A week had passed.

Nero sat in the garden as if nothing in the world were wrong, studying the green hedges and sipping warm green tea from a porcelain cup. His head was full of thoughts about meeting his new teacher. Society spoke poorly of Senor Vin, but he was said to be extremely capable. As Nero had been told, at the age of seventeen he had already created a spell of his own, and his work in alchemy and other non-magical sciences spoke louder for him than any rumors.

A soft, quiet voice snapped “Loki” out of his thoughts. A maid stepped through a green arch, bowed slightly with her gaze lowered, and said, “Young master. Señor Vin has just arrived at the manor.” Then, even softer, “Lord Frank has already greeted him.”

The news caught him off guard. He had simply gotten lost in the scenery. Thanking the maid, “Loki” went to meet his new teacher. He peeked into the hall, found no one, then glanced at the butler, who pointed with a quick gesture toward the guest room.

The door was ajar, muted voices drifting out. When Nero eased it open, he locked eyes with a young man of about twenty-five, bright azure eyes and washed-out blond hair. He was seated on the sofa facing the door, which is why Nero saw him first, and only then Uncle Frank turning toward him.

“Mmm, so I guess you’re the kid they dumped on me?” the man asked with a sudden grin.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Nero answered without hesitation.

Frank cleared his throat pointedly, summoning Nero inside and closing the door, then shot Oliver a scorching look that very clearly said, mind your manners.

As the door clicked shut, runic sigils traced across the frame and sealed every sound within. “Loki” sat beside his “father,” facing Oliver. Oliver had already heard and read the terms of his employment, as well as the objective: in two years, bring “Loki” to a level where he could easily enter the Academy of Glairus.

On the table lay a parchment with an official seal and a space for a signature. Beside it stood a gold-trimmed inkwell half full of ink and a gold quill.

They stared at each other in silence until Oliver narrowed his eyes at Nero. After a few long, dragging seconds, he turned to Frank. “Is this a joke?”

Frank’s eye twitched. “Señor Vin, would you care to clarify?”

“Or maybe you’re testing me,” Oliver muttered more to himself than to them. He turned back and pointed at Nero. “I mean this atrociously cast disguise.” He glanced at Frank again. “Shall I keep going?”

Nero tensed. His heart kicked up, and even the pressure in the room rose enough to see. He had never liked the idea of pretending to be someone else, but they had convinced him it was necessary. Now his “anonymity” felt like it was cracking.

Frank didn’t lose his calm. The corner of his mouth lifted. “Frankly, that’s about what I expected. You were warned. No questions.”

Oliver leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. He gave a showy sigh, then fixed his gaze on “Loki.” “How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“What element do you use?”

“Water. B-but I can’t use it anymore,” Nero answered honestly.

An awkward silence hung in the air.

“Whatever, it’ll do,” Oliver said, blunt as a hammer, startling both Nero and his uncle. He signed the parchment, stuck out his hand to Frank, and shook. “I think we’ll get along,” he said offhandedly, pulling his hand back.

“Loki, right?” Oliver stood. Without waiting for a reply he added, “Tomorrow morning we’ll see what you can actually do.” He waved goodbye. The butler waiting outside would handle the rest.

The door shut behind Oliver as he left.

“Pff. Well, could’ve been worse,” Frank said with relief, staring up at the ceiling. He noticed Nero’s questioning look and added, “What are we sitting here for? Did you read everything Señor Vin sent you?”

“He sent me something?” Nero blurted, stunned.

“Oh, yes.” Frank started ticking off with his fingers the number of short introductory tracts on magic. “And you were supposed to read them before tomorrow’s lesson. Huh, Nero?”

“Crap.” Nero shot a look at the clock, leapt up, and hurried off to hunt down all those “delivered” books.

Back at the Von Lavrelio estate, Nero had studied with professors who came to teach him at home. He did it half-heartedly, ignoring fundamentals, because he could “sort of” cast anyway, and everyone called him a genius mage. It was easier to call him a prodigy than to explain why something worked only so-so.

He did have books in his room. For instance, an old dusty volume on water magic that was more of a catalog of spells and aspects than a step-by-step primer on how to cast.

“And one more thing.”

“Huh?”

