let you down.’

The king cleared his throat.

Silence settled over the room.

Blood beat in Gray’s ears.

‘Gray,’ said the king, ‘go outside while we discuss this. The door behind you, there.’

Gray went out a side door, and stepped into what had to be the Grand High Master Mage’s personal office. He got a brief impression of a handsomely large desk in the centre of the room, and a curved stone wall with generous windows, and stacks upon stacks of books.

He stood stiffly outside the door, adrenaline sweeping through his body, and then pressed his ear to the carved timber. He strained his ears.

‘Eavesdropping, kid? Really?’ said a voice behind him. Concerningly close and softly dangerous.

Killian was tucked against the far wall, next to three young kids who could only be the king’s own children.