With all eyes on him Draken has no choice. There’s only one way to get out of this situation without casting suspicion on himself and it’s not pretty. It’s been a few years since he’s had to resort to it but a skill like this never goes away.

Tears well up in his eyes and he begins to shake with feigned fear. “Please, I can’t do this!” He shouts, shaking his head violently. “I changed my mind about the trials.”

A gentle but firm hand on Draken’s shoulder guides him out of his place in line, just as planned. The laughter behind him only grates a little, as soon as the burgundy mage releases his hand Draken will slink away, remembered only as a funny anecdote. The hand tightens its grip and the mage points to the guard glaring at the line.

“Will you call him over or should I?”

With startling speed the man’s hand moves from the boy’s shoulder to his pocket, producing the stolen purse. Draken’s heart pounds in his chest as a prisoner’s fist pounds a locked door.

His eyes scan every inch of his surroundings, hoping yet failing to find an escape.

“Looks like you’ve got a choice to make.” The burgundy mage smiles.

“I saw the look on your face when you realized what line you were in, panic and it wasn’t faked like your tears. Something’s given you a very real fear of magic and the best way to deal with fear is to face it and of course strict rules of confidentiality protect official candidates. I’m sure you also fear the constable’s lash and the lack of tattoos on your face suggests you haven’t faced that fear either. Wich will it be?”

Draken snatches back the coin purse and crosses the threshold into the marquee. The mage chuckles behind his back.

The smell of incense hangs in the air, dimly masking the odor of sweaty bodies. Perhaps thirty people shuffling around a cramped common area as a man in a conical hat goes from person to person. The man’s intense, rat like beady eyes suddenly bare into Draken.

“Name, age and preference.”

Startled, the boy stumbles back a step.

“Draken Crowe, about thirteen summers.”

“Preference?”

Draken shrugs. The man looks at him quizzically, jots something in a notebook and his demeanor calms.

“Good, your number twenty-three. No preference?”

“Um...” Draken’s mind is blank, he shrugs again. The man rolls his eyes and hands him a clear white bead with the number 23 painted on it,“good luck, you’ll need it.”

Before Draken can respond the man is gone, already speaking to the man at the door.

“Everyone’s legal and assigned a number, we’d better close up and start the trials, I’d say an hour wait for those outside.”

“That long?” Burgundy asks.

“We’ve got a good batch here, these eyes of mine don’t lie.” He winks at Draken, sending a cold chill up his spine. The beady eyed man then steps forward and clears his throat as the curtain draws over the entrance.

“Welcome one and all to the district twelve magicians trials. Let me start by saying that many of you will fail. Know that the decisions made here are not binding, you may take the trial again at any of the nineteen participating districts. Also note that the lesser magical disciplines are also holding trials this week. If you show no measurable aptitude for wizardry, sorcery or witchcraft there are still opportunities in fortune-telling, hypnosis, spirit talking, luck magic and circle dancing. Still some of you will fail utterly, be broken, maimed or killed. Know that it is too late to turn back, fear is the enemy here. Before any of you can leave this place you must pass through one of those three curtains and face a master wizard, sorcerer, witch or all three if you dare. Should you refuse the consequences will be most dire. Look at your beads, if you have a flower line up at the north curtain, if you have a flame stand at the south and those with a frog please wait your turn at the western side. Enter by numerical order.”

Draken examines his bead, it’s devoid of decoration.

“Mine’s blank.” He says, raising his hand.

The beady eyed mage clears his throat and messily spits on the dirt floor.

“Some of you have blank beads because you were too lazy, too reckless or too stupid to pick a preference. Hell, some of you have failed so many times you’re desperate, regardless of the reason you don’t get out of this tent until you’ve taken all three trials. Stand here in the center and announce your numbers so we can all know when your turns come up.”

Most of the others standing at Draken’s shoulder have a worn down look about them, bloodshot eyes and disorderly clothes.

“What number are you on?” One mutters.

“Nine,” another mumbles. “If I don’t pass this time I just might kill myself.”

Draken feels an uncomfortable shift in the bodies around him, as if an unspoken mutual sentiment has been put into words that no one wanted to hear aloud.

He feels a nudge at his side, a sadly smiling young man of almost twenty.

“How many?” He asks.

Draken blinks in confusion. “How many what?”

The youth snorts.

“Times, kid. How many times have you taken the trials? This is my fifth this year, thirteenth overall.”

“First time,” Draken mutters, the young man whistles.

“You went for trifecta right off the bat? You got guts I’ll give you that.”

The rat eyed magician clears his throat once again, drawing everyone’s attention.

“One through three please enter your trials.”

The first three pass through the curtains to the darkened alcoves of the tent. The screams are almost instant. The first of the three, a girl Draken’s own age in a well made dress runs from her trial at full speed, throwing her bead at the rat eyed proctor.

“If that’s what being a witch is about , I don’t want it!”

“Were you released?” The man asks with sudden concern.

The girl nods and storms out of the tent. The beady eyed mage sighs, shaking his head.

The other two last longer by a few minutes but each leave their trial with an ashen look. One by one the hopefuls are called and one by one they return more broken than they left. Some shake uncontrollably, some are pale and expressionless or in tears, most only having faced a single trial.

“Numbers twenty-three, twenty-four and twenty-five. As twenty three has no preference twenty-four and twenty-five will wait as needed.”

A nudge to his side. The scruffy nineteen year old gapped toothed grinning.

“Do sorcery first, I spotted you in line nipping that kid’s purse. Ain't judging but it seemed to me like it jumped right into your hand, might have the gift. ” Draken makes a mental note never to steal while angry, if this many people spot him he must be way off his game.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He says, almost automatically.

He angles toward the sorcerer's curtain, stopping suddenly as the knife twists and turns in his mind’s eye. That burgundy jerk is right, he is letting himself be ruled by fear. Hating that thought he forces his feet to move forward, pushing past the beaded curtain he enters a dark, candle lit alcove with a long table. Sitting at the end, taking a bite of squid is a man with elaborately curled mustachios.

“Zern Morro, tenth order sorcerer at your service.”

He dabs his mouth with a handkerchief and indicates the chair at the near end.

“Sit, boy, we’re going to play a friendly game.”

The wooden chair is hard and creaky. Draken shifts his weight, trying to find a comfortable position. A scraping sound catches his attention.