“When you grow up, for the love of God, don’t turn into him.”

“Into… him?” Nero asked.

“Ugh. Into that kind of asshole,” Frank sighed.

“Ah. Got it,” Nero said, rubbing the back of his neck.

A little later, after “Loki” had gone upstairs, Frank stood by an open window with an eagle on his arm. He tied on a letter and sent the bird aloft. Then he dropped into a chair, crossed one leg over the other, laced his hands behind his head, and relaxed. Amber liquor dried on his lip from a freshly opened, very expensive, very old bottle.

“Well, here we go,” he drawled, stretching every word.

The next day.

At dawn the cold cut straight through. The sky was smothered in cloud. Pushing through the tree-line and into high grass, Nero trailed Oliver, his new teacher.

Instead of training at the manor on the practice grounds, Oliver hauled the boy out into the woods, claiming that deeper in nature there was more ambient mana, which would absolutely help with development.

“Any other details?” Oliver asked, easing through the yellowing grass. He prodded for specifics about Nero’s trouble casting water spells.

“Nope. That’s it, and the papers you had me read didn’t say anything about it either,” the sleepy black-haired boy in loose clothes answered, still rubbing his eyes. “Loki” kept peering past his teacher’s shoulder, not entirely sure he should already be calling him that.

He had stayed up late reading, so he’d barely dragged himself out of bed and was still yawning now and then. Hugging a thick, blank notebook to his chest to make it easier to carry, he plodded along. A pencil was tucked behind his ear from when he’d been getting ready. His wand, his mother’s, stuck out of his pocket, the charred side up, quartz-and-emerald wood dulled by fire.

They stepped into an open field. Oliver told Nero to sit on the ground, waving off the boy’s question about how far they were from the manor.

“All right, in order. First we deal with your weird problem. Show me any spell at all,” Oliver said in a tone that suggested he had a thousand better things to do, eyes wandering left, deep into the woods.

He had noticed the wand’s battered condition immediately, but didn’t cross-examine the boy. He only demanded a demonstration.

Nero tossed the notebook aside, drew the wand with serious intent, and pointed it into the air. After a brief focus there was a spark, then a tiny tongue of flame, and suddenly a real fireball hovered there. Small, yes, but real. The corner of Oliver’s mouth tugged into a smirk. “You said your element was water, aren't you?”

The flame snapped out. Nero scratched his head. “Well… I practiced water more.”

Spellcasters usually use one or two elements. Rare talents can handle three, or something specialized like light or darkness. Most find their first affinity very young, and discover more with age and practice. Besides elemental spells of fire, water, wind, and earth, there are non-elemental techniques, like walking on water or air, telekinesis, mind magic, and many others, common and rare. They don’t use a specific element; they are sequences of refined control over raw mana.

Which is why Oliver was so surprised when “Loki” claimed he used two elements, and that his water affinity had “broken” recently.

“We’ll check your water later near a river or any open source,” Oliver said.

Nero nodded at nearly every word. After a long lecture on mana and its varieties, his brain felt like a kettle at full boil.

Oliver suddenly looked deeper into the trees. “How are you with dogs?” he asked, gesturing for Nero to pick up the notebook.

Nero didn’t have time to answer. A long howl rolled out of the forest.

Both of them turned toward the sound.

Since “Loki” was headed for the Academy of Glairus, which focused heavily on combat magic, Oliver decided, by happy chance, to begin with a few “lessons” in self-defense.

“Lesson one.” He broke off, distracted by something barreling toward them. “Know your enemy by sight.”

Out from behind a nearby tree burst a massive gray beast, about the size of a mid-sized bear. A wolf?

As it closed fast, Oliver extended a hand toward the boy and clenched his fingers, as if grabbing the air. A soft blue glow washed the early morning, and Nero lifted off the ground.

“Telekinesis?” flashed through “Loki’s” mind as he rose.

His eyes went wide. The wolf-tiger thing with the huge fangs almost reached Oliver. Oliver only smirked and raised his free hand to “block.”

The sound of bones crunching, like dry branches breaking, cracked in Nero’s ears. The gray wolf passed through Oliver as if he were smoke and, in a blink, was directly beneath Nero.

Clamped in it's bloody jaws was Oliver’s severed hand